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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c1e59d3 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52055 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52055) diff --git a/old/52055-8.txt b/old/52055-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3089f92..0000000 --- a/old/52055-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11185 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Heart of Penelope, by Marie Belloc Lowndes - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Heart of Penelope - - -Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes - - - -Release Date: May 13, 2016 [eBook #52055] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF PENELOPE*** - - -E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Martin Pettit, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images -generously made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries -(https://archive.org/details/toronto) - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustration. - See 52055-h.htm or 52055-h.zip: - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52055/52055-h/52055-h.htm) - or - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52055/52055-h.zip) - - - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See - https://archive.org/details/heartofpenelope00lownuoft - - - - - -The Wayfarer's Library - -THE HEART OF PENELOPE - - -[Illustration: Decoration] - - -MRS BELLOC LOWNDES - - -[Illustration Decoration] - - - - - - - -J. M. Dent & Sons. Ltd. -London - - -[Illustration: They looked at one another for a moment. - -Chapter XVI] - - - - -THE HEART OF PENELOPE - - - - -CHAPTER I - - 'London my home is; though by hard fate sent - Into a long and irksome banishment; - Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be, - O native country, repossess'd by thee!' - - HERRICK. - - -I - -Sir George Downing was back in London after an absence of twenty years -from England. The circumstances which had led to his leaving his native -country had been such that he could not refer to them, even in his own -mind, and even after so long an interval, without an inward wincing more -poignant than that which could have been brought about by the touching -of any material wound. - -Born to the good fortune which usually attends the young Englishman of -old lineage, a fair competence and a traditional career--in his case the -pleasant one of diplomacy--Downing had himself brought all his chances -to utter shipwreck. Even now, looking back with the dispassionate -judgment automatically produced by the long lapse of time, and -greater--ah, how much greater!--knowledge of the world, he decided that -fate had used him hardly. - -What had really occurred was known to very few people, and these few had -kept their own and his counsel to an unusual degree. The world, or -rather that kindly and indulgent section of the world where young -Downing had been regarded with liking, and even the affection, so easily -bestowed on a good-looking and good-natured youngster, said to stand -well with his chiefs, took a lenient view of a case of which it knew -little. The fact that a lady was closely involved--further, that she was -one of those fair strangers who in those days played a far greater part -in diplomacy than would now be possible--lent the required touch of -romance to the story. 'A Delilah brought to judgment' had been the -comment of one grim old woman, mindful that she had been compelled to -meet, if not to receive, the stormy petrel whose departure from London -had been too hurried to admit of the leaving of P.P.C. cards on the -large circle which had entertained, and, in a less material sense, been -entertained by, her. As to her victim--only the very unkind ventured to -use the word 'tool'--his obliteration had been almost as sudden, almost -as complete. - -Other men, more blamed, if not more stricken, than he had been, had -elected to spend their lives amid the ruins of their broken careers. -More than one of his contemporaries had triumphantly lived down the -memory of a more shameful record. Perhaps owing to his youth, he had -followed his instinct--the natural instinct of a wounded creature which -crawls away out of sight of its fellows--and now he had come back, -having achieved, not only rehabilitation, but something more--the -gratitude, the substantially expressed gratitude, of the most important -section of his countrymen, those to whom are confided the destinies of -an ever-increasing Empire. - -Even in these prosaic days an Englishman living in forced or voluntary -exile sometimes achieves greater things for his country than can be so -much as contemplated by the men who, though backed by the power and -prestige of the Foreign Office, are also tied by its official -limitations. His efforts thus being unofficial, the failure of them can -be so regarded, and diplomacy can shrug its shoulders. But if they -should be successful, as Downing's had been, diplomacy, while pocketing -the proceeds, is not so mean as to grudge a due reward. - -Happy are those to whom substantial recognition comes ere it is too -late. 'Persian' Downing, as he had, _pour cause_, come to be called, -could now count himself among these fortunate few. Fate had offered him -a great opportunity, which he had had the power and the intelligence to -seize. - -Those at home who still remembered him kindly had been eager to point -out that, far from adopting American nationality, as had once been -rumoured, he had known how to prove himself an Englishman of the old -powerful stock, jealous of his country's honour and capable of making it -respected. What was more to the purpose, from a practical point of view, -was the fact that he had known how to win the confidence of a potentate -little apt to be on confidential terms with the half-feared, -half-despised Western. - -That Downing had succeeded in maintaining his supremacy at a -semi-barbaric Court, where he had first appeared in the not altogether -dignified rôle of representative of an Anglo-American financial house, -was chiefly due to a side of his nature, unsuspected by those who most -benefited by it, which responded to the strange practical idealism of -the Oriental. The terrible ordeal through which he had passed had long -loosened his hold on life, bestowing upon him that calm fatalism and -indifference to merely physical consequence which is ordinarily the most -valuable asset of Orientals in their dealings with Western minds. - -When he had accepted, or rather suggested, a Persian mission to his -partner, an American banker, to whose firm an influential English friend -had introduced him when he first turned his thoughts towards an -American haven of refuge, he had done so in order to escape, if only for -a few months, from a state of things brought about by what he was wont -to consider the second great misfortune of his life. Downing was one of -those men who seemed fated to make mistakes, and then to amaze those -about them by the fashion in which they face and overcome the -consequences. - -Owing, perhaps, to sheer good luck, after having endured a kind of -disgrace only comparable to that which may be felt by a soldier who has -been proved a traitor to his cause and country, Downing had so acted -that in twenty years--a few moments in a nation's diplomatic life--he -had received, not only the formal rehabilitation and recognition implied -by his G.C.B., but what, to tell truth, he had valued at the moment far -more highly: a touching letter from the venerable statesman who had -rejected his boyish appeal for mercy. - -The old man had asked that he might himself convey to Downing the news -of the honour bestowed on him, and he had done so in a letter full of -honourable amend, of which one passage ran: 'As I grow older I have -become aware of having done many things which I should have left undone; -the principal of these, the one I have long most regretted, was my -action concerning your case.' - -Only one human being, and that a woman whose sympathy was none the less -valued because she had scarcely understood all it had meant to her -friend, was ever shown the letter which had so moved and softened him. -But from the day he received it the thought of going home, back to -England, never left him, and he would have accomplished his purpose long -before, had it not been that the consequence of his second great mistake -still pursued him. - - -II - -Attracted by a prim modesty of demeanour and apparent lack of emotion, -new to him in women of his own class, and doubtless feeling acutely the -terrible loneliness and strangeness attendant on his new life in such a -city as was the New York of that time, George Downing had married, -within a year of his arrival in America, a girl of good Puritan-Dutch -stock and considerable fortune. Prudence Merryquick--her very name had -first attracted him--had offered him that agreeable emotional pastime, a -platonic friendship. Soon the strange relationship between them piqued -and irritated him, and, manlike, he longed to stir, if not to plumb, the -seemingly untroubled depths of her still nature. At first she resisted -with apparent ease, and this incited him to serious skilful pursuit. -Poor Prudence had no chance against a man who, in despite and in a -measure because of his youth, had often played a conquering part in the -mimic love warfare of an older and more subtle civilization. She -surrendered, not ungracefully, and for a while it seemed as if the -ex-Foreign Office clerk was like to make a successful American banker. - -Their honeymoon lasted a year; then an accident, or, rather, some -exigencies of business, caused them to spend a winter in Washington. -There Downing's story was of course known; indeed, the newly-appointed -British Minister had been a friend of his father, and one of those who -had tried ineffectually to save him. This renewal of old ties brought on -a terrible nostalgia. To Prudence a longing for England was -incomprehensible--England had cast her husband out--indeed, she desired, -with a fierceness of feeling which surprised Downing, to see him become -a naturalized American, but to this he steadily refused to consent. - -As winter gave way to spring they moved even further apart from one -another, and, as might have been expected, the first serious difference -of opinion, too grave to call a quarrel, concerned their future home. - -Downing, on the best terms with his partners, had arranged to return -permanently to Washington. To his wife, a world composed of European -diplomatists and cosmopolitan Americans was utterly odious and -incomprehensible. She showed herself passionately intolerant of her -husband's friends, especially of those who were his own countrymen and -countrywomen, and she looked back with increasing longing to her early -married life in New York, and to the days when George Downing had -apparently desired no companionship but her own. - -Both husband and wife were equally determined, equally convinced as to -what was the right course to pursue, and no compromise seemed possible. -But one day, quite early in the winter following that which had seen -them first installed in Washington, Downing received an urgent recall to -New York. With the easy philosophy which had been one of his early -charms, he went unsuspectingly, but a few days after he and Prudence had -once more settled down in the Dutch homestead inherited by her from -Knickerbocker forebears, he came back rather sooner than had been his -wont. Prudence met him at the door, for she had returned to this early -habit of their married life. - -'Tell me,' he said quietly and while in the act of putting down his hat, -'did you ask Mr. Fetter to arrange for my return here?' - -She answered unflinchingly: 'Yes; I knew it would be best.' - -He made no comment, but within a month he had gone, leaving her alone in -the old house where she had spent her dreary childhood, and where she -had experienced the one passionate episode of her life. - -Twice he came back--the first time with the honest intention of asking -Prudence to return with him to the distant land where he had at last -found a life that seemed to promise in time rehabilitation, and in any -case a closer tie with his own country. Prudence hesitated, then -communed with herself and with one or two trusted friends, and finally -refused to accompany her husband back to Teheran. Already in her -loneliness she had become interested in one of the great religious -movements which swept over America at that period of its social history. - -The second time that Downing returned to New York it was to make final -arrangements for something tantamount to a separation. Of divorce his -wife would not hear; her religious principles and theories made such a -solution impossible. To his surprise and relief, she accepted the -allowance he eagerly offered. 'Not in the spirit it is meant,' he said, -half smiling, as they stood opposite to one another in the office of -their old and much-distressed friend, Mr. Fetter; 'rather, eh, Prudence, -as an offering to the Almighty on my behalf?' And she had answered quite -seriously, but with the flicker of an answering smile: 'Yes, George, -that is so;' and for years the two had not been so near to one another -as at that moment. The arrangement was duly carried out, and in time -Downing learnt that the offering foreseen by him had taken the very -sensible shape of a young immigrants' home, the upkeep of which absorbed -that portion of Mrs. Downing's income contributed by her husband. - -Years wore themselves away, communications between the two became more -and more rare, and his brief married life grew fainter and fainter in -Downing's memory. Indeed, he far more often thought of and remembered -trifling episodes which had taken place much earlier, even in his -childhood. But the time came when this far-distant, half-forgotten woman -hurt him unconsciously in his only vulnerable part. He learnt with a -feeling of indescribable anger and annoyance that, having become closely -connected with a number of English Dissenters, whose tenets she shared, -she had made for some time past a yearly sojourn among them. To him the -idea that his American wife should live, even for a short space of time -each year, among his own countrymen and countrywomen, while he himself -lingered on in outer banishment appeared monstrous, and it was one of -the reasons why, even after he had already done much to effect his -rehabilitation, he preferred to remain away from his own country. - -At last he was urgently pressed to return home, and it was pointed out -to him that his further absence was injurious to those financial -interests which concerned others as well as himself. This is how it came -to pass that he found himself once more in London, after an absence of -twenty years. At first Downing had planned to be in England early in -June, and those of his friends whose congratulations on the honour -bestowed on him had been most sincere and most welcome had urged him to -make a triumphal reappearance at the moment when they would all be in -town. Moreover, they had promised him--and some of them were in a -position to make their promises come true--such a welcome home from old -and new friends as is rarely awarded to those whose victories are won on -bloodless fields. - -Accordingly, he had started early in May from the distant country where -his exile had proved of such signal service to England. Then, to the -astonishment and concern of those who considered his early return -desirable, he lingered through June and half July on the Continent, ever -writing, 'I am coming, I am coming,' to the few to whom he owed a real -apology for thus disappointing them. To the larger number of business -connections who felt aggrieved he vouchsafed no word, and left them to -suppose that their great man, frightened by some Parisian specialist, -had retired to a French spa for a cure. - - -III - -In one minor, as in so many a major, matter Downing had been -exceptionally fortunate. For many returning to their native country -after long years there are none to welcome them. Those among their old -friends who have not gone where no living man can hope to reach them are -scattered here and there, and only affection, faithful in a sense rarely -found, troubles to think of how the actual arrival of the wanderer can -be made, if not pleasant, at least tolerable. But Downing found a -sincere and, what was more precious, a familiar welcome, from the -friend, Mr. Julius Gumberg, who had twenty years before sped him on his -way with those valuable business introductions with which he had been -able to build up a new career, first in America, and later in Persia. - -There had been no regular correspondence between them, but now and -again, sometimes after an interval of years, a short note, pregnant with -shrewd counsel, and written in the tiny and only apparently clear hand -which was the epistolary mode of fifty years since, would form the most -welcome portion of Downing's home mail. It was characteristic of Mr. -Gumberg that he sent no word of congratulation, when the man whom he -still regarded as a youthful protégé received his G.C.B., the great -outward mark of rehabilitation. But when he learnt that Downing had -actually started for England he wrote him a line, adding by way of -postscript, 'Of course you will come to me,' and of course Downing had -come to him. - -Mr. Julius Gumberg was one of those happy Londoners whose dwellings lie -between the Green Park and that group of tranquil short streets which -still remain, havens of stately peace, within a moment's walk of St. -James's and Piccadilly. The portion of the house which looked on St. -James's Place had that peculiar air of solid respectability which, in -houses belonging to a certain period, seems to apologize for the rakish -air of their garden-front. By its bow-windows Mr. Gumberg's house was -distinguished on the park side from its more stately neighbours, and his -pink blinds were so far historic that they had been noted in a -guide-book some forty years before. - -Small wonder that, as Mr. Gumberg's guest passed through the door into -the broad low corridor which led into his old friend's library, he felt -for a moment as if he were walking from the present into the past, an -impression heightened by his finding everything, and almost everybody, -in the house unchanged, from his host, sitting in a pleasant book-lined -room where they had last parted, to the man-servant who had met him with -a decorous word of welcome at the door. To be sure, both master and man -looked older, but Downing felt that, while in their case the interval of -time had left scarce any perceptible mark of its passage, he himself had -in the same period lived, and showed that he had lived, a time -incalculable. - -And how did the traveller returning strike Mr. Julius Gumberg? Alas! as -being in every sense quite other than the man, young, impulsive, and -with a sufficient, not excessive, measure of originality, whom he had -sped on his way to fairer fortunes twenty years before. Now, looking at -the tall figure, the broad, slightly-bent shoulders, he saw that youth -had wholly gone, that impulse had been so long curbed as to leave no -trace on the rugged secretive face, to which had come, indeed, lines of -concentration and purpose which had been lacking in that of the young -George Downing. Originality now veered perilously near that eccentricity -of outward appearance which is apt to overtake those to whom the cut of -clothes, the shearing of the hair, have become of no moment. Mr. -Gumberg's shrewd eyes had at once perceived that this no longer familiar -friend looked Somebody, indeed, many would say a very great and puissant -body; but the old man would have been better pleased to have welcomed -home a more commonplace hero. - -Mr. Gumberg's sharp ears had heard, just outside his door, quick, low -interchange of words between his own faithful man-servant and the -newly-arrived guest. 'Valet? No, Jackson, I have brought no man. I gave -up such pleasant luxuries twenty years ago!' And Jackson had retreated, -disappointed of the company of the travelled gentleman's gentleman with -whom he had hoped to spend many pleasant moments. - - -IV - -Partly in deference to his old friend's advice, Downing gave up his -first morning in London to seeing those, almost to a man unknown to him, -to whom he surely owed some apology for his delay. His own old world, -including those faithful few friends of his youth who had wished him to -return in time to add to the triumphs of the season, were already -scattered, and though he had been warmly asked, even after his -defection, to follow them to the downs, the moors, and the sea, he was -as yet uncertain what to do. 'Waiting orders,' he had said to himself -with a curious thrill of exultation as he sat in his bedroom, table and -chair drawn close to the windows from which could be seen the twinkling -lights of Piccadilly, and where he had been answering briefly the pile -of letters he had found waiting for him. - -The next morning he devoted himself to the work he had in hand, and -early drove to the City in his host's old-fashioned roomy brougham. As -he drove he leant back, his hat jammed down over his eyes, unwilling to -see the changes which the town's aspect had undergone during his long -absence. But there was one pang which was not spared him. - -He had been among the last of those Londoners to whom the lion upon the -gateway of Northumberland House had been as a Familiar, and in the long -low rooms and spacious galleries to which that gateway had given access -he had spent many happy hours, a youth on whom all smiled. Of course, he -knew the stately palace had gone, but the sight of all that now stood in -its place made him realize as nothing else had yet done how long he had -been away. - -But when once he found himself in the City office whither he was bound, -he pushed all thoughts and recollections of the past far back into his -mind, and set himself to exercise all his powers of conciliation on the -men, for the most part unknown to him personally, who had the right to -be annoyed with him for delaying his arrival in London so long. Long, -lean, and brown, he stood before them, grimly smiling, and after the -first words, 'I fear my delay has caused some of you inconvenience, -gentlemen,' he plunged into the multiple complex details of the great -financial interests in which he and they were bound, answering questions -dealing with delicate points, and impressing them, as even the most -optimistic among them had not hoped to be impressed, by his remarkable -personality. - -In the afternoon of the same day he made his way slowly, almost -furtively, into what had once been his familiar haunts. They lay close -about the house where he was now staying and at first he felt relieved, -so few were the changes noted by him; but after a while he realized that -this first impression was not a true one. Even in St. James's Street -there was much that struck him as strange. Where he had left low houses -he found huge buildings. His very boot-maker, though still flaunting the -proud device, 'Established in 1767,' across his plate-glass window, was, -though at the same number as of old, now merged in a row of shops -forming the ground-floor of a red-brick edifice which seemed to dwarf -the low long mass of St. James's Palace opposite. - -In that square quarter-mile, bounded on the one side by Jermyn Street -and on the other by Pall Mall, he missed, if not whole streets, at least -many houses through whose hospitable doors he had often made his way. -Then a chance turn brought him opposite the place where he had spent the -last three years of his London life, and, by a curious irony, here alone -time seemed to have stood still. He looked consideringly at the old -house, up at the narrow windows of the first-floor at which a young and -happy George Downing had so often stood full of confidence in a kind -world and in himself; then, following a sudden impulse, he walked across -the street and rang the bell. - -A buxom, powerful-looking woman opened the door; Downing recognised her -at once as a certain Mary Crisp, the niece of his old landlord, and as -she stood waiting for him to speak he remembered that as a girl she had -not been allowed to do much of the waiting on her uncle's 'gentlemen.' -There was no glimmer of recognition in her placid face, and, in answer -to the request that he might see the rooms where he had once lived 'for -a short time,' she invited him civilly enough to come in, and to follow -her upstairs. - -'I expect it's the same paper, sir,' she said, as she opened the door of -what had been his sitting-room. 'It was put up when uncle first took on -the house, and, as it cost half a crown a foot, we always cleans it once -every three years with breadcrumbs, and it comes out as new.' - -How well Downing remembered the paper, with its dark-blue ground thickly -sprinkled with gold stars! indeed, before she spoke again, he knew what -her next words would be. 'It's the same pattern that the Queen and -Prince Albert chose for putting up at Windsor Castle; you don't see such -a good paper, nor such a good pattern, nowadays; but there, I'll just -leave you a minute while you take a look round.' - - -V - -For some moments Downing remained standing just inside the door, as much -that he had forgotten, and more that he had tried vainly to forget, came -back to him in a turgid flood of recollection. Suddenly something in the -walls creaked, and he clenched his hands, half expecting to see figures -form themselves out of the shadows. One memory was spared him; the -sombre walls, the plain, heavy old furniture, placed much as it had been -in his time, evoked no vision of the foreign woman who had brought him -to disgrace, for, with a certain boyish chivalry, he had never allowed -her to come to his rooms; instead, poor fool that he had been, he had -occasionally entertained her in his official quarters, and the fact had -been one of those which had most weighed against him with his informal -judges. - -Instead, the place where he now stood brought to his mind another woman, -who had during those same years and months played a nobler, but alas! a -far minor part in his life. - -Mrs. Henry Delacour had been one of those beings who, though themselves -exquisitely feminine, seem destined to go through life playing the part -of confidential and platonic friend, for, in spite of all that is said -to the contrary, platonic friendships, sometimes disguised under another -name, count for much in our over-civilized world. The second wife of a -permanent Government official much older than herself, her thoughts, if -not her heart, enjoyed a painful and a dangerous freedom. At a time when -sentiment had gone for the moment out of fashion, she lavished much -innocent sentiment on those of her husband's younger colleagues who -seemed worthy of her interest, and, for she was a kind woman, in need -of it. She had first met George Downing after she had attained the age -when every charming woman feels herself privileged to behave as though -she were no longer on the active list, while yet quite ready, should the -occasion offer, to lead a forlorn hope. What that time of life is should -surely be left to each conscience, and almost to each nationality. In -the case of this lady the age had been thirty-eight, Downing being -fifteen years younger--a fact which he forgot, and which she -conscientiously strove to remember, whenever he found himself in her -soothing, kindly presence. - -Their relationship had been for a time full of subtle charm, and had -George Downing been as cosmopolitan as his profession should have made -him, had he even been an older man, he might have been content with all -that she felt able to offer him--all, indeed, that was possible. But -there came a time when he found himself absorbed in a more ardent, a -more responsive friendship, and when his feet learnt to shun the quiet -street where Mrs. Delacour dispensed her gracious hospitality; indeed, -the moment came when he almost forgot how innocently near they had once -been to one another. - -Yet now, as he stood inside the door of his old room, Mrs. Delacour -triumphantly reasserted herself, for she had come to him on the last -evening of his life in London. He advanced further into the room, and -slowly the scene reconstituted itself in his mind. It had been one which -no man was likely ever wholly to forget, and it came back to Downing, in -spite of the lapse of twenty years, with extraordinary vividness. - -Having arranged to leave early the next morning, he had given strict -orders that none of his friends were to be again admitted. Sick at -heart, he had been engaged in sorting the last batch of letters and -bills, when the door, opening, had revealed Mrs. Delacour, dressed in -the soft, rather shadowy colouring which, though at the time wholly out -of fashion, had always seemed to him, the young George Downing, an -essential part of her personality. For a moment, as she had hesitated in -the doorway, he had noticed that she carried a basket. - -With the egotism of youth, as he had taken the kind trembling little -hand and led his visitor into the room, he had uttered the words, 'Now I -know without doubt that I am dead!' As he stood there now, in this very -room which had witnessed the pitiful scene, he felt a rush of shame, -remembering how he had behaved during the hours that followed, for he -had sat, sullenly looking on, while she had packed the portmanteaux -lying on the floor, tied up packets of letters, and sorted bills. At -intervals he had asked her to leave him, begged her to go home, but she -had worked on, saying very little, looking at him not at all, and -showing none of the dreadful tenderness which had been lavished on him -by so many of his friends. - -Then had come the moment when he had roused himself sufficiently to -mutter a few words of thanks, reminding her, not ungently, that her -husband would be expecting her back to dinner. 'Is any one coming?' she -had asked, with a tremor in her voice; and on his quick disclaimer the -basket had been unpacked, and food and wine put upon the table. - -'Henry,' she had said, in the precise, rather anxious voice he recalled -so well--'Henry remembered how well you thought of this claret;' and she -had sat down, and by her example gradually compelled him to eat the -first real meal he had had for days. - -When at last the moment came when she had said, sadly enough, 'Now I -suppose I must go home,' he was glad to remember that he had tried to -bear himself like a man, tried to thank her for her coming. As he had -stood, saying good-bye, she had suddenly lifted the hand which grasped -hers, and had laid it against her cheek with the words, said bravely, -and with a smile, 'You will come back, George--I am _sure_ you will -come back.' - - -As Downing stood once more in the street, now grey with twilight, after -he had slipped a sovereign in Mary Crisp's hand, she asked him with -natural curiosity, 'And what name shall I say, sir, when uncle asks who -called? He always likes to hear of his gentlemen coming back.' Downing -hesitated, and then gave the name of the man who he knew had had the -rooms before him. The woman said nothing, but a look of fear came into -her face as she shut the door quickly. As she did so Downing remembered -that the man was dead. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - 'If you enter his house, his drawing-room, his library, you of - yourself say, This is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is - not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his - sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious - elegance in the possessor.'--_Lord Byron's Journal._ - - -I - -Mr. Julius Gumberg was the last survivor of a type familiar in the -English, or rather in the London, society of the middle period of the -nineteenth century. In those days reticence, concerning one's own -affairs be it understood, was still the rule rather than the exception, -but there were a certain number of men, and a few women, to whom -everything seems to have been told, and whose advice on the more -delicate and difficult affairs of life, if not invariably followed--for -that would have been asking too much of human nature--was invariably -asked. - -It has always been the case that to those, who know much shall more be -revealed, and Mr. Gumberg had forgotten more scandals than even the most -trusted of his contemporaries had ever told or been told. His assistance -was even invoked, it was whispered, by the counsellors of very great -people, and it was further added that he had been instrumental in -averting more than one morganatic alliance. That, like most of those who -enjoy power, he had sometimes chosen to exercise his prerogative by -upholding and shielding those to whom the rest of the world cried -'Haro!' was felt to be to his credit. He had not only never married, -but, so far as his acquaintances knew, never even set sail for 'le pays -du tendre' with any woman belonging to a circle which had been widening -as the years slipped by, and this added to his prestige and gave him -authority among those whose paths had diverged so widely from his own. - -To all women, especially to those who sought his help when the -difficulty in which they found themselves had been caused rather by the -softness of their hearts than as the outcome of mere arid indiscretion, -he showed an indulgent, and, what was more to the point, a helpful -tenderness, which led to repeated confidences. 'The woman who has Mr. -Gumberg on her side can afford to postpone repentance,' a dowager who -was more feared than trusted was said to have exclaimed; but, like so -many bodily as well as moral physicians, he often felt that confidence, -when it was reposed in him, had been too long delayed. An intricate -problem, a situation to which there seemed no possible issue, was not, -he admitted to himself, without its special charm; but as he grew -older--indeed, into quite old age--he preferred exercising more subtle -arts in connection with the comparatively simpler stories of human life. -Unlike the poor French lady whose idle phrase has branded her throughout -the ages, Mr. Gumberg delighted in innocent pleasures, while he was -willing, notwithstanding, to make any effort and to exhume any -skeleton, however grim, from a friend's closet, if by so doing he could -prevent a scandal from crystallizing into a 'case.' - -Still, it may be repeated that what he really enjoyed when he could do -so conscientiously, and even, indeed, when he found his conscience to be -in no sense on the side of the more worldly angels of his acquaintance, -was to place all his knowledge of the world at the disposal of two -youthful and good-looking lovers. No man, so it was said, knew more ways -of melting the heart of an obdurate father, or, what is of course far -more difficult, of changing the mind of a sensible mother. Of the -several sayings of which he was fond of making use, and which he found -applicable to almost every case, especially those of purely sentimental -interest, submitted to him, his favourite came to be, 'Heaven helps -those who help themselves'; but as he preferred to be the sole auxiliary -of Heaven, he seldom quoted the phrase to those who might really have -profited by it. - -As young people sometimes found to their chagrin, Mr. Gumberg could not -always be trusted to see what he was fond of calling the syllabub side -of life; he occasionally took a parent's part, this especially when the -parent happened to be the mother of a young man. Thus, he was impatient -of the modern habit of _mésalliance_, and was old enough to remember the -days when divorce was the last resort of the wealthy, while yet -deploring the time when marriage was in truth an indissoluble bond. -Perhaps the only action which caused him ever-recurring astonishment was -the frivolity his young friends showed in entering a state of life -which, according to his old-fashioned views, should spell finality. - -'Heaven,' he would murmur to the afflicted mother of a misguided youth -who only asked to be allowed to contract honourable matrimony with the -humble object of his choice--'Heaven helps those who help themselves: -therefore beware of the virtuous ballet-girl and of the industrious -barmaid; rather persuade your Augustus to cultivate more closely the -acquaintance of his cousin, a really agreeable widow, for jointures -should be induced to remain in the family when this can be done without -any serious sacrifice of feeling.' - -Mr. Gumberg's enemies--and, of course, like most people who live the -life that suits them best, and who are surrounded by a phalanx of -attached and powerful friends, he had enemies--were able to point to one -very serious blemish on his otherwise almost perfect advisory character. -With the approach of age he had become garrulous; he talked not only -freely, but with extraordinary, amazing freedom to those--and they were -many--who cheered him with their constant visits, and on whom he could -depend to give him news of the world he loved so well, but which for -many years past he had only been able to see poised against the limited -background of his fine library, of his cheerful breakfast-room, of his -delightful garden. - -Perhaps the fact that he was acquainted with so many of their own -secrets made him the more trust the discretion of his friends, and even -of his acquaintances. They on their side were always ready to urge in -exculpation of their valued mentor that the old man never discussed a -scandal, or indeed a secret, that was in the making. While always eager -to hear any story, or any addition to a story, then amusing the circle -with which he kept in close touch, he never added by so much as a word -to the swelling tale; on the contrary the more intimate his knowledge of -the details, the less he admitted that he knew, and his garrulity was -confined to events which had already become, from the point of view of -the younger generation, ancient history. The mere mention of a -name--even more, a passing visit from some acquaintance long lost sight -of--would let loose on whoever had the good fortune to be present a -flood of amusing, if sometimes very muddy, reminiscence. 'My way,' he -would say quaintly, and in half-shamed excuse, 'of keeping a diary! and -as the circulation is necessarily so very limited, I can note much which -it would be scarcely fair to publish abroad.' - -Thus it was that Mr. Gumberg was seldom without the company of at least -one friend old enough to enjoy the real answers to long-forgotten social -riddles, while the more thoughtful of his younger acquaintances -recognized that some of his old stories were better worth hearing than -those which they in their turn came to tell. - - -II - -When Sir George Downing, after having returned from his excursion into -the past, sought out his host in the book-lined octagon room, looking -out on the Italian garden, where Mr. Julius Gumberg had established -himself for the evening, it was not because he expected to learn much of -interest unknown to him before, but because, though he felt half ashamed -of it, he longed intensely both to speak and to hear spoken a certain -name. With an abruptness which took the old man by surprise, Downing -asked him: 'Among your many charming friends, I wonder if you number a -certain Mrs. Robinson, the daughter, I believe, of the late Lord -Wantley?' - -Mr. Gumberg's reply was not long in coming. - -'Perdita,' he said briskly, 'is on the whole the most beautiful young -woman I know; I don't say, mind you, the most beautiful creature I have -ever known, but at the present time I cannot call to mind any of my -friends with whom I can compare her.' He tucked the rug in which he was -muffled up more tightly across his knees, and continued, with manifest -enjoyment: 'Doubtless you have noticed, George, even in the short time -you have been at home, that nowadays all our women claim to be -beauties--and the remarkable thing about it is that they succeed, the -hussies!' - -He gave a loud, discordant chuckle, and the pause enabled the other to -throw in the words: - -'Mrs. Robinson's name is, I believe, Penelope.' - -He spoke quickly, fearing a full biography of the fair stranger by whose -beauty Mr. Gumberg set so much store. - -'They succeed, and yet they fail,' continued the old man, ignoring the -interruption. 'They aim--it's odd they should do so--at being as like -one another as peas in a pod. Our beauties don't give each other room. -Ah! you should have seen, George, the women of my youth. The plain ones -kept their places--and very good places they were, too--but the others! -Now scarce a week goes by but some kind lady comes to me with, "Oh, Mr. -Gumberg, I'm going to bring you the new beauty. I'm sure you will be -charmed!" But I've given up expecting anything out of the common. When I -was a young man a new beauty was something to look at: she had hair, -teeth, eyes--not always _mind_, I grant you: but she was there to be -looked at, not talked at! I'm told that now a pretty woman hasn't a -chance unless she's clever. And that's the mischief, for the clever ones -can always make us believe that they're the pretty ones, too. Give me -the yellow-haired, pink-cheeked kind, out of which one could shake the -sawdust, eh?' Then he sighed a little ghostly sigh, and added: 'Yes, her -name's Penelope, of course--I was going to tell you so--but she's -Perdita, too, obviously.' - -'And has there been a Florizel?' Downing's question challenged a reply, -and Mr. Gumberg looked at him inquiringly as well as thoughtfully, as he -answered in rather a softer tone: - -'God bless my soul, no! That's to say, a dozen, more or less! But I -don't see, and I doubt if Perdita sees, a Prince Charming among 'em. As -for Robinson, poor fellow!'--Mr. Gumberg hesitated; words sometimes -failed him, but never for long--'all I can say is he was the first of -those I was the first to dub the Sisyphians. I used to feel quite -honoured when he came to breakfast. People enjoyed meeting him. I never -could see why; but you know how they all--especially the women--run -after any man that is extraordinarily ordinary. Melancthon Wesley -Robinson--what a handicap, eh? And yet I'm bound to say one felt -inclined to forgive him even his name, even his good looks, even his -marriage to Penelope Wantley, for he had the supreme and now rare charm -of youth. You had it once, George; that was why we were all so fond of -you.' - -Mr. Gumberg got up from his chair, pushed the rug off his shrunken legs, -and slowly walked round the room till he reached one of the two -cupboards which filled up the recess on either side of the fireplace. -From its depths he brought out a small portfolio. Downing had started -up, but his host motioned him back to his seat with a certain -irritation, and then, as he made his way again to his own blue leather -armchair, he went on: - -'Those for whom I invented the name of Sisyphians--there are plenty of -'em about now--well, I divide 'em into two sets, both, I need hardly -say, equally distasteful to me. The one kind cultivates platonic -friendships with the women'--Mr. Gumberg made a slight grimace. 'Their -arguments appeal to feminine sensibility; "Make yourself happier by -making others happy," that's the notion, and I understand that they're -fairly successful as regards the primary object, but there seems some -doubt as to how far they succeed in the other--eh? I should hate to be -made happy myself. That sort of fellow is the husband's best friend. -Not only does he keep the wife out of mischief, but he will act as -special constable on occasion, and when everything else fails he's -always there, ready to put his arm round the dear erring creature's -waist and implore her to remember her duties! The other set undertake a -more difficult task, and they don't find it so easy. That sort don't put -their arms round even their own wives' waists; their dream is to embrace -Humanity. She's a jealous mistress, and, from all I hear, I doubt if -she's as grateful as some of 'em make out!' - -The old man sat down again. He drew the rug over his knees, and propped -up the small portfolio on a sloping mahogany desk which always stood at -his elbow. With a certain eagerness he turned over its contents, still -talking the while. - -'Young Robinson was their founder, their leader. He built the first of -the palaces in the slums. I'm told they call the place the Melancthon -Settlement. I'm bound to say that he took it--and himself--quite -seriously, lived down there, and, what was much more strange, persuaded -Penelope to live there, too. Oh, not for long. She would soon have tired -of the whole business!' He added in a lower tone, his head bent over the -open portfolio: 'I don't find things as easily as I used to do. Yet I -know it's here.' Then he cried eagerly, 'I've found it!' and held up -triumphantly a rudely-coloured print of which the reverse side was -covered with much close writing. - -Downing put out his hand with a certain excitement; he knew that what -the old man was about to show him had a bearing on the story he was -being told. - -The print, obviously a caricature, represented a horsewoman sitting a -huge roan and clad in the long riding-habit, almost touching the ground, -which women wore in the twenties and thirties of last century. A large -black hat shaded, and almost entirely concealed, the oval face beneath. -In one hand the horsewoman held a hunting crop, with the other she -reined in her horse, presenting a dauntless front to some twenty couple -of yelping and snarling foxhounds. The colour was crude, but the drawing -clear, and full of rough power. - -Downing suddenly realized that each hound had the face of a man; also -that the countenance of the foremost dog was oddly familiar: he seemed -to have seen it looking down on him from innumerable engravings, in -particular from one which had hung in the hall of his parents' town -house. This dog, almost alone clean-shaven among its companions, held -between its paws the baton of a field-marshal. Below the print was -engraved in faded gilt letters the words 'The Lady and her Pack.' - -'A valuable and very rare family portrait,' said Mr. Gumberg grimly. -'The lady is Penelope's grandmother, Lady Wantley's mother, and the -Pack----' He checked himself, surprised at the look which passed over -the other's face. - -'Her grandmother?' Downing interrupted almost roughly. 'Why, you showed -me that print years ago, when I was a boy. I have never forgotten it.' -Then, in a more natural tone, he added: 'I suppose it's really unique?' - -'As far as I know, absolutely unique, but such odious surprises are -nowadays sprung upon collectors! I believe this copy is the only one -which has survived the many determined efforts to destroy the whole -edition, which was never at any time a large one. I fancy such things -were produced speculatively, you understand, doubtless with a view to -the pack. These good people'--Mr. Gumberg pointed with his long, lean -finger to the human-faced dogs--'were naturally quite ready to buy up -all the available copies, and then, later, John Oglethorpe, after he had -become the fair huntswoman's husband, also most naturally made it his -business to get hold of the few which had found their way into -collections. I've been told also that Lord Wantley during many years -made a point of keeping his eye on one copy, which finally disappeared, -no one knows how, just on the eve of its being safely stored in the -British Museum! I got mine in Paris quite thirty years ago by an -extraordinary bit of good fortune. And so I showed it you, did I? I -wonder why. I so seldom show it, unless, of course, there's some special -reason why I should do so.' - -Mr. Gumberg stopped and thought for a few minutes. 'Let me see,' he -added thoughtfully, 'the last person who saw it was old Mrs. Byng. It -was the day of Penelope's marriage. It's a good way from Hanover Square, -and the old lady never takes a cab--too stingy. I knew how a sight of -this picture would revive her, poor old soul! One of my very few -remaining contemporaries, George.' Mr. Gumberg sighed a little heavily; -then, with a certain regret, 'So you know all about that strange -creature, Rosina Bellamont?' - -Again he took up the print between his lean fingers. He hated being done -out of telling a story, and Downing, well aware of this peculiarity, -smiled and said kindly enough: 'When you showed me this thing before, -you told me more of the pack than of the lady. In fact, if I remember -rightly, it was just after the death----' - -Mr. Gumberg again interrupted with returning good-humour: 'Of course I -remember: it was just after the death of poor Jack Storks. You came in -as I was reading his obituary in the _Times_, and I showed you the print -to prove that he had not always been the grave and reverend signior they -made him out to have been!' - -'And Lady Wantley's mother, what of her?' Downing feared once more that -his venerable friend would start off on a reminiscent excursion of more -general than particular interest. - -'She was a very remarkable woman,' answered Mr. Gumberg, 'and I will -tell you how and where I first made her acquaintance and that of her -daughter.' - - -III - -'When I was a lad of fifteen,' began the old man, with a marked change -of tone and even of manner, 'my uncle, who was, as you are aware, a -Russia merchant, the kindest and wisest man I have ever known, and the -most delightful of companions, took me a walking tour through the -Yorkshire dales. Now, those were the days when all inns were bad and all -houses hospitable. We walked miles without meeting a living creature, -being the more solitary that my uncle preferred the bridle-paths to the -highroads, but he generally contrived that we should find a kind welcome -and comfortable quarters at the end of each day. - -'One afternoon, when climbing a stiff hillside not far from the place -whence five dales can be seen stretching fanstickwise, we came on two -figures standing against the skyline, a lady and a young girl, hand in -hand, curiously dressed--for those were the days of the crinoline--in -long, straight grey gowns and circular cloaks. Their faces, the one -pale, the other fresh and rosy, were framed by unbecoming close bonnets, -each lined with a frill of stiff white stuff. Even I, foolish boy that I -was, and while considering the strange pair most inelegantly dressed, -saw that they were in a sense distinguished, utterly unlike the often -oddly-gowned country wives and maids we met now and again trudging past -us. - -'To my surprise, my uncle, when he had become aware of their presence, -quickened his steps, and when we had reached the lonely stretch of grass -on which they were standing--that is, when we were close to the singular -couple, mother and daughter or grandmother and granddaughter; I could -not help wondering what relationship existed between them--he bowed, -saying: "Have I the honour of greeting Mrs. Oglethorpe?" The elder -lady's cheek turned as rosy, but only for a moment, as that of the girl -by her side, and as she answered, "Yes," the colour receding seemed to -leave her cheek even paler than before. "That is my name," she said; and -then looking, or so it seemed to me, very pleadingly at my uncle, she -added quickly: "This is my young daughter. Adelaide, curtsey to the -gentleman." "Your father and I, young lady," said my uncle, again -bowing, "have had business dealings together for many years, and I am -honoured to meet his daughter." - -'Well, George, we followed them, retracing our steps down the dale, and -there, hidden in a park surrounded by high walls, we came at last on a -fine old house of grey stone. Our approach brought no sign of life or -animation. The formal gardens lacked the grace and brilliancy afforded -by flowers, and yet were in no sense neglected. Mrs. Oglethorpe turned -the handle of the front-door, and we passed into a large hall, where we -were greeted with great civility by an elderly man, whom I supposed, -rightly, to be our host, though, to be sure, his dress differed in no -way from that of those who passed silently backwards and forwards -through the hall, and who were apparently his servants. - -'Dear me, how strange everything seemed to my young eyes! In particular, -I was amazed to notice that a row of what were apparently family -portraits were all closely shrouded with some kind of white linen, while -below them, painted on the oak panelling, was the following -sentence'--Mr. Gumberg turned the print he still held in his hand, and -peered closely at the writing with which the back of it was -covered--'"_Forsake all, and thou shall possess all. Relinquish desire, -and thou shalt find rest._" The hall was overlooked by what had -evidently been a music-gallery, and, glancing up there, I saw that the -carved oak railing had been partly covered in with deal boards, on which -was written in very large letters another strange saying: "_Esteem and -possess naught, and thou shalt enjoy all things._" I tried, I trust -successfully, to imitate my uncle, the most courteous of men, in showing -nothing of the astonishment that these things caused me, the more so -that Mr. Oglethorpe treated us with the greatest consideration, himself -fetching bread, cheese, and beer for our entertainment. - -'After we had refreshed ourselves, a pretty young woman, dressed in what -appeared to be a modified copy of the curious straight garments worn by -our hostess and her daughter, led us to a bedchamber, the walls of which -were hung, as I now judge, looking back, with some fine French tapestry. -Across the surface of this ran the words, each letter cut out of white -linen stitched on to the tapestry: "_Foxes have holes, and the birds of -the air have nests; but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His -head._"' - -Mr. Gumberg paused a moment, and then continued his story: 'The -dining-room, to which we were bidden by the ringing of a bell, must have -been once, from its appearance, the scene of many great banquets; but I -noted that it only contained two long tables, composed of unpainted -boards set on rough trestles, while the walls, hung with maroon Utrecht -velvet, presented to my eyes an extraordinary appearance, each -picture--and there were many--being hidden from sight, as were those in -the hall, while on a long strip of white cloth, which ran right round -the room above the wainscotting, was written: "_Self-denial is the basis -of spiritual perfection. He that truly denies himself is arrived at a -state of great freedom and safety._" - -'I noticed that the tables were laid for a considerable company, and -soon there walked slowly in some forty men and women, all dressed in -what seemed to me a very peculiar manner. There were many more women -than men, and they sat at separate tables, Mrs. Oglethorpe taking the -head of the one, while her husband, with my uncle at his right hand, -presided over the other. The food was plain, but of good quality; it was -eaten in silence, and while we ate the daughter of the house, Adelaide -Oglethorpe, sat on a high rostrum and read aloud from a book which I -have since ascertained to have been Mr. William Law's "Serious Call to a -Devout and Holy Life." - -'This reading surprised me very much, and, boy-like, I wondered -anxiously whether the girl was to be deprived of her evening meal; but -after we had finished supper she put a mark in the book she had been -reading, and, as the others all walked out, took her place at a little -table I had before scarcely noticed, and there, waited on most -assiduously by her father, she enjoyed a meal rather more dainty in -character than that which the rest of us had eaten. Looking back, -George,' observed Mr. Gumberg thoughtfully, 'I think I may say that this -was the first time in my life that I realized how even the most rigid -human beings sometimes fall away, and this almost unconsciously, from -their own standards. - -'We only stayed at Oglethorpe one night, and perhaps that is why I -recollect so well all that took place. Before we left, my uncle, to the -evident gratification of our host, advised me to copy the various -inscriptions about the house, notably one which had greatly taken his -fancy, and which was inscribed above the writing-table where Mrs. -Oglethorpe apparently spent many of the earlier hours of each day. This -saying ran: "_Charity is the meed of all; familiarity the right of -none._" Our hostess, of whom I stood in great awe, bade her little -daughter show me the schoolroom, observing that there I should most -probably notice texts and inscriptions more suited to my understanding. -Miss Oglethorpe's room was strangely different from the others I had -seen; and, with a surprise which I was unable to conceal, I saw hanging -in a prominent place over the mantelpiece a painting of a beautiful -young woman pressing a little child to her bosom, while below the gold -frame was written the familiar verse: "_Suffer little children to come -unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven._" -Adelaide Oglethorpe evidently noticed my surprise, for she explained -diffidently that this painting represented her father's mother and -himself as a child: further, that this lady having been a most virtuous -and excellent wife and mother, Mr. Oglethorpe had not dealt with her -portrait as he had done with those of his own and his daughter's less -reputable forebears.' - -Mr. Gumberg ceased speaking. Downing's eyes were still fixed on the -rudely coloured caricature of Rosina Bellamont and her admirers. - -'And so this woman,' he said, 'became a mother in Israel? Well, I -suppose such things do happen now and then.' - -'Rather more often now than then,' Mr. Gumberg declared briskly. 'My -uncle used to describe to me, when I had come to a riper age, what a -stir the marriage made. Why, they even said the King--William IV., you -know--sent for Oglethorpe and remonstrated with him. Of course, a -Bellamont can always find a man to make an honest woman of her, but she -seldom has the good fortune to bear off such a prize as was John -Oglethorpe. That wasn't, however, the most amazing part of the story. -Within a few months of her marriage Mrs. Oglethorpe fell under the -influence of a preacher--a second Fletcher of Madeley. But she was -evidently not the woman to rest content with being a mere disciple, and -so, with the active help of her husband, she set herself to build up -that strange kind of religious phalanstery which I have described to -you, and in which the future Lady Wantley was born and bred. Rosina -Bellamont was one of those women who are born to good fortune as the -sparks fly upward, and her luck did not desert her in the one matter in -which she could hardly have counted on it----' - -Downing looked up. 'You mean the marriage of her daughter?' he said. - -'Of course I do,' returned the old man vigorously. 'In those days peers -didn't hold forth at Exeter Hall--in fact, Wantley was the first of that -breed; and by great good fortune, chance--I suppose it _was_ chance, eh, -George?--brought him to Oglethorpe. The odd thing was his going there at -all; once there, 'twas natural he should feel attracted.' - -'I suppose Lady Wantley is like her daughter?' said Downing. - -'God bless my soul, no! Lady Wantley's an Oglethorpe. Penelope's a----' -The old man did not finish his sentence, but turned it off with: 'She's -quite unlike her mother. Pity she wasn't a boy. The present man's no -good to 'em--I mean to Lady Wantley and Penelope. Why should he be? He -wasn't fairly treated. Of course he got Marston Lydiate, for that's -entailed; but the place in Dorset, Monk's Eype, and all the money, were -left away to the girl, although I did my best for him. Wantley spoke to -me about it, but I couldn't move him; and then he was hardly cold before -Penelope married her millionaire! A marriage, George, a marriage----' -Words failed Mr. Gumberg. For the third time he repeated, 'A -marriage'--his old eyes gleamed maliciously--'which was no marriage! You -understand, eh? _Mensa non thorus_--that was the notion. Common among -the early Christians, I believe. Well, no one can say what the end of it -would have been, for nature abhors a vacuum; but the poor monkish -creature died, caught small-pox from a foreign sailor, and the -bewitching girl was left all the Robinson millions!' - -'Then I suppose you advised restitution to young Lord Wantley?' - -Mr. Gumberg chuckled. He evidently thought his guest intended a grim -joke. 'The sort of thing a trustee would suggest, eh, George?' But -Downing was apparently quite serious. - -'I don't see why not,' he said. 'Do you mean that Lord Wantley is -penniless?' - -Mr. Gumberg nodded. 'Something very like it,' he declared. 'Of course, -the old man--though he was twenty years younger than I am now when he -died--had some show of reason for the unfair thing he did. People always -have. When he, and I suppose Lady Wantley, realized that they were not -likely to have a son, he gave his heir--his third cousin, I fancy--the -family living of Marston Lydiate, and years afterwards the man became a -Romanist! Wantley chose to consider himself very much injured. He never -saw his cousin again, and for years never took any notice of the boy--in -fact, not till the ex-parson was dead.' - -'Is young Lord Wantley a Roman Catholic?' asked Downing indifferently. - -'No, he's not,' said Mr. Gumberg. 'The other day I heard him described -as "a stickit Papist," and I suppose that's about what he is. But -where's your interest in these people, George?' Mr. Gumberg asked -suddenly. 'You don't know 'em, do you?' - -Downing hesitated. He was in the mood in which men feel almost compelled -to make unexpected and amazing confidences, but the words which were so -nearly being said were never uttered. - -Cutting across his hesitation, his half-formed impulse of taking his old -friend into his confidence, came the exclamation: 'Why, of course! -You've met her! When I heard from you at Pol les Thermes I felt sure -there was someone else there that I knew, but I couldn't think who it -was at the moment. However, that don't matter now, for it seems you've -found each other out! I didn't say too much, George, did I? She _is_ a -beautiful creature?' - -Mr. Gumberg's assertion was not without a note of interrogation. He -sometimes felt an uneasy suspicion that his standards, especially in the -matter of feminine loveliness, were not always blindly accepted by the -generations that had succeeded his own. But Downing's answer reassured -him. - -'I agree with you absolutely,' he said very gravely. 'I do not remember -a more beautiful woman, even in the old days.' - -This tribute to his taste sent Mr. Gumberg to bed in high good-humour; -and as he made his slow progress along the passage, leaning on Downing's -friendly arm, he kept muttering, 'Glad you met her--glad you met her.' -So often are we inclined to rejoice at happenings which, if we knew -more, we might regard as calamities. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - '... a queen - By virtue of her brow and breast; - Not needing to be crowned, I mean.' - - BROWNING. - - -I - -When Penelope Wantley became the mistress of Monk's Eype, she left the -villa as she had always known it, for her sense of beauty compelled her -to approve the few changes which had been made to the great bare rooms -during her father's long tenure of the place. As child and as girl she -had found there much that satisfied her craving for the romantic and the -exquisite in nature and in art; and long after she was a grown-up woman -the flagged terraces, each guarded by a moss-grown balustrade, broken at -one end by steep stone steps which led from one rampart to another, -commanding all the way down the blue-green and grey bars of moving water -below, served as background to the memoried delights of her childhood. - -Penelope the woman had but to withdraw herself from what was about her -to see once more the child Penelope, watching with fascinated gaze the -stone and marble denizens of the gardens and the wood. In the summer -twilight, just before little Penelope went up to bed, the graceful -water-nymphs sometimes came down from their pedestals on the -bowling-green which lay beyond the western wing of the villa, and the -malicious, teasing faun, leaving the spot from which he gazed over the -changing seas, ranged at will through the little pine-wood edging the -open down. Even in the daylight the little girl sometimes thought she -caught glimpses of gentle green-capped fairies--a whole world of -strange, uncanny folk--who played 'touch' and blind-man's buff among the -hanging creepers and at the foot of each of the flower-laden bushes -which covered the slopes of this enchanted garden. - -In these fancies the young friends who occasionally came over to see -her, riding their ponies or driving their governess-carts, from distant -country-houses, had never any share. More was told to a boy with whom at -one time little Penelope had been much thrown. David Winfrith, the son -of a neighbouring clergyman, who, when shunned for no actual fault of -his own, had seen himself and his only child received very kindly by -Lord and Lady Wantley, was older than Penelope by those three or four -years which in childhood count so much, and later count so little. He -had spent more than one holiday at Monk's Eype, sharing Penelope's -play-room, which, partly hollowed out of the cliff, was lifted a few -feet above the beach by rude stone pillars. There a large solid table, -filling up the whole space in front of the wide window, made a fine -'vantage-ground for the display of the boy's skill as toy-maker and -boat-builder. - -Penelope, looking back, associated David Winfrith with her earliest -memories of Monk's Eype, and for her the villa, especially certain of -the great rooms of which the furnishings had been so little disturbed -for close on a hundred years, was instinct also with the thought and the -vanished figure of her father, who, when wearied and cast down by being -brought into contact with the misery he did so much to relieve, found in -his western home a great source of consolation and peace. - - -II - -Lord Wantley, or rather his wife, had been among the first and most -ardent patrons of the group of painters who chose to be known as the -Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. More than one of these had spent happy days -at Monk's Eype, and it had been owing to the advice of the most famous -survivor of the early P.R.B. that Penelope had been allowed, and even -encouraged, to devote much of her early girlhood to the serious pursuit -of art. How far her parents had been right her mother sometimes doubted; -but there could be no doubt that the great artist had truly divined in -the beautiful girl a touch of exceptional power--some would have called -it by a rarer name. It was not his fault if such circumstances as youth, -rank, beauty, and ultimately great wealth, had asserted their claims, -and turned one who might have been a great woman artist into an amateur. - -Therefore it was rather as a lover of beauty and as a woman, fully, if -rather disdainfully, conscious of her own feminine supremacy, that Mrs. -Robinson had been so far well content to leave the spacious rooms of her -own, as it had been her father's, favourite home, in much the same order -as when they had been arranged under the eye of her great-uncle Ludovic, -known in local story as the Popish Lord Wantley. - -There was a side of her nature which made her feel peculiarly at ease -among the faded splendours of these Italian-looking rooms. Her tall -figure, slenderly stately in its proportions; the small, well-poised -head; clear-cut, delicate features; deep, troubled-looking blue eyes; -masses of red-brown hair, drawn high above the broad low forehead, in -the fashion worn when powdered locks lent charm to the plainest face--in -short, her whole presence and individuality made a satisfying harmony -with faded brocades, the ivory inlaid chairs and tables, and the massive -gilt dower-chests, which had no desecration to fear from their present -owner's beautiful hands. - -That Penelope could create as well as preserve beauty of -surroundings--the one power seems nowadays as rare as the other--was -seen in the room, half studio, half library, where, when at Monk's Eype, -she chose to spend much of her time. - -Situated at the extreme western end of the villa, on which, indeed, it -still formed a strange excrescence, the room had been added to the main -building at a time when Penelope's parents had been inclined to believe -much more than they afterwards came to do in the power of eloquent -speech. The substantial brick walls of the hall, as it was still called -by some of the older servants, had witnessed curious gatherings, and -heard the voices of many a famous lay-preacher dealing with schemes -which, whether practical or nebulous, had all the same single -purpose--that of leaving the world better than it had been before. - -Penelope Wantley, as a little girl, had once been taken, when in Paris, -to see a certain old lady, who had in her day played a considerable rôle -in the brilliant society of the forties. The room in which the English -visitors had been received made a deep impression on the child's -imagination. The walls were painted in that soft shade of blue which the -turquoise is said to assume when a heart is untrue to its wearer, and -which is of all tints that best suited to be a background, whether of -human beings or of paintings; and the old lady's furniture had been -hidden in what the little Penelope had likened to herself as white -dimity overalls. The windows looked out on a fine old garden, along -whose shady paths had once walked blind Châteaubriand, led by Madame -Récamier. - -Many years later, when Mrs. Robinson was arranging and transforming the -one room at Monk's Eype which she felt at liberty to alter and to -arrange after her own fancy, she followed, perhaps unconsciously, the -scheme of colouring which had so much pleased her childish fancy. But -whereas in the French lady's salon there had been no books--indeed, no -sign that such a thing as literature existed in the world--books were -not lacking at Monk's Eype. Had Penelope followed her own natural -instinct, perhaps she would have kept even more closely than she had -done to the Frenchwoman's example; but, though she prided herself on -being one of the most unconventional of human beings, she was naturally -influenced by the atmosphere in which she had always moved and lived. - -'By Penelope's books you may know, not Penelope, but Penelope's -friends,' her cousin, Lord Wantley, had once observed. He had been -tempted to substitute the word 'adorers' for 'friends,' but had checked -himself in time, recollecting that the man with whom he was speaking was -one to whom the warmer term was notoriously applicable. - -As to what the books were--for there was no lack of variety--French -novels, much old and modern verse, mock-erudite volumes, and pamphlets -of the type that are written a hundredfold round whatever happens to be -the fad of the moment, warred here and there with a substantial -Blue-Book, or, stranger still, with some volume which contained deep and -painful probings into the gloomier problems of life. Such were the -contents of the book-shelves, which, by a curious conceit of the present -owner of Monk's Eype, framed the tall narrow door connecting her studio -with the rest of the building. - -Lord Wantley would also have told you that his brilliant cousin never -read. That, however, would have been unjust and untrue. Mrs. Robinson, -however deeply absorbed in other things, always found time to glance -through the books certain of her friends were good enough to send her. - -Sometimes, indeed, she felt considerable interest in what she had been -bidden to read, and almost always she showed an extraordinary, if -passing, insight into the author's meaning; but to tell the truth, and I -hope that in so doing I shall not prejudice my readers against my -heroine, she was one of those women, a greater number than is in these -days suspected, who regard literature much as the modern civilized man -of the world regards art. Such a man goes to those exhibitions which -have been specially mentioned to him as worthy of notice, but even to -the best of these it would never occur to him to go, save with a -pleasant companion, a second time; and in buying, it is always the -expert on whom he leans, not his own taste and judgment. In the same way -Penelope was always willing to read any volume which her world was -discussing at the moment, but she would have been a happier woman had -she been able sometimes to take up, not necessarily a classic, but at -any rate a book of yesterday rather than of to-day. - -But if literature was in her room only used in a decorative sense, the -water-colours and drawings, the casts, and the bas-reliefs, which were -so hung as to form a low dado down the whole length of the studio, were -one and all of remarkable quality, and here you touched the quick -reality of Penelope's life. In these matters she needed no advice, for, -while as an artist she was truly humble, she only cared to measure -herself with the best. - -There was something pathetic in this beautiful woman's desire to -discover hidden genius; only certain French painters with whom she -herself from time to time still studied could have told how generous and -how intelligent was the help she was ever ready to bestow on those of -her fellow art-students whose means were more slender than their talent. -It was to these, so rich and yet so poor, that her heart really warmed; -it was on them that she bestowed what time that she could spare from -herself. - -And yet the room which was specially her own showed very few signs of -artistic occupation. True, on a plain table were set out paint-boxes, -palettes, sketch-books; but an unobservant visitor might have come and -gone without knowing that the woman he had come to see ever took up a -pencil or used a brush. - -The broad low dado, composed of comparatively small water-colours, -drawings, and bas-reliefs, was twice broken, each time by a glazed -oil-painting, each time by the portrait of a woman. - -To the left of the book-framed door, hung a painting of Penelope's -mother, Lady Wantley. - -At every period of her life Lady Wantley had been one of those women -whom artists delight to paint, and the great artist whose work this was -had often had the privilege. But perhaps owing to certain peculiar -circumstances connected with this portrait, it was the one of them that -he himself preferred. The painting had been a commission from the sitter -herself; she had wished to give this portrait to her husband on his -sixtieth birthday, and together she and the painter, her friend, who had -once owed to her and to Lord Wantley much in the way of sympathy and -encouragement, had desired to suggest in the composition something which -would be symbolic of what had been an almost ideal wedded life. - -Then, without warning, when the scheme had been scarcely sketched out, -had come Lord Wantley's death away from home, and the portrait, scarcely -begun, had been hastily put away, counted by the artist as among those -half-finished things destined to remain tragic in their incompleteness. -But some months later his old friend and patroness, clad in no widow's -weeds, but in the curious black-and-white flowing draperies, and close -Quakerish bonnet, which had become to her friends and acquaintances -almost a portion of her identity, had come to see him, and he learnt -that she wished her portrait should be finished. - -'He always disliked the unfinished, the incomplete,' she had said rather -wistfully; and the artist had carried out her wish, finding little to -alter, though, perhaps, in the interval between the first and the -second sitting the colourless skin of the sitter had lost something of -its clearness, the heavy-lidded grey eyes had gained somewhat in -dimness, and the hair from dark brown had become grey. - -The painter himself substituted, for the lilies which were to have -filled in part of the background, a sheaf of rosemary. - -The other picture had a less intimate history; and the only two people -who ever ventured to criticise Penelope had both, not in any concert -with one another, suggested that another place might be found for the -kitcat portrait, by Romney, of Mrs. Robinson's famous namesake, than -that where it now hung in juxtaposition with that of Lady Wantley. - - -III - -Beneath this last portrait, holding herself upright on the low white -couch, a girl, Cecily Wake, sat waiting. She looked round the room with -an affectionate appreciation of its special charm--a charm destined to -be less apparent when seen as a frame to its brilliant mistress, who had -the gift, so often the perquisite of beauty, of making places as well as -people seem out of perspective. Cecily herself, all unconsciously, -completed the low-toned picture by adding a delicious touch of fragrant -youth. - -Only Mrs. Robinson in all good faith considered Cecily Wake pretty. -True, she had the abundant hair, the clear eyes, the white teeth, which -seemed to Mr. Gumberg so essential to feminine loveliness; but beautiful -she was not--indeed, none of her friends denied her those qualities -which the plain are always being told count so much more than beauty; -that is, abundant kindliness, a sterling honesty, and a certain fiery -loyalty which both touched and diverted those who knew her. - -To be worshipped in the heroic manner--that is, to be the object of -hero-worship--is almost always pleasant, especially if the divinity is -conscious that he or she has indeed done something to deserve it. -Penelope Robinson had rescued her young kinswoman from a mode of living -which had been peculiarly trying and unsuitable to one of an active, -ardent mind; more, she had provided her with work--something to do which -Cecily had felt was worth the doing. As all this had not been achieved -without what Penelope considered a great deal of trouble on her part, -she did not feel herself wholly undeserving of the deep affection -lavished on her by the girl whom she chose to call cousin, though in -truth the relationship was a very distant one. - -Mrs. Robinson had just now the more reason to be satisfied both with her -own conduct and with that of her young friend. When it had been settled -that Cecily should spend a portion of her holiday--for she was one of -those happy people who, even when grown up, have holidays--at Monk's -Eype, it had not occurred to Penelope to include in her invitation the -aunt from whom she had rescued her friend, and she had been surprised -when Cecily had refused in a short, rather childishly-worded note. 'Of -course, I should like to come to you, and it is very kind of you to ask -me, but I cannot leave my aunt. She has been so looking forward to my -holiday, and, after all, I shall enjoy being at Brighton, near my old -convent.' Such had been Cecily's answer to her dear Penelope's -invitation, and, though she had shed bitter tears over it, she had sent -off her letter without consulting the old lady, to whom she was -sacrificing so great a joy. - -Happily for the world, there is a kind of unselfishness, which, as a -French theologian rather pungently put it, 'fait des petits,' and Mrs. -Robinson's answer had been responsive. 'Of course, I meant your aunt to -come, too,' she wrote, lying. 'I enclose a note for her. I shall be very -glad to see her here.' There she wrote the truth, for only exceptional -people object to meet those whom they have vanquished in fair fight. - -This was why Cecily Wake, supremely content, was sitting, late in the -afternoon of a hot August day, in her cousin's pretty room. - -The glass doors were wide open, and from the flagged terrace blew in the -warm, gentle sea-wind. - -Cecily was still so young in body and in mind that she really preferred -work to play; nevertheless, playtime was very pleasant, especially now -that she was beginning to feel a little tired after the long journey -from town, and the more fatiguing experience of seeing to the unpacking -of her aunt's boxes, and of establishing her in bed. - -The elder Miss Wake was one of those women who, perhaps not altogether -unfortunately for their friends, enjoy poor health, and make it the -excuse for seldom doing anything which either annoys or bores them. -Occasionally, however, to her own surprise and disgust, Poor Health the -servant became Ill Health the master, and to-day outraged nature had -insisted on having the last word. This was why the aunt, really tired, -and suffering from a real headache, was lying upstairs, thinking, not -ungratefully, that Cecily, in spite of many modern peculiarities and -headstrong theories of life, was certainly in time of illness as -comforting a presence as might have been that ideal niece the aunt would -fain have had her be. - -Perhaps the great characteristic of youth is the power of ardently -looking forward to the enjoyment of an ideal pleasure. To retain even -the power of keen disappointment is to retain youth. Cecily Wake had -longed for this visit to Monk's Eype much as a different kind of girl -longs for her first ball, but, instead of feeling disappointed at being -received with the news that her hostess, after making all kinds of small -arrangements for her own and her aunt's comfort, had gone out riding, -she had felt relieved that the meeting between Miss Wake and Mrs. -Robinson had been put off till the former had regained her usual tart -serenity. - -The girl enjoyed these moments of quiet in what was, to one who had had -few opportunities of living amid beautiful surroundings, the most -charming room she had ever seen. Most of all, she delighted in one -exquisite singularity which it owed to the fancy of Lady Wantley. Not -long after it had been built, and while it was still being used as a -lecture-hall, Lady Wantley had had an oblong opening effected in the -brickwork just above the plain stone mantelpiece. - -This opening, filled with clear glass, was ever bringing into the room, -as no mere window could have done, a sense of nearness to the breezy -stretch of down, studded with gnarled, wind-twisted pine-trees, standing -out darkly against the irregular coast-line which stretched itself, with -many a fantastic turn, towards Plymouth. - - -IV - -The tall book-framed door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Robinson walked -swiftly in. As she came down the room, a smile of real pleasure and -welcome lighting up her face, Cecily was almost startled by the look of -vigorous grace and vitality with which the whole figure was instinct, -and which was accentuated rather than lessened by the short skirt, the -dun-coloured coat, and soft hat, which fashion, for once wedded to -sense, has decreed should be the modern riding-dress. - -Almost involuntarily the girl exclaimed: 'How well you look!' - -'Do I?' Penelope sat down close to Cecily; then she leant across and -lightly kissed the young girl's round cheek. 'I ought to look well after -a long ride with David Winfrith. You know, he has just been made -Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the new Government.' - -'Oh, is he here, too?' Cecily spoke disappointedly. She had hoped, -rather foolishly, that Penelope would be alone at Monk's Eype. - -'No, he's not staying here. His own home is close by. We must go over -there some time and see his old father; you would like him, Cecily, -better than you do the son.' She hesitated, then continued in the -curiously modulated voice which was one of her peculiarities: 'We had -such a ride--such a discussion--such a quarrel--such a reconciliation! -Oh yes, I feel much better than I did yesterday.' - -'Was it about the Settlement?' Cecily fixed her thoughtful, honest eyes -on her friend's face. - -'Our discussion? No, no! My dear child, you must forget all about the -Settlement while you are here. I want to tell you about the people you -are going to meet. First, there's my mother, who, in theory, will spend -a good deal of time with your aunt, though in practice I shall be -surprised if they often speak to one another, for they are too utterly -unlike even to differ. Then there's my cousin, Lord Wantley. I'm afraid -you won't like him very much, for he makes fun of me--and of the -Settlement, too. But it isn't fair to tell you that! I want you to make -friends with him. You must spare him some of the pity you are so ready -to lavish on poor people who are unhappy or unlucky--Ludovic has been -rather unlucky, and he has a perfect genius for making himself unhappy.' - -'Lord Wantley is Catholic, is he not?' Cecily spoke with some -hesitation. She knew her aunt had told her something concerning -Penelope's cousin, but she could not remember what it was which had been -told her. - -Penelope looked up from the task of unbuttoning her gloves. 'No, he's -nothing of the kind,' she said decidedly, 'but perhaps he ought to be. -Who knows--Miss Wake may perhaps convert him,' she smiled rather -satirically. Cecily looked troubled; she was beginning to realize that -her holiday would be very different from what she had hoped and expected -it to be. 'Seriously, I want you to interest him in the Settlement. We -cannot expect David Winfrith to go on doing as much for us as he has -been doing. Besides'--she hesitated, and a shadow crossed the radiant -face--'I am thinking of making certain arrangements which will greatly -alter his position in the whole affair.' - -'But what would the Settlement do without Mr. Winfrith?' There was utter -dismay in the tone. - -'Well, we needn't discuss all that now. I only mean that Lord Wantley is -what people used to call a man of parts, and I have never been able to -see why he should not do more for me--I mean, of course, in this one -matter of the Settlement--than he has done as yet. He has led a very -selfish life.' Penelope spoke with much vigour. 'He has never done -anything for anybody, not even for himself, and what energy he has had -to spare has always been expended in the wrong direction. The only time -I have ever known him show any zeal was just after my father's death, -when he presented the chapel of the monastery at Beacon Abbas, near -here, with a window in memory of his father.' A whimsical smile flitted -across her face. 'I rather admired his pluck, but of course if my mother -had been another kind of woman it would have meant that we should have -broken with him. For my father, as all the world knew, had a great -prejudice against Roman Catholics, and Ludovic could not have done a -thing which would have annoyed him more.' - -Cecily made no comment. Instead, she observed, diffidently, 'I will -certainly try and interest him in the Settlement. I have brought down -the new report.' - -A delightful dimple came and went on Mrs. Robinson's curved cheek. 'I -think your spoken remarks,' she said seriously, 'will impress Ludovic -more than the new report; in fact, he would probably only pretend to -read it. Most people only pretend to read reports.' - -She got up, and walked to the plain deal table where lay a half-finished -sketch of the flagged terrace and the pierced stone parapet; then she -opened the drawer where she kept various odds and ends connected with -her work. - -'Tell me,' she said a little hurriedly, her face bent over the open -drawer as if seeking for something she had mislaid--'tell me, Cecily, -have you had any weddings at the Settlement? In my time there was much -marrying and giving in marriage.' - -'So there is now.' Cecily was eager to prove that the Settlement was not -deteriorating. Even to her loyal heart there was something strange and -unsatisfactory in Mrs. Robinson's apparent lack of interest in the work -to which she devoted so considerable a share of her large income each -year. But often she would tell herself that it was natural that her -friend should shrink from mentioning, more than was necessary, the place -which had been so intimately bound up with the tragedy of her husband's -early and heroic death. - -Cecily had never seen Melancthon Robinson, but she had of late been -constantly thrown in company with those over whom even his vanished -personality exercised an extraordinary influence. The fact that Penelope -had been his chosen coadjutor, that she was now, in spite of any -appearance to the contrary, his ever-mourning widow, was never absent -from the girl's mind. When the two young women were together this belief -added a touch of reverence to the affection with which Cecily regarded -her brilliant friend. And now she blushed with pleasure even to hear -this passing careless word of interest in the place and in the human -beings round whom she was now weaving so much innocent and practical -romance. - -In her eagerness Cecily also got up, and stood on the other side of the -table, over whose open drawer Penelope was still bending. 'Perhaps you -remember the Tobutts--the man who got crushed by a barrel? Well, his -daughter, who is in my cooking class, is engaged to a very nice drayman. -She is such a good girl, and I----' - -Penelope suddenly raised her head. She had at last found what she had -been seeking. - -Cecily stopped speaking somewhat abruptly. She felt a little mortified, -a little injured, as we are all apt to do when we feel that we have been -talking to space, for Mrs. Robinson's face was filled with the spirit of -withdrawal. It often was so when anything reminded her of that fragment -of her past life to which she looked back with a sense of almost angry -amazement. And yet she had surely heard what her companion had been -saying-- - -'A good girl?' she repeated absently! then, hurrying over the words as -if anxious they should get themselves said and heard: 'I wish you to -give to her, or to some other girl you really like, and whose young man -you think well of, this wedding ring. Please don't say it comes from me. -And, Cecily, one thing more--you need not tell me to whom you have given -it.' - -Poor Cecily! perhaps she was slow-witted, but no thought of the true -significance of the little incident crossed her mind. Mrs. Robinson was -famed among the workers of the Settlement for her odd, intelligent -little acts of kindness, accordingly a pretty romance somewhat in this -wise thistle-downed itself on the girl's brain: Characters--Penelope and -Poor Lady. Poor Lady--stress of poverty--having to part with cherished -possessions, has good luck to meet Mrs. Robinson who buys from her, -among other things--of course at a fancy price--her wedding-ring. -Remembering that gold wedding-rings are prized heirlooms in the -neighbourhood of the Settlement---- - -'It would greatly add to the value of the gift,' Cecily said shyly, 'if -I might say it came from you.' - -'No, no, no!' Mrs. Robinson spoke with sharp decision; her blue eyes -narrowed and darkened in displeasure. 'My dear child, you don't -understand. Come!'--she made an effort to speak lightly, even -caressingly--'do not let us say anything more about it.' Then, looking -rather coldly into the other's startled eyes, she added: 'I have never -before known you wanting in _la politesse du coeur_. Haven't you heard -the expression before? No? Well, it was a famous Frenchman's definition -of tact.' - -She laid her left hand on the girl's arm, and, as they moved together -towards the door, Cecily became aware that the hand lying on her arm was -ringless. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - 'The inner side of every cloud - Is bright and shining: - I therefore turn my clouds about, - And always wear them inside out, - To show the lining!' - - -I - -Cecily Wake had not been brought up by her aunt. Even before the death -of her father, which had followed that of her mother at an interval of -some years, she had been placed in one of those convent schools which, -in certain exceptional circumstances, take quite little children as -boarders. Accordingly, till the age of eighteen, the only home she had -ever known was the large, old-fashioned Georgian manor-house near -Brighton, which had been adapted to suit the requirements of the French -nuns who had first gone there in 1830. - -As time went on that branch of the Order which had settled in England -had become cosmopolitan in character. Among those who joined it were -many English women, one of them a sister of Cecily's mother. But the -Gallic nationality dies hard, even in those who claim to be citizens of -the heavenly kingdom, and Cecily's convent remained French in tradition, -in methods of education, and in the importance attached by the nuns to -such accomplishments as bed-making, sewing, cooking, and feminine -deportment. They also taught the duty of rather indiscriminate charity, -holding, with the saint who had been their founder, that it is better to -give alms to nine impostors rather than risk refusing the tenth just -beggar; but this interpretation of a Divine precept was unconsciously -abandoned by Cecily after she had become intimately acquainted with the -conditions of life which surrounded the Melancthon Settlement. Still -even there she remained, to the regret of her colleagues, curiously -open-handed, and--what was worse, for a principle was involved--she -always, during her connection with the Settlement, persisted in saying -that she herself, were she in the place of the deserving seeker for -help, would rather receive half a crown in specie than five shillings' -worth of goods chosen by some one else! - -As for education, in the modern sense of the word, Cecily was, and -remained, very deficient; many subjects now taught to every school-girl -were never even mentioned within the convent walls, and this was -specially true of all the 'ologies, including theology. On the other -hand, Cecily and her school-fellows were taught to read, write and talk -with accuracy two languages. The daughter of a man who has left his mark -on English literature, and whose children had one by one returned to the -old fold, taught them English composition, as she herself had been -taught it by a good old-fashioned governess. This nun, a curious -original person, also introduced the elder girls under her charge to -much of the sound early Victorian fiction with which she herself had -been familiar in her youth. - -The Superioress, who reserved to herself the supervision of all the -French classes, was a fine vigorous old woman, the daughter of a -Legitimist who had been among the leaders of the Duchesse de Berri's -abortive rising. As was natural, she held and taught very strong views -concerning the state, past and present, of her beloved native country. -To her everything which had taken place in France before the Revolution -had been more or less well done, while all that had followed it was evil -and reprobate. Without going so far as to show Louis XIV. 'étudiant les -plans du General La Vallière et du Colonel Montespan,' she completely -hid from her pupils the ugly side of the old régime, and exhibited the -Sun King as among the most glorious descendants of St. Louis. To her the -romance of French history was all woven in and about Versailles, the -town where she had herself spent her girlhood, and on the steps of whose -palace her own uncle had fallen in defending the apartments of Marie -Antoinette on the historic 5th of October. The many heroic episodes of -the revolution and of the Vendean wars were as familiar to this old nun, -who had spent more than half her long life in England, as if she had -herself taken part in them, and she delighted in stirring her own and -her pupils' blood by their recital. - -So Cecily's heroes and heroines all wore doublet and hose, or hoops, -patches, and powder. Most of them spoke French, though in the spacious -chambers of her imagination there was room left for Charles I., his -Cavaliers, and their valiant wives and daughters. - -Equally real to the girl were the saints and martyrs with whose -histories she was naturally as familiar, and it was characteristic of -her sunny and kindly nature that she early adopted as her patroness and -object of special veneration that child-martyr whose very name is -unknown, and to whom was accordingly given by the Fathers that of -Theophila--the friend of God. - -Cecily, knowing very well what it was to be without those ties with -which most little girls are blessed, thought it probable that even in -heaven St. Theophila must sometimes feel a little lonely, especially -when she compared herself with such popular saints--from the human point -of view--as St. Theresa, St. Catherine, St. Anthony, and St. Francis. - -Perhaps some of the nuns, who in the course of long years had grown to -regard Cecily Wake as being as integral a part of their community as -they were themselves, hoped that she would finally follow their own -excellent example. This was specially the wish of the old house-sister -who had been appointed the nurse of the motherless little girl whose -arrival at the convent had been the source of such interest and -amusement to its inmates. But the Mother Superior cherished no such -hopes, or, rather, no such illusion. Not long before Cecily left the -convent for 'the world'--as all that lies beyond their gates is -generally styled by religious--the nuns spent a portion of their -recreation in discussing the girl who was in so special a sense their -own child, and whose approaching departure caused some among them keen -pain. The Mother Superior heard all that was said, and then, speaking in -her native tongue, and with the decision that marked her slightest -utterances, observed: 'Cette petite fera le bonheur de quelque honnête -homme. Elle est faite pour cela.' After a short pause, and with a -twinkle in her small brown eyes, she had added: 'Et il ne sera pas à -plaindre, celui-là!' - -Cecily's first introduction to the world was not of a nature to make her -fall in love with its pomps and vanities. The busy, cheerful conventual -household, largely composed of girls of her own age, where each day was -lived according to rule, every hour bringing its appointed duty or -pleasure, was an unfortunate preparation for life in a small Mayfair -lodging, spent in sole company with a nervous elderly woman, who, while -capable of making a great sacrifice of comfort in order to do her duty -by her great-niece, was yet very unwilling to have the even tenor of her -life upset more than was absolutely necessary. - -The elder Miss Wake, from her own point of view, had not neglected -Cecily during the years the girl had been at school. She had made a -point of spending each year the Christmas fortnight at Brighton, and of -entertaining the child for one week of that fortnight. During those -successive eight days the elder lady had always been on her best -behaviour, and Cecily easy to amuse. Then, also, the child had many -school-fellows in Brighton, and her aunt always took her once each year -to the play. Cecily remembered these brief yearly holidays with -pleasure, and when about to leave the convent she looked forward to life -in London as to an existence composed of a perpetual round of pleasant -meetings with old school-fellows, of evenings at the theatre, varied -with visits and benefactions to Arcadian poor, for Cecily, after a -sincere childish fashion, was anxious to do her duty to those whom she -esteemed to be less fortunate than herself. - -The reality had proved, as realities are apt to do, very different from -what she had imagined. The elder Miss Wake, like so many of those women -born in a day when no career--and it might almost be said no pleasant -mode of life--was open to gentlewomen of straitened means, had learnt to -content herself with a way of existence which lacked every source of -healthy excitement, interest, and pleasure. - -Her one amusement, her only anodyne, was novel-reading. For her and her -like were written the three-volume love-stories, full of sentiment and -mild adventure, for which the modern spinster no longer has a use. When -absorbed in one of these romances, she was able to put aside, to push, -as it were, into the background of her mind, her most incessant, though -never mentioned, subject of thought. This was the problem of how to make -her small income suffice, not only to her simple wants, but to the -upkeep of the consideration she thought due to one of her name and -connections. - -Miss Theresa Wake never forgot that she belonged to a family which, in -addition to being almost the oldest in England, would now have been -doubtless great and powerful had it not remained faithful to a creed of -which the profession in the past had meant the loss of both property and -rank. - -Settling down in London at the age of fifty, after a bitter quarrel with -her only remaining brother, a small squire in the North of England, she -had taken the ground-floor of a lodging-house of which the landlord and -his wife had come from her own native village, and therefore grudged her -none of that respect which she looked for from people in their position. - -In their more prosperous days the Wakes had married into various great -Northern families, and Miss Wake was thus connected with several of her -Mayfair neighbours. For a while after her removal to London she had kept -in touch with a certain number of people whose names spelled power and -consideration, but as the years went on, and as her income lowered some -pounds each year, she gradually broke with most of those whose -acquaintanceship with her had only been based, as she well knew, on a -good-natured acceptance of the claim of distant kinship. From some few -she continued, rather resentfully, to accept such tokens of remembrance -as boxes of flowers and presents of game; an ever-narrowing circle left -cards at the beginning of the season, and fewer still would now and -again come in and spend half an hour in her dreary sitting-room. These -last, oddly enough, almost always belonged to the newer generation, the -children of those whose parents she had once called friends; when a -stroke of good fortune had come to these young people, sometimes when a -feeling of happy vitality almost oppressed them, a call on Miss Wake -took the shape of a small dole to fate. - -There had been in the very long ago a marriage between a Wake and an -Oglethorpe. Lord and Lady Wantley had made this fact the excuse to be -persistently courteous and kind to the peculiar spinster lady, and in -this matter Penelope had followed her parents' example. - -Two or three times a year--in fact, it might almost be said, whenever -she was in London--Penelope Robinson shed the radiance of her brilliant -presence on the dowdy little lodging, always paying Miss Wake the -compliment of coming at the right time, that is, between four and six, -and of being beautifully dressed. On one such occasion, when she might -surely have been forgiven for cutting short her call, for she was on the -way to a royal garden-party, she had actually prolonged her visit nearly -forty minutes! - -Yet another time she had come in for only a moment, but bringing with -her a gift which had deeply moved Miss Wake, for the noble water-colour -drawing seemed to bear into the dingy London sitting-room a breath of -the rolling hills and limitless dales of that tract of country which -lies in Yorkshire on the border of Westmorland, and which the old lady -still felt to be home. 'I thought you would like it,' Penelope had -exclaimed eagerly. 'I went over to Cargill Force from Oglethorpe, and I -chose the place----' - -'I know,' had interrupted Miss Wake, her voice trembling a little in -spite of herself. 'You must have drawn it from the mound by the Old -Lodge. I recognise the fir-tree, though it must have grown a good deal -since I was there last. The hills seem further off than they used to do -years ago, and, of course, we do not often have such bad weather as that -you have shown here. There are often long days without any rain.' - -Penelope had driven away a little chilled. 'I wonder if she would have -preferred a photograph,' she said to herself. But Miss Wake would not -have preferred a photograph. She saw not Nature as her cousin, Mrs. -Robinson, saw it, and she by no means wished she could; but she found -herself looking more often, and always with increasing conviction of its -truth, at the painting which showed the storm-god let loose over the -wild expanse of country which formed the background to all her early -life and associations. Finally Miss Wake hung the water-colour in the -place of honour over her mantelpiece, where she could herself always see -it from where she sat nursing both her real and her fancied ailments. - -This slight account of the elder Miss Wake will perhaps make it clear -how grievous was her perplexity when she decided that it was her duty to -take charge of her now grown-up niece. The idea that the girl might, and -indeed should, work for her livelihood never presented itself to the -aunt's mind, and yet the matter had been one that grimly reduced itself -to pounds, shillings, and pence. Cecily's income was the interest on a -thousand pounds, and her bare board and bed, to say nothing of clothes, -must cost nearly twice that sum. Miss Wake did the only thing possible: -she gave up all those necessities which she regarded as luxuries, but -sometimes she allowed herself to dwell on the possibility that her niece -would either marry, or develop, as would be so convenient, a religious -vocation. - -The months that followed her arrival in London had the effect of -gradually transforming Cecily Wake from an unthinking child into a -thoughtful young woman. Her energy and power of action, finding no -outlet, flowed back and vitalized her mind and nature. For the first -time she learnt to think, to observe, and to form her own conclusions. -She was only allowed to go out alone to the church close by, and to a -curious old circulating library, originally founded solely with a view -of providing its subscribers with Roman Catholic literature, but which, -as time had gone on, had gradually widened its scope, especially as -regarded works of history, memoirs, and biographies. Novels were -forbidden to the girl, according to the strict rule which had obtained -in Miss Wake's own girlhood, and when Cecily felt the dreary monotony of -her life almost intolerable, she would slip off to church for half an -hour, and return to her aunt, if not cheerful, at least submissive. - -More than once certain of the Jesuit priests, who had long known and -respected the elder Miss Wake, had tried to persuade her to allow her -niece a little more liberty and natural amusement. But, greatly as the -old lady valued the friendship of those whom she considered as both holy -and learned, she did not regard herself at all bound to accept their -advice as to how she should direct the life of her young charge. Above -all, she courteously but firmly declined for her niece any introductions -to other young people. 'Later on I shall perhaps be glad to avail myself -of your kindness,' she would answer a certain kindly old priest, who had -it in his power to open many doors; and he, in spite of a deserved -reputation for knowledge of the world and the human heart, never divined -Miss Wake's chief reason for declining his help--the fact, simple, bald, -unanswerable, that there was no money to buy Cecily even the plainest of -what the old lady, to herself, called 'party frocks.' - -In time Cecily, growing pale from want of air, heavy-eyed from -over-reading, and utterly dispirited from lack of something to do, was -secretly beginning to evolve a scheme of going back to her beloved -convent as pupil-teacher, when, on a most eventful March day, Mrs. -Robinson, driving up Park Street on her way back from a wedding, -suddenly bethought herself that it was a long time since she had called -on her old cousin. - - -II - -To Cecily Wake, her first meeting with the woman to whom she was to give -such faithful affection and long-enduring friendship ever remained -vivid. - -Mrs. Robinson had inherited from her mother, Lady Wantley, the instinct -of dress, that gift which enables a woman to achieve distinction of -appearance with the simplest as with the most splendid materials and -accessories. She rarely wore jewels, but her taste inclined, far more -than that of Lady Wantley had ever done, to the magnificent. Herself an -artist, she dressed, when it was possible to do so, in a fashion which -would have delighted the eyes of the Italian painters of the -Renaissance, and it was perhaps fortunate, in these grey modern days, -that her taste was checked and kept in bounds by the fact, often only -remembered by her when at her dressmaker's, that she was a widow. - -On the day that Mrs. Robinson, calling on Miss Wake, first met Cecily, -the wedding to which she had just been was the excuse for a white velvet -gown of which the brilliancy was softened and attenuated by a cape of -silver-grey fur. To the elder Miss Wake the sight of her lovely -kinswoman always recalled--she could not have told you why--the few -purple patches which had lightened her rather dull youth. The night -after seeing Penelope she would dream of her first ball, again see the -great hall of a famous Northern stronghold filled with the graceful -forms of early Victorian belles, and the stalwart figures of young men -whose brilliant uniforms were soon to be tarnished and blood-stained on -Crimean battle-fields. - -As for Cecily, the girl's lonely heart was stormed by the first kindly -glance of Mrs. Robinson's blue eyes, and it wholly surrendered to the -second, emphasized as it was by the words: 'You should have written and -told me of this new cousin; I should have come sooner to see you both.' - -Then and there, after all due civilities to the aunt had been performed, -the young girl had been carried off, taken for an enchanting drive, not -round the dreary, still treeless park, where, every alternate morning, -Miss Theresa Wake and Cecily walked for an hour by the clock, but -through streets which, even to the convent-bred girl, were peopled with -the shades of those who had once dwelt there. - -Finally, after a long vista of duller, meaner streets, there came a halt -before the wide doors of a long, low building, of which the latticed -windows and white curtains struck a curious note of cleanliness and -refinement in the squalid neighbourhood. - -'Is this a monastery or convent?' Cecily asked. - -Penelope smiled. 'No, but it is a very fair imitation of one. This is -the Melancthon Settlement. Perhaps you have heard of it? No? Ah, well, -this place was built by my husband.' Penelope's voice became graver in -quality. She added, after a short pause: 'I lived here during the whole -of my married life, and of course I still come whenever I'm in town and -can find time to do so.' Something in the girl's face made her add -hastily: 'Not as often as I ought to do.' But to her young companion -this added word was but a further sign of the humility, the thinking ill -of self, which she had always been taught is one of the clearest marks -of sanctity. - -Cecily's mind was filled with empty niches, waiting to be filled with -those heroes and saints with whom she might have the good fortune to -meet in her pilgrimage through life. Straightway, to-day, one of these -niches was filled by Penelope Robinson, and though the radiant figure -sometimes tottered--indeed once or twice nearly fell off its pedestal -altogether--Cecily's belief in her certainly helped the poor latter-day -saint, after her first and worst fit of tottering was over, to live up -to the reputation which had come to her unsought. - - -III - -The large panelled hall sitting-room to which the outside doors of the -Settlement gave almost direct access, and of which the sole ornament, if -such it could be called, consisted of a fine half-length portrait of a -young man whose auburn hair and pale, luminous eyes were those of the -typical enthusiast and dreamer, was soon filled with an eager little -crowd of men and women, who, as if drawn by a magic wand, hastened from -every part of the large building to welcome Mrs. Robinson. - -One slight and very pretty girl, whose short curly hair made her look -somewhat like a charming boy, struck Cecily as very oddly dressed, for -she wore a long straight, snuff-coloured gown, and a string of yellow -beads in guise of sash. Cecily much preferred the look of an older and -quieter-mannered woman, who, after having shaken hands with Mrs. -Robinson, disappeared for some moments, coming back ladened with a large -tea-tray. - -'You see,' said the girl in the snuff-coloured gown--'you see, we wait -on ourselves.' - -'Then there are no servants here?' Cecily spoke rather shyly. She -thought the Settlement quite strangely like a convent. - -'Of yes, of course there are; but tea is such an easy meal to get ready. -Anyone can make tea.' - -Mrs. Robinson had sat down close to the wide fireplace; her face, -resting on her two clasped hands, shone whitely against the grey, -flickering background formed by the flame and smoke of the log fire, -while her fur cape, thrown back, revealed the velvet gown which formed a -patch of soft, pure colour in the twilit room. - -She listened silently to what first one, and then another, of those -round her came forward to say, and Cecily noticed that again and again -came the words, 'We asked Mr. Winfrith,' 'Mr. Winfrith considered,' 'Mr. -Winfrith says.' Suddenly Mrs. Robinson turned, and, addressing the -curly-headed girl, said quickly: 'Daphne, will you show Miss Wake round -the Settlement? I think it would interest her, and I have to discuss a -little business with Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret.' - -Cecily was disappointed. She would so much rather have stayed on in the -hall, listening, in the deepening twilight, to talk and discussions -which vaguely interested her. But she realized that the girl called -Daphne (what a pretty, curious name!--none of the girls at the convent -had been called Daphne) felt also disappointed at this banishment from -Mrs. Robinson's presence, and she admired the readiness with which the -other turned and led the way into the broad stone cloister out of which -many of the rooms of the Settlement opened. - -As Daphne walked she talked. Sometimes her explanations of the use to -which the various rooms through which she led her companion were put -might have been addressed to a little child or to a blind person. Such, -for instance, her remark in the refectory: 'This is where we eat our -breakfast, lunch, and supper--everything but tea, which we take in the -hall.' - -Now and again she would give Cecily her views on the graver social -problems of the moment. Once while standing in the very pretty and -charmingly arranged sitting-room, which was, she proudly said, her very -own, she suddenly asked her first question: 'Does not this remind you of -a convent cell?' But she did not wait for an answer. 'We aim,' she went -on, 'and I think we succeed, in preserving all that was best in the old -monastic system, while doing away with all that was corrupt and absurd. -Personally, I much regret that we do not wear a distinctive dress; in -fact, before I made up my mind to join the Settlement, I designed what I -thought to be an appropriate costume.' She looked down complacently. -'This is it. Does it not remind you of the Franciscan habit? You see the -idea? The yellow beads round my waist recall the rosary which the monks -always wore, and which I suppose they wear now,' she added doubtfully. - -'Oh yes,' said Cecily, 'but not round their waists.' - -'I hesitated rather as to which dress would be the most appropriate, and -which would look best. But brown, if a trying colour to most people, has -always suited me very well, and, though perhaps you do not know it, the -Franciscans had at one time quite a close connection with England. I -mean of course before the Reformation. Monks had such charming taste. -One of my uncles has a delightful country-house which was once a -monastery. Now you have seen, I think, almost everything worth seeing -about the Settlement. I wonder, though, whether you would care to look -into our Founder's room? It is only used by Mr. Hammond when he is doing -the accounts, or seeing someone on particular business. I am sure -Melancthon Robinson would have liked him to use it always, but he hardly -ever goes into it. I can't understand that feeling, can you? I should -think it such a privilege to have been the friend of such a man!' - -But Cecily hardly heard the words, for she was looking about her with -eager interest, trying to reconstitute the personality of the man who -had dwelt where she now stood, and who had been Mrs. Robinson's -beloved--her husband, her master. Severely simple in all its -appointments, two of the walls of the plain square room were lined with -oak bookcases, filled to overflowing, one long line of curiously-bound -volumes specially attracting the eye. - -'Do you know what those are?' asked Daphne; and Cecily, surprised, -realized that her companion awaited her answer with some eagerness. - -'Do you mean those books?' she said. - -The other girl smiled triumphantly. 'Yes. Well, they are Blue-Books. -When people talk to me of the Settlement, and criticize the work that is -done here, I merely ask them _one_ question. I say, "Have you ever read -a Blue-Book?" Of course they nearly always have to answer "No," and then -I know that their opinion is worth nothing. I must confess,' she added -honestly enough, 'that I myself had never even seen a Blue-Book till I -came here. Mr. Winfrith made me read one, and I was so surprised. I -thought it would be such tremendously hard work, but really it was very -easy, for I found it was made up of the remarks of quite commonplace -people.' - -'And have you read all these right through?' asked Cecily, looking with -awe at the long line of tall volumes. - -'Oh no! how could I have found time? After I had read the one I did -read, I talked it well over with Mr. Winfrith, and he said he didn't -think it would be worth while for me ever to read another. Of course I -asked him if he thought I ought just to glance through a few more--for I -was most anxious to fit myself for the work of the Settlement--but he -said, No, it would only be waste of time.' - -'It must be very interesting, working among poor people and teaching -them things,' said Cecily wistfully. 'I suppose you show them how to sew -and mend, and darn and cook?' - -Daphne looked at her, surprised. 'Oh no,' she said in her gentle, rather -drawling voice; 'I can't sew myself, so how could I teach others to do -so? Besides, all poor people know how to do that sort of work. We want -to encourage them to think of higher things. They already give up far -too much time to their clothes and to their food. I have a singing class -and a wood-carving class. Then I make friends with them, and encourage -them to tell me about themselves. Mrs. Pomfret thinks that a mistake, -but I'm sure I know best. They have such extraordinary ideas about -things, especially about love. They seem to flirt quite as much as do -the girls of our sort. I was most awfully surprised when I realized -_that_!' - -Cecily and Daphne found Mrs. Robinson in the hall, saying good-bye to -those about her. 'Will you come and lunch with me to-morrow?' she said -to Daphne. And as the other joyfully accepted, she added: 'We have not -had a talk for a long time.' - -When they were once more in the carriage, driving through the -brilliantly-lighted streets, Mrs. Robinson turned to Cecily, and said: -'Little cousin, I wonder who is your favourite character in history? -Joan of Arc? Mary Queen of Scots? I'll tell you mine: it was the -woman--I forget her name--who first said, in answer to a friend's -remark, "I hate a fool!" She had plenty of courage of the kind I should -like to borrow. The thought of to-morrow's execution makes me sick.' And -as Cecily looked at her, bewildered, she added: 'I wonder what you -thought of Daphne Purdon? They said very little--I mean Philip Hammond -and Mrs. Pomfret--but they simply won't keep her there any longer! She -corrupts her class of match-girls, and, what of course is much worse, -they are corrupting _her_.' Mrs. Robinson's lips curved into delighted -laughter at the recollection of a whispered word which had been uttered, -with bated breath, by Mrs. Pomfret. - -'How long has Miss Purdon been at the Settlement?' Perhaps Cecily, -childish though she was, entered more into her new friend's worries than -the other realized. - -'Not far from a year, broken, however, by frequent holidays in friends' -country-houses, and by a month spent last summer on a yacht. Poor Daphne -is a fool, but she's not a bad fool, and above all, she's a very pretty -fool!' - -'Oh yes,' said the girl eagerly, 'she is very pretty, and I should think -very good, even if she is not very sensible.' - -'Well, her father, who was an old friend of my father's, died two years -ago, leaving practically nothing. At the time Daphne was engaged, and -the man threw her over; it was quite a little tragedy, and, as she took -it into her head she would like to do some kind of work, I persuaded my -people at the Settlement to take her and see what they could do with -her. Like most of my "goody" plans, it has failed utterly.' - -Cecily's kind, firm little hand, still wearing the cotton gloves of -convent days, crept over the carriage rug, and closed for a moment over -her new cousin's fingers. Mrs. Robinson went on: 'Philip Hammond is the -salt of the earth, and Mrs. Pomfret is an angel, but I never see them -without being told something I would rather not hear. Now, David -Winfrith, who has so much to do with the many responsibilities connected -with the Settlement, never worries me in that way. Perhaps if he did,' -she concluded in a lower tone, 'I should see him as seldom as I do the -others.' - -'And who,' asked Cecily with some eagerness--'who is David Winfrith?' - -'Like Daphne's,' answered Mrs. Robinson, 'his is an inherited -friendship. His father, who is a clergyman, was one of my father's -oldest friends.' Then quickly she added: 'I should not have said that, -for David Winfrith is one of my own best friends, the one person to whom -I feel I can always turn when I want anything done. What will perhaps -interest you more is the fact that he is becoming a really distinguished -man. If you read the _Morning Post_ as regularly as I know your aunt -reads it----' - -'She has left off taking in a daily paper,' said Cecily quickly. 'She -says it tries her eyes to read too much.' - -But Penelope went on, unheeding: 'You would know a great deal more about -Mr. Winfrith and his doings than you seem to do now. Seriously, he is -the kind of honest, plodding, earnest fellow whom the British public -like to feel is looking after them, and each day he looks after them -more than he did the day before. And he will go plodding on till in -time--who knows?--he may become the Grand Panjandrum, the Prime Minister -himself!' - -'Then, he does not live at the Settlement?' - -'Oh no! He has sometimes thought of spending a holiday there, but he -very properly feels that he owes his free time to his father; but even -when resting he works hard, for he is, and always has been, provokingly -healthy. As for his connection with the Settlement, it has become his -hobby. To please himself'--Mrs. Robinson spoke quickly, as if in -self-defence--'no one ever asked him to do so--he looks after the -business side of everything connected with the place. I am the Queen, -and he is the Prime Minister; that is, he listens very civilly to all I -have to say, and then he does exactly what he himself thinks proper! Of -course, I get my way sometimes; for instance, he disapproved of Daphne -Purdon.' - -'I thought they were great friends,' said Cecily, surprised. 'He gave -her the first Blue-Book she ever read.' - -'Ah!' said Mrs. Robinson, 'did he? That was just like him, trying to -make a pig's ear out of a silk purse! Still, even so, he will certainly -be delighted to hear of her execution; for he saw from the very first -that she was quite unsuited for the life, and, of course, like all of -us, he likes to be proved right.' - -As she spoke, Mrs. Robinson was watching the girl by her side. Now and -again a gleam of bright light cast a glow on the serious childish face, -showed the curves of the sensible firm mouth, lit up the hazel eyes, so -empty of youthful laughter. During the drive to the Settlement Cecily -had talked eagerly, had poured out her heart to her new friend, telling -far more than she knew she told, both of her past and present life. And -Mrs. Robinson's active, intelligent brain was busy evolving a scheme of -release for the young creature to whom she had taken one of her -unreasoning instinctive likings. - -When at last, it seemed all too soon to Cecily, the carriage stopped -before old Miss Wake's dingy Mayfair lodging, Mrs. Robinson held the -other's hand a moment before saying good-bye. She did not offer to kiss -the girl, for Penelope was not given to kissing; but she said very -kindly: 'We must meet again soon. I am going to Brighton for a few days -next week. Suppose I were to come in to-morrow morning and ask Miss Wake -to let you go there with me? We would go out to your convent, and I -should make friends with the old French nun of whom you are so fond. She -and I might think of something which would make your life here a little -less dull, a little more cheerful.' And that night no happier girl lay -down to sleep in London than Cecily Wake. - - -IV - -Mrs. Robinson was also in a softened mood, and when she found David -Winfrith waiting for her in the library of the old house in Cavendish -Square which had been her father's, and which had seen the coming and -going of so many famous people, she greeted him with a gaiety, an -intimate warmth of manner, which quickened his pulses, and almost caused -him to say words he had made up his mind never again to utter. - -Soon she was kneeling by the fire warming her hands, talking eagerly, -looking up, smiling into the plain, clean-shaven face, of which she knew -every turn and expression. 'You must forgive and approve me for being -late,' she exclaimed. 'I have spent my afternoon exactly as you would -always have me do! Firstly, I fulfilled my social dooty, as Mr. Gumberg -would say, by going to the Walberton wedding'--a slight grimace defaced -for a moment her charming eyes and mouth--'enough to put one out of love -for ever with matrimony; but, then, my ideal still remains in those -matters what it always was.' In answer to a questioning look her eyelids -flickered as she said two words, 'Gretna Green!' and an almost -imperceptible quiver also passed over Winfrith's face. - -She went on eagerly, pleased with the betrayal of feeling her words had -evoked: 'Then I drove to the Settlement, where I listened patiently -while Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret poured their woes into my ears.' - -'That I'm sure they did not,' he interrupted good-humouredly. - -'Oh yes, they did! They don't keep everything for you. Well, Daphne -Purdon is leaving--not, of course, of her own free will. You were right -and I was wrong in that matter. But I think I've found just the right -person to replace her.' - -'H'm,' said he. - -'Someone who will be quite ideal, whom even Mrs. Pomfret liked at first -sight! But don't let's talk of the Settlement any more. Listen, rather, -to my further good deeds. I am going to Brighton, a place I detest, in -order to give pleasure to a good, kind little girl who is just now -having a very bad time.' - -'That,' he said,'is really meritorious. And when, may I ask, is this -work of mercy to take place?' - -'Next week; I shall be away for at least four days.' - -'Well, perhaps I shall be in Brighton for a night,'--Winfrith brushed an -invisible speck off his sleeve--'Wednesday night, myself. I do not share -your dislike to the place. We can talk over Settlement affairs there, if -we meet, as I suppose we shall?' - -Penelope hesitated. 'Yes,' she said at last, rather absently. 'We can -talk over things there better than here. I expect to go abroad rather -earlier this spring.' - -'Why that?' He could not keep the dismay out of his voice. 'I thought -you were so fond of the spring in London?' - -She stood up, and they faced one another, each resting a hand on the -high marble mantelpiece. 'I love London at all times of the year,' she -said, 'but I am a nomad, a wanderer, by instinct. Perhaps mamma's -mother, before she "got religion," was a gipsy. I have always known -there was some mystery about her.' She spoke lightly, but Winfrith's -lips closed, one of his hands made a sudden arresting movement, and then -fell down again by his side, as she went on unheeding, looking, not at -him, but down into the fire. 'Why don't you take a holiday, David--even -you are entitled to a holiday sometimes--and come with me where I am -going--down to the South, west of Marseilles, where ordinary people -never, never go?' - -'My dear Penelope, how utterly absurd!' But there was a thrill in the -quiet, measured voice. - -She looked up eagerly, moved a little nearer to him. 'Do!' she -cried--'please do! Motey would be ample chaperon.' She added -unguardedly, 'she is used to that ungrateful rôle.' - -'Is she?' he asked sharply. 'Has she often had occasion to chaperon you, -and--and--a friend, on a similar excursion?' - -Penelope bit her lip. 'I think you are very rude,' she said. 'Why, of -course she has! Every man I know, half your acquaintances, have had the -privilege of travelling with me across the world. When one of your -trusted members goes off on a mysterious holiday, you can always in -future say to yourself, "He has paired with Penelope!"' - -He looked at her, perplexed, a little suspicious, but he was utterly -disarmed by her next words. 'David?'--she spoke softly--'how can you be -so foolish? I have never, never, never made such a proposal to any one -but you! Now that your mind is set at rest, now that you know you will -be a unique instance'--she could not keep the laughter out of her -voice--'will you consent to honour me with your company? It could all be -done in a fortnight.' - -'No.' He spoke with an effort, and hesitated perceptibly. But again he -said, 'No. I can't get away now--'tis impossible. Perhaps later--at -Easter.' - -But Mrs. Robinson had turned away. Mechanically she tore a paper spill -into small pieces. 'At Easter,' she said with a complete change of tone, -'I shall be in Paris, and every soul we know will be there, too, and I -certainly shall not want _you_.' - -'Well, now I must be going.' He spoke rather heavily, and, as she still -held her head averted, he added hurriedly, in a low tone, 'You know how -gladly I would come if I could.' - -'I know,' she said sharply, 'how easily you could come if you would! But -never mind, I am quite used to be alone--with Motey.' - -In spite of her anger and disappointment, she was loth to let him go. -Together they walked through the sombre, old-fashioned hall, of which -the walls were hung with engravings of men who had been her father's -early contemporaries and friends, and to which she had ever been -unwilling to make the slightest alteration. Every lozenge of the black -and white marble floor recalled her singularly happy, eager childhood, -and Mrs. Robinson would have missed the ugliest of the frock-coated -philanthropists and statesmen who looked at her so gravely from their -tarnished frames. - -She went with him through into the small glazed vestibule which gave -access to the square. Herself she opened the mahogany door, and looked -out, shivering, into the foggy darkness which lay beyond. - -Then came a murmured word or two--a pause--and Winfrith was gone, -shutting the door as he went, leaving her alone. - -As Mrs. Robinson was again crossing the hall she suddenly stayed her -steps, pushed her hair off her forehead with a gesture familiar to her -when perplexed, and pressed her cold hands against her face, now red -with one of her rare, painful blushes. - -She saw, as in a vision, a strange little scene. In her ears echoed -fragments of a conversation, so amazing, so unlikely to have taken -place, that she wondered whether the words could have been really -uttered. - -A man, whose tall, thick-set, and rather ungainly figure she knew -familiarly well, seemed to be standing close to a tall, slight woman, -with whose appearance Penelope felt herself to be at once less and more -intimate. She doubted her knowledge of the voice which uttered the -curious, ill-sounding words: 'You may kiss me if you like, David.' Not -doubtful, alas! her recognition of the quick, hoarse accents in which -had come the man's answer: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!' - -Could such a scene have ever taken place? Could such an invitation have -been made--and refused? - -Mrs. Robinson walked on slowly. She went again into the library; once -more she knelt down before the fire, and held out her chill hands to the -blaze. - -That any woman should have said, even to her oldest--ay, even to her -dearest friend,'You may kiss me if you like,' was certainly -unconventional, perhaps even a little absurd. But amazing, and almost -incredible in such a case, would surely be the answer she still heard, -so clearly uttered: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!' Then came the -reflection, at once mortifying and consoling, that many would -give--what?--well, anything even to unreason, to have had this same -permission extended to themselves. - -She tried to place herself outside--wholly outside--the abominable -little scene. - -Supposing a woman--the foolish woman who had acted on so strange an -impulse--now came in, and telling her what had occurred, asked her -advice, how would she, Penelope, make answer to such a one? - -Quick came the words: 'Of course you can only do one of two -things--either never see him again, or go on as if nothing had -happened.' - -She saw, felt, the woman wince. - -'As to not seeing him again, that is quite out of the question. Besides, -there are circumstances----' - -'Oh, well,' she--Penelope--would say severely, 'of course, if you come -and ask my advice without telling me _everything_----' - -'No one ever tells everything,' the woman would object, 'but this much I -will confide to you. There was a time--I am sure, by all sorts of -things, that he remembers it more often than I do--when this man and I -were lovers, when he kissed me--ah, how often!' - -Penelope flushed. How could the other, this wraith-like woman, tell this -to her? But, even so, she would answer her patiently: 'That may be. But -in those days you two loved one another dearly. To such a man that fact -makes all the difference. He is the type--the rather unusual type--who -would far rather have no bread than only half the loaf.' - -'But how wrong! how utterly absurd!' the other woman would cry. 'How -short-sighted of him! The more so that sometimes, not of course always, -the half has been known to include the whole.' - -'Yes--but David Winfrith is not a man to understand that. And if I may -say so'--thus would she, the wise mentor, conclude her words of advice -and consolation to this most unwise and impulsive friend--'I think you -have really had an escape! In this case the half would certainly have -come to include the whole. To-night you are tired and lonely; in the -morning you will realize that you are much better off as you are. You -already see quite as much of him as you want to do, when in your sober -senses.' - -('Oh, but I do miss him when he isn't there.') - -'What nonsense! You do not miss him when you are abroad, when -you--forgive me, dear, the vulgar expression--have other fish to fry. -No, no, you have had an escape! Being what he is, he will meet you -to-morrow exactly as if nothing had happened, and then you will go -abroad and have a delightful time.' - -('Yes, alone!') - -'Alone? Of course. Seeing beautiful places of which he, if with you, -would deny the charm; for, as you have often said to yourself, he has no -love, no understanding, of a whole side of life which is everything to -you.' - -('Yes, but he would have enjoyed being with me.') - -'So he would, only more so, in a coal-pit. No, no, you have made the -life you lead now one which exactly suits you.' - - -Mrs. Robinson got up. She rang the bell. 'Would you please ask Mrs. Mote -to come to me here?' - -And when the short, stout little woman, who had been the nurse of her -childhood and was now her maid, came in answer to the summons, she said -hastily: 'Motey, I am going to Brighton next week for a few days. I do -not intend to go abroad till later. Mr. Winfrith cannot get away just -now. He is too busy.' - -'He always was a busy young gentleman,' declared the old woman rather -sourly, as she took the cloak, the gloves, and the hat of her mistress, -and went quietly out of the room. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - 'There was a Door to which I found no Key: - There was a Veil past which I could not see: - Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee - There seem'd--and then no more of Thee and Me.' - OMAR KHAYYÁM. - - 'Numero Deus impare gaudet.' - - VIRGIL. - - -I - -When the man who remained in local story as the Popish Lord Wantley -built Monk's Eype, he planned the arrangements of the lower floor of his -villa in a way which was approved by neither his Neapolitan architect -nor his English acquaintances. - -From the broad terrace overhanging the sea, the row of high narrow -windows on either side of the shallow stone steps giving access to the -central hall, seemed strictly symmetrical. But there was nothing uniform -behind the stately façade. Instead of a suite of reception-rooms opening -the one out of the other on either side of the frescoed hall, the whole -left side of the villa--excepting the wing, which stretched, as did its -fellow, landward, and in which were the servants' quarters--was occupied -by one vast apartment. - -In this great room the creator of Monk's Eype had gathered together most -of his treasures, including the paintings which he had acquired during a -long sojourn in Italy; and his Victorian successor had added many -beautiful works of art to the collection. - -In the Picture Room, as it was called, Penelope's mother always sat when -at Monk's Eype, sometimes working at delicate embroidery, oftener -writing busily at an inlaid ivory table close to one of the windows -opening on to the terrace. - -On the other side of the circular hall the Italian architect had had his -way. Here there was a suite of lofty, well-proportioned rooms opening -the one out of the other. - -Of these rooms, the first was the dining-room, of which the painted -ceiling harmonized with the panels of old Flemish tapestry added to the -treasures of Monk's Eype by Penelope's parents. Then came another -spacious room, of much the same proportions, which had now been for many -years regarded as specially set apart for the use of young Lord Wantley, -Mrs. Robinson's cousin and frequent guest. In this pleasant room Wantley -read, painted, and smoked, and there also he would entertain those of -Penelope's visitors whose sex made him perforce their host. Still, even -his occupancy of what some of Mrs. Robinson's friends considered the -most agreeable room in the villa was poisoned by a bitter memory. Not -long after the death of the man whom he had been taught to call uncle, -he had heard his plea for a billiard-table set aside by the new mistress -of Monk's Eype with angry decision, and he had been made to feel that he -had unwittingly offered an insult to her father's memory. - -Beyond Lord Wantley's special quarters there was a third room, more -narrow, less well lighted than the others. There were those, -nevertheless, who would have regarded it as the most interesting -apartment at Monk's Eype, for there the greatest of Victorian -philanthropists had worked, spending long hours of his holiday at the -large plain knee-table so placed as both to block and to command the one -window. Here also hung a portrait which many would have come far to see. -If vile as a work of art, it was almost startlingly like the late owner -of the room, and this resemblance was the more striking because of the -familiar attitude, the left hand supporting the chin, which had had for -most of the sitter's fellow-countrymen the ridiculous associations of -caricature. - -Mrs. Robinson disliked both the room and the portrait. But mingled -feelings of respect, of affection, and of fear, had caused her to leave -the room as it had been during her father's occupancy, and it was only -used by her on the rare occasions when she was compelled to have a -personal interview with one of her tenants from neighbouring Wyke Regis. - - -II - -On the evening of the day, a Saturday, when Miss Wake's and her niece's -arrival had taken place, Lord Wantley had returned somewhat unexpectedly -from a visit paid in the neighbourhood, which had been cut short by the -sudden illness of the hostess. - -After the cheerful, if commonplace, house and party he had just left, -Monk's Eype struck him as strangely quiet and depressing, though, as -always, the beauty of the villa impressed him anew as he passed through -into the circular hall, now flooded with the light of the setting sun. - -'I wonder who she has got here now,' he said to himself as he noticed a -man's hat, roomy travelling-coat, and stick laid across the top of the -Italian marriage-chest, the brilliancy of whose armorial ornaments and -bright gilding had been dimmed by a hundred years of the salt wind and -soft mists of the Dorset coast. - -Mrs. Robinson was fond of entertaining those of her fellow-painters -whose work attracted her fancy or excited her admiration, and Wantley's -fastidious taste sometimes revolted from the associations into which she -thrust him. - -The young man's relations to his beautiful cousin were at once singular -and natural--best, perhaps, explained by a word said in the frankness of -grief during the hours which had immediately followed his predecessor's -death. 'You know, Penelope,' the heir had said in all good faith, if a -little awkwardly--for at that time nothing was definitely known of the -famous philanthropist's will, and none doubted that the new peer would -find himself to have been treated fairly, if not generously, by the -great Lord Wantley--'you know that now you must consider me as your -brother; your father himself told me he hoped it would be so.' - -The wilful girl had looked at him in silence for a moment, and then, -very deliberately, had answered: 'What nonsense! Did my father ever -treat you as a son? No, Ludovic, we will go on as we have always done. -But if you like'--and she had smiled satirically--'I will look upon you -as a kind and well-meaning stepbrother!' And it was with the eyes of a -critical, but not unfriendly stepbrother that Wantley came in due course -to regard her. - -Concerning his cousin's--to his apprehension--extraordinary marriage, he -had not been in any way consulted. Indeed, at the time the engagement -and marriage took place he had been far away from England; but after -Melancthon Robinson's tragic death Penelope for a moment had clung to -him as if he had indeed been her brother, showing such real feeling, -such acute pain, such bitter distress, that he had come to the -conclusion that the tie between the oddly-assorted couple had been at -any rate one worthy of respect. - -When, somewhat later, Mrs. Robinson had begged Wantley to help her with -the complicated business details connected with the Melancthon -Settlement, he had drawn back, or rather he had advised her, not -unkindly, to hand the work over to one of the great social philanthropic -organizations already provided with suitable machinery. - -As he had learnt to expect, his cousin entirely disregarded his advice; -instead, she found another to give her the help the head of her family -refused her, and this other, as the young man sometimes remembered with -an uneasy conscience, was one whom they should both have spared, partly -because he was engaged in public affairs which took up what should have -been the whole of his working time, partly because he had been the hero -of Penelope's first romance, and had once been her accepted lover. - -Wantley had watched the renewal of the link between the grave young -statesman and his old love with a certain cynical interest. - -Penelope had not cared to hide her annoyance and disappointment at her -cousin's somewhat pusillanimous refusal of responsibility, and so he had -not been asked to take any part in the conferences which were held -between David Winfrith and the widow of the philanthropic millionaire; -but weeks, months, and even the first years, of Penelope's widowhood -wore themselves away, and to Wantley's astonishment the relations -between Mrs. Robinson and her adviser and helper remained unchanged. - -The Melancthon Settlement went on its way, nominally under the -management of its founder's widow, in reality owing everything in it -that was practical and worthy of respect to the mind and to the tireless -industry of the man who had come to regard this work of supererogation -as the principal relaxation of a somewhat austere existence. But -Winfrith was not able to conceal from himself the fact that the -necessary interviews with his old love were the salt of what was -otherwise a laborious and often thankless task. - -Of course at one time his marriage with Mrs. Robinson had been regarded -as a certainty, but, as the years had gone on, the gossips admitted -their mistake, and, according to their fancy, declared either the lovely -widow or Winfrith disappointed. - -Alone, Wantley arrived very near the truth. He was sure that there had -been no renewal of the offer made and accepted so ardently in the days -when the two had been boy and girl; but a subtle instinct warned him -that Winfrith still regarded Penelope as nearer to himself than had -been, or could ever be, any other woman; and of the many things which he -envied his cousin, the young peer counted nothing more precious than the -chivalrous interest and affection of the man who most realized his own -ideal of the public-spirited Englishman who, born to pleasant fortune, -is content to work, both for his country and for his countrymen, for -what most would consider an inadequate reward. - -David Winfrith's existence formed a contrast to his own life of which -Wantley was ashamed. He was well aware that had the other been in his -place, even burdened with all his own early disadvantages, Winfrith -would by now have made for himself a position in every way befitting -that of the successor of such a man as had been Penelope's father. - - -III - -On the evening of his unexpected return to the villa, an evening long to -be remembered by him, Wantley dressed early and made his way into the -Picture Room. He went expecting to find an ill-assorted party, for Mrs. -Robinson was one of those women whose own personal relationship to those -whom they gather about them is the only matter of moment, and whose -guests are therefore rarely in sympathy one with another. - -All that Wantley knew concerning those strangers he was about to meet -was that he would be called upon to make himself pleasant to an elderly -Roman Catholic spinster, and to her niece, a girl closely associated -with the work of the Melancthon Settlement; and the double prospect was -far from being agreeable to him. - -He was therefore relieved to find the Picture Room empty, save for the -immobile presence of Lady Wantley. She was sitting gazing out of the -window, her hands clasped together, absorbed in meditation. As he came -in she turned and smiled, but said no word of welcome; and he respected -her mood, knowing well that she was one of those who feel the invisible -world to be very near, and who believe themselves surrounded by unseen -presences. - -Lady Wantley's personality had always interested and fascinated the -young man. Even as a child he had never sympathized with his mother's -dislike of her, for he had early discerned how very different she was -from most of the people he knew; and to-night, fresh as he was from the -company of cheerful dowagers who were of the earth earthy, this -difference was even more apparent to him than usual. - -Penelope's mother doubtless owed something of her aloofness of -appearance to her singular and picturesque dress, of which the mode had -never varied for twenty years and more. The long sweeping skirts of -black silk or wool, the cross-over bodice and the lace coif, which -almost wholly concealed her banded hair, while not hiding the beautiful -shape of her head, had originally been designed for her by the painter -to whom, as a younger woman, she had so often sat. Since the great -artist had first brought her the drawing of the dress in which he wished -once more to paint her, she had never given a thought to the vagaries of -fashion, so it came to pass that those about her would have found it -impossible to think of her in any other garments than those composing -the singular, stately costume which accentuated the mingled severity and -mildness of her pale cameo-like face. - -After Melancthon Robinson's death, his widow had at once made it clear -that she had no intention of returning to her mother; but every winter -saw the two ladies spending some weeks together in London, and each -summer Lady Wantley became her daughter's guest at Monk's Eype. - -The rest of the year was spent by the elder woman at Marston Lydiate, -the great Somersetshire country-seat to which she had been brought as a -bride, and for which she now paid rent to her husband's successor. To -Wantley the arrangement had been a painful one. He would have much -preferred to let the place to strangers, and he had always refused to go -there as Lady Wantley's guest. - -As he stood, silent, by one of the high windows of the Picture Room, he -remembered suddenly that the next day, August 8th, was his birthday, and -that no human being, save a woman who had been his mother's servant for -many years, was likely to remember the fact, or to offer him those -congratulations which, if futile, always give pleasure. The bitterness -of the thought was perhaps the outcome of foolish sentimentality, but it -lent a sudden appearance of sternness and of purpose to his face. - -Mrs. Robinson, coming into the room at that moment, was struck, for a -moment felt disconcerted, by the look on her cousin's face. She was -surprised and annoyed that he had returned so soon from the visit which, -of course unknown to him, she had herself arranged he should make, in -order that he might be absent at the time of the assembling of her -ill-assorted guests. - -Penelope feared the young man's dispassionate powers of observation; and -as she walked down the long room, at the other end of which she saw -first her mother's seated figure, and then, standing by one of the long, -uncurtained windows, the unwelcome form of her cousin, her heart beat -fast, for the little scene with Cecily Wake, added to other matters of -more moment, had set her nerves jarring. She dreaded the evening before -her, feared the betrayal of a secret which she wished to keep profoundly -hidden. Still, as was her wont, she met danger halfway. - -'I am glad you are back to-night,' she said, addressing Wantley, 'for -now you will be able to play host to Sir George Downing. I met him -abroad this spring, and he has come here for a few days.' - -'The Persian man?' She quickly noted that the young man's voice was full -of amused interest and curiosity, nothing more; and, as she nodded her -head, assurance and confidence came back. - -'Well, you are certainly a wonderful woman.' He turned, smiling, to Lady -Wantley, who was gazing at her daughter with her usual almost painful -tenderness of expression. 'Penelope's romantic encounters,' he said -gaily, 'would fill a book. Such adventures never befall me on my -travels. In Spain a fascinating stranger turns out to be Don Carlos in -disguise! In Germany she knocks up against Bismarck!' - -'I knew the son!' she cried, protesting, but not ill-pleased, for she -was proud of the good fortune that often befell her during her frequent -journeys, of coming across, if not always famous, at least generally -interesting and noteworthy people. - -'And now,' concluded Wantley, 'the lion whom most people--unofficial -people of course I mean'--he spoke significantly--'are all longing to -see and to entertain, is bound to her chariot wheels!' - -'Ah!' she cried eagerly, 'but that's just the point: he has a horror of -being lionized. He's promised to write a report, and I suggested that he -should come and do it here, where there's no fear of his being run to -earth by the wrong kind of people. I don't suppose Theresa Wake knows -there's such a person in the world as "Persian Downing."' - -'And the niece, the young lady who is to be my special charge?' Wantley -was still smiling. 'She's sure to know something about him--that is, if -you take in a daily paper at the Settlement.' - -'Cecily?' Mrs. Robinson's voice softened. 'Dear little Cecily won't -trouble her head about him at all.' She turned away quickly as Lady -Wantley's gentle, insistent voice floated across the room to where the -two cousins were standing. - -'George Downing? I remember your father bringing a youth called by that -name to our house, many years ago, when you were a child, my love.' She -hesitated, as if seeking to remember something which only half lingered -in her memory. - -Her daughter waited in painful silence. 'Would the ghost of that old -story of disgrace and pain never be laid?' she asked herself -rebelliously. - -But Lady Wantley was not the woman to recall a scandal, even had she -been wont to recall such things, of one who was now under her daughter's -roof. Her next words were, however, if a surprise, even less welcome to -one of her listeners than would have been those she expected to hear. - -'There was an American Mrs. Downing, a lady who came with an -introduction to see your father. She wished to consult him about a home -for emigrant children, and I heard--now what did I hear?' Again Lady -Wantley paused. - -Mrs. Robinson straightened her well-poised head. - -'You probably heard, mamma, what is, I believe, true: that Lady Downing, -as she is of course now, is not on good terms with her husband. They -parted almost immediately after their marriage, and I believe that they -have not met for years.' - -Wantley looked at his cousin with some surprise; she spoke impetuously, -a note of deep feeling in her voice, and as if challenging -contradiction. Then, suddenly, she held up her hand with a quick warning -gesture. - -Her ears had caught the sound of footsteps for whose measured tread she -had learnt to listen, and a moment later the door opened, and the man of -whom they had been speaking, advancing into the great room, stood before -them. - - -IV - -Few of us realize how very differently our physical appearance and -peculiarities strike each one of any new circle of persons to whose -notice we are introduced; and, according to whether we are humble-minded -or the reverse, the results of such inspection, were they suddenly -revealed, would surprise or amaze us. - -When Sir George Downing came forward to greet his hostess, and to be -introduced to her mother and to her cousin, his outer man impressed each -of them with direct and almost startling vividness. But in each case the -impression produced was a very different one. - -The first point which struck Lady Wantley in the tall, loosely-built -figure was its remaining look of youth, of strength of will, and of -purpose. This woman, to whom the things of the body were of such little -moment, yet saw how noteworthy was the brown sun-burnt face, with its -sharply-outlined features, and she gathered a very clear impression of -the distinction and power of the man who bowed over her hand with -old-fashioned courtesy and deference; more, she felt that there had been -a time in her life when her daughter's guest would have attracted and -interested her to a singular degree. - -As he raised his head, their eyes met--deep-sunk, rather light-grey -eyes, in some ways singularly alike, as Penelope had perceived with a -certain shock of surprise, very soon after her first meeting with Sir -George Downing. As these eyes, so curiously similar, met for a moment, -fixedly, Downing, with a tightening of the heart, said to himself: 'She -I must count an enemy.' - -Lord Wantley, as he came forward to meet the distinguished stranger to -whom he had just been told he must play host, observed him at once more -superficially, and yet more narrowly and in greater detail, than -Penelope's mother had done. - -In the pleasant country-house--of the world worldly--from which Wantley -had come, the man before him had been the subject of eager, amused -discussion. - -One of the talkers had known him as a youth, and had some recollection -(of which he made the most) of the romantic circumstances which had -attended his disgrace. His return was generally approved, all hoped to -meet him, and even, vaguely, to benefit in purse by so doing; but it had -been agreed that the recent change of Government lessened Downing's -chances of persuading the Foreign Office to carry out the policy which -he was known to have much at heart, and on which so many moneyed -interests depended. It was said that the Prime Minister had refused to -see him, that the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs had left town -to avoid him! On the other hand, a lady present had heard, 'on the best -authority,' that he had not been in England two days before he had been -sent for by the Sovereign, with whom he had had a long private talk. - -It was further declared that 'the city,' that mysterious potentate, more -powerful nowadays than any Sovereign, held him in high esteem, regarding -him as a benefactor to that race of investors who like to think that -they have Imperial as well as personal interests at heart. And even -those who deprecated the fact that one holding no official post should -be allowed to influence the policy of their country, admitted that, in -the past, England had owed much to such men as Persian Downing. 'Yes, -but in these days the soldier of fortune has been replaced by the banker -of fortune,' an ex-diplomatist had observed, and the _mot_ had been -allowed to pass without challenge. - -'And so,' thought Wantley, remembering the things which had been said, -'this is Persian Downing!' - -The lean, powerful figure, habited in old-fashioned dress-clothes, -looked older than he had imagined the famous man could be. The bushy, -dark-brown moustache, streaked with strands of white hair, and the -luminous grey eyes, penthoused under singularly straight eyebrows, gave -a worn and melancholy cast to the whole countenance. - -The younger man also noticed that Downing's hands and feet were -exceptionally small, considering his great height. 'I wonder if he will -like me,' he said to himself, and this, it must be admitted, was -generally Wantley's first thought; but he no longer felt as he had done -but a few moments before, listless and discontented with life--indeed, -so keenly interested had he, in these few moments, become in Penelope's -famous guest that he scarcely noticed the entrance into the room of the -young girl of whom his cousin had spoken, and whom she had specially -commended to his good offices. - -Dressed in a plain white muslin frock, presenting her aunt's excuses in -a low, even voice, Cecily Wake suggested to Lady Wantley, who had never -seen her before, the comparison, when standing by Penelope, of a -snowdrop with a rose. Perhaps this thought passed in some subtle way to -Wantley's mind, for it was not till he happened to glance at the girl, -across the round table which formed an oasis in the tapestry-hung -dining-room, that he became aware that there was something attractive, -and even unusual, in the round childish face and sincere, unquestioning -eyes. - -None of the party, save perhaps Wantley himself, possessed the art of -small-talk. Penelope was strangely silent. 'Even she,' her cousin -thought with a certain satisfaction, 'is impressed by this remarkable -man, who has done her the honour of coming here.' - -Then he asked himself, none too soon, what had brought Persian Downing -to Monk's Eype? The obvious explanation, that Downing had been attracted -by the personality of one who was universally admitted to have an almost -uncannily compelling charm, when she cared to exercise it, he rejected -as too evident to be true. - -Wantley thought he knew his beautiful cousin through and through; yet in -truth there were many chambers of her heart where any sympathetic -stranger might have easy access, but the doors of which were tightly -locked when Wantley passed that way. Like most men, he found it -difficult to believe that a woman lacking all subtle attraction for -himself could possibly attract those of his own sex whom he favoured -with his particular regard. David Winfrith was the exception which -always proves a rule, and Wantley admitted unwillingly that in that case -there was some excuse; for here, at any rate, had been on Penelope's -part a moment of response. But to-night, and for many days to come, he -was strangely, and, as he often reminded himself in later life, -foolishly, culpably blind. - -Gradually the conversation turned on that still so secret and mysterious -country with which Sir George Downing was now intimately connected. His -slow voice, even, toneless, as is so often that of those who have lived -long in the East, acted, Wantley soon found, as a complete screen, when -he chose that it should be so, to his thoughts. - -Suddenly, and, as it appeared, in no connection with what had just been -said at the moment, Lady Wantley, turning to Downing, observed, 'I -perceive that you have a number-led mind?' - -Penelope looked up apprehensively, but her brow cleared as the man to -whom had been addressed this singular remark replied simply and -deferentially: - -'If you mean that certain days are marked in my life, it is certainly -so. Matters of moment are connected in my mind with the number seven.' - -Wantley and Cecily Wake both looked at the speaker with extreme -astonishment. 'I felt sure that it was so!' exclaimed Lady Wantley. -'Seven has also always been my number, but the knowledge inspires me -with no fear or horror. It simply makes me aware that my times are in -our Father's hands.' She added, in a lower voice: 'All predestination is -centralized in God's elect, and all concurrent wills of the creature are -thereunto subordinated.' - -'He may be odd, but he must certainly think us odder,' thought Wantley, -not without enjoyment. - -But a cloud had come over Penelope's face. 'Mamma!' she said anxiously, -and then again, 'Mamma!' - -'I think he knows what I mean,' said Lady Wantley, fixing the grey eyes -which seemed to see at once so much and so little on the face of her -daughter's guest. - -Again, to Wantley's surprise, Downing answered at once, and gravely -enough: 'Yes, I think I do know what you mean, and on the whole I -agree.' - -Mrs. Robinson, glancing at her cousin with what he thought a look of -appeal, threw a pebble, very deliberately, into the deep pool where they -all suddenly found themselves. 'Do you really believe in lucky numbers?' -she asked flippantly. - -Downing looked at her fixedly for a moment. 'Yes,' he replied, 'and also -in unlucky numbers.' - -'I hope,' she cried--and as she spoke she reddened deeply--'that your -first meeting with David Winfrith will take place on one of your lucky -days. He is believed to have more influence concerning the matter you -are interested in just now than anyone else, for he claims to have -studied the question on the spot.' - -'Ah!' thought Wantley, pleased as a man always is to receive what he -believes to be the answer to a riddle; 'I know now what has brought -Persian Downing to Monk's Eype!' and he also took up the ball. - -'Winfrith claims,' he said, 'to have made Persia his special study. I -believe he once spent six weeks there, on the strength of which he wrote -a book. You probably came across him when he was in Teheran.' - -But as he spoke he was aware that in Winfrith's book there was no -mention of Downing, and that though at the time of the writer's sojourn -in Persia no other Englishman had wielded there so great a power, or so -counteracted influences inimical to his country's interests. - -'No, I did not see him there. At the time of Mr. Winfrith's stay in -Teheran'--Downing spoke with an indifference the other thought -studied--'I was in America, where I have to go from time to time to see -my partners.' He added, with a smile: 'I think you are mistaken in -saying that Mr. Winfrith only spent six weeks in Persia. In any case, -his book is good--very good.' - -'I suppose,' said Wantley, turning to his cousin, 'that you have -arranged for Winfrith to come over to-morrow, or Monday?' - -'Oh no,' she answered hurriedly. 'He is going to be away for the next -few days; after that, perhaps, Sir George Downing will meet him.' She -spoke awkwardly, and Wantley felt he had been clumsy. But he thought -that now he thoroughly understood what had happened. Winfrith had -evidently no wish to meet informally the man whom his chief had not been -willing to receive. Doubtless Penelope had done her best to bring her -important new friend in contact with her old friend. She had failed, -hence her awkward, hesitating answer to his question. But the young man -knew his cousin, and the potency of her spell over obstinate Winfrith; -he had no doubt that within a week the two men would have met under her -roof, 'though whether the meeting will lead to anything,' he said to -himself, 'remains to be seen.' - - -Wantley was, however, quite wrong. During the hours which Mrs. Robinson -had spent that day riding with the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, -the name of Persian Downing had not once been mentioned, and at this -very moment David Winfrith, playing, after an early dinner, a game of -chess with his old father, saw in imagination his lovely friend acting -as kind hostess to her mother, for whom he himself had never felt any -particular liking, and to Miss Wake and her niece, against both of whom -he had an unreasonable prejudice. Lord Wantley he believed to be still -away; and, as he allowed his father to checkmate him, he felt a pang of -annoyance at the thought that he himself was going to be absent during -days of holiday which might have been so much better employed, in part -at least, in Penelope's company. Not for many months, not, when he came -to think of it, for some two years, had Mrs. Robinson been at once so -joyously high-spirited and yet so submissive, so intimately confidential -while yet so willing to take advice--in a word, so enchantingly near to -himself, as she had been that day, riding along the narrow lanes which -lay in close network behind the bare cliffs and hills bounding the -coast. - -But to Wantley, doing the honours of his smoking room to Sir George -Downing, and later when taking him out to the terrace where Mrs. -Robinson and Cecily were pacing up and down in the twilight, the -presence of this distinguished visitor at Monk's Eype was fully -explained by the fact that Winfrith was not only the near neighbour, but -also the very good friend, of Mrs. Robinson, and, the young man ventured -to think, of himself. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - 'Qui, la moitié et la plus belle moitié de la vie est cachée à - l'homme qui n'a pas aimé avec passion.'--STENDHAL. - - 'Madrid la antesala del cielo.' - _Spanish Saying._ - - -I - -Above, close to the window of a high narrow room which had once been the -Catholic Lord Wantley's oratory, and which was next to the bedroom -always occupied by Penelope herself, sat in the darkness Mrs. Mote. - -The window directly overlooked the flagged terrace, the leafy scented -gardens, and the sea, and there were members of Mrs. Robinson's -household who considered it highly unfitting that an apartment so -pleasantly situated should be the 'own room' of the plain, sturdy little -woman who, after having been Penelope Wantley's devoted and skilful -nurse for close on twenty years, had been promoted on her nursling's -marriage to be her less skilful but equally devoted maid. - -Mrs. Mote had never been what we are wont to call a pleasant woman. She -was over thirty when she had first entered Lord and Lady Wantley's -service as nurse to their only child, and as the years had gone on her -temper had not improved, and her manner had not become more -conciliating. Even in the days when Penelope had been a nervous, -highly-strung little girl, Lady Wantley had had much to bear from -'Motey,' as the nurse had been early named by the child. Very feminine, -under a hard, unprepossessing exterior which recalled that of Noah's -wife in Penelope's old-fashioned Noah's ark, Motey instinctively -disliked all those women--and, alas! there were many such, below and -above stairs--who were more attractive than herself. - -Lady Wantley, beautiful, beloved, and enjoying, even among many of the -servant's own sort, a reputation for austere goodness and spiritual -perfection, was for long years the object of poor Motey's special -aversion. Singularly reticent, and taking pride in 'keeping herself to -herself,' the woman never betrayed her feelings, or rather she did so in -such small and intangible ways as were never suspected by the person -most closely concerned. Lady Wantley recognised the woman's undoubted -devotion to the child to whom she was herself so devoted, and she simply -regarded Mrs. Mote's sullen though never disrespectful behaviour to -herself as one of those unfortunate peculiarities of manner and temper -which often accompany sterling worth. Lord Wantley had been so far -old-fashioned that he disliked going anywhere without his wife, and the -mother had felt great solace to leave her daughter in such sure hands; -but she had sacrificed excellent maids of her own, and innumerable -under-servants, to the nurse's peculiar temper and irritability. - -There had been a moment, Penelope being then about seventeen, when Mrs. -Mote's supremacy had trembled in the balance. The trusted nurse had -played a certain part in the girl's first love affair, acting with a -secretiveness, a lack of proper confidence in her master and mistress, -which had made them both extremely displeased and angry, and there had -been some question as to whether she should remain in their service. -Mrs. Mote never forgot having overheard a short conversation between the -headstrong girl and her mother. 'If you tell me it must be so, I will -give up David Winfrith,' Penelope had declared, sobbing bitterly the -while; 'but if you send Motey away I will throw myself into the sea!' - -All this was now, however, ancient history. Mrs. Mote had been forgiven -her plunge into vicarious romance, and a day had come, not, however, -till after Lord Wantley's death, when Penelope's mother had admitted to -herself that perhaps Motey had been more clear-sighted than herself. In -any case, the old nurse had firmly established her position as a member -of the family. She and Lady Wantley had grown old together, and even -before Penelope's marriage the servant had learnt to regard her mistress -not only with a certain affection, but with what she had before been -unwilling to give her--namely, real respect. To her master she had -always been warmly attached, and she mourned him sincerely, being -pathetically moved when she learnt that he had left her, as 'a token of -regard and gratitude,' the sum of five hundred pounds. - -The phrase had touched her more than the money had done. Motey, as are -so many servants, was lavishly generous, and she had helped with her -legacy several worthless relations of her own to start small businesses -which invariably failed. These losses, however, she bore with great -philosophy. Her home was wherever her darling, her 'young lady,' her -'ma'am,' happened to be, and her circle that of the family with whose -fortunes hers had now been bound up for so many years. - -Mrs. Robinson's faithful affection for this old servant was one of the -best traits in a somewhat capricious if generous character, the more so -that the maid by no means always approved of even her mistress's most -innocent actions and associates. Thus, she had first felt a rough -contempt, and later a fierce dislike, of poor Melancthon Robinson. - -There were two people, both men, whom Motey would have been willing to -see more often with her mistress. - -The one was David Winfrith, who, if now a successful, almost it might be -said a famous man, had played a rather inglorious part in Penelope's -first love affair. The other was young Lord Wantley, of whom the old -nurse had constituted herself the champion in the days when her master -and mistress had merely regarded the presence of the nervous, sensitive -boy as an unpleasant duty. - -Mrs. Mote's liking for these two young men was completely subordinate to -her love for her nursling; she would cheerfully have seen either of them -undergo the most unpleasant ordeal had Penelope thereby been saved the -smallest pain or hurt. In fact, it was because she well knew how stanch -a friend Winfrith could be, and how useful, in perhaps a slightly -whimsical way, Lord Wantley had more than once proved himself in his -cousin's service, that she would have preferred to see more of these two -and less of certain others. - -Ah, those others! There had always been a side of Mrs. Robinson's nature -which thirsted for sentimental adventure, and yet of the three women who -in their several ways loved her supremely--her mother, Cecily Wake, and -the old nurse--only the last was really aware of this craving for -romantic encounter. Mrs. Mote had too often found herself compelled to -stand inactive in the wings of the stage on which her mistress was wont -to take part in mimic, but none the less dangerous, combat, for her to -remain ignorant of many things, not only unsuspected, but in a sense -unthinkable, by either the austere mother or the girl friend. - -Perhaps this blindness in those who yet loved her well was owing to the -fact that, in the ordinary sense of the term, Penelope was no flirt. -Indeed, those among her friends who belonged to a society which, if -over-civilized, is perhaps the more ready to extend a large measure of -sympathy to those of its number who feel an overmastering impulse to -revert, in affairs of the heart, to primitive nature, regarded the -beautiful widow as singularly free from the temptations with which they -were themselves so sorely beset. - -Doubtless because she was herself so physically perfect, physical -perfection held for Penelope none of that potent, beckoning appeal it so -often holds for even the most refined and intelligent women. Rather had -she always been attracted, tempted, in a certain sense conquered, by the -souls of those with whom her passion for romance brought her into -temporary relation. Even as a girl she had disdained easy conquest, and -at all times she had been, when dealing with men, as a skilful musician -who only cares to play on the finest instruments. Often she was -surprised and disturbed, even made indignant, both by the harmonies and -by the discords she thus produced; and sometimes, again, she made a -mistake concerning the quality of the human instrument under her hand. - - -II - -As Mrs. Mote sat by her open window, her eyes seeking to distinguish -among those walking on the terrace below the upright, graceful form of -her mistress, she deliberately let her thoughts wander back to certain -passages in her own and Mrs. Robinson's joint lives. In moments of -danger we recall our hairbreadth escapes with a certain complacency; -they induce a sense of sometimes false security, and just now this old -woman, who loved Penelope so dearly, felt very much afraid. - -The memory of two episodes came to still her fears. Though both long -past, perhaps forgotten by Penelope, to Mrs. Mote they returned to-night -with strange, uncomfortable vividness. - -The hero of the one had been a Frenchman, of the other a Spaniard. - -As for the Frenchman, Motey thought of him with a certain kindness, and -even with regret, though he, too, as she put it to herself, had 'given -her a good fright.' The meeting between the Comte de Lucque and Mrs. -Robinson had taken place not very long after Melancthon Robinson's -death, in that enchanted borderland which seems at once Switzerland and -Italy. - -The French lad--he was little more--was stranded there in search of -health, and Penelope had soon felt for him that pity which, while so -little akin to love, so often induces love in the creature pitied. She -allowed, nay, encouraged, him to be her companion on long painting -expeditions, and he soon made his way through, as others had done before -him, to the outer ramparts of her heart. - -For a while she had found him charming, at once so full of surprising -naïvetés and of strange, ardent enthusiasms; so utterly unlike the -younger Englishman of her acquaintance and differing also greatly from -the Frenchmen she had known. - -Brought up between a widowed mother and a monk tutor, the young Count -was in some ways as ignorant and as enthusiastic as must have been that -ancestor of his who started with St. Louis from Aiguesmortes, bound for -Jerusalem. His father had been killed in the great charge of the -Cuirassiers at the Battle of Reichofen, and Penelope discovered that he -above all things wished to live and to become strong, in order that he -might take a part in 'La Revanche,' that fantasy which played so great a -rôle in the imagination of those Frenchmen belonging to his generation. - -But when one evening Mrs. Robinson asked suddenly, 'Motey, how would you -like to see me become a French Countess?' the nurse had not taken the -question as put seriously, as, indeed, it had not been. Still, even the -old servant, who regarded the fact of any man's being made what she -quaintly called 'uncomfortable' by her mistress as a small, -well-merited revenge for all the indignities heaped by his sex on -hers--even Motey felt sorry for the Count when the inevitable day of -parting came. - -At first, Penelope read with some attention the long, closely-written -letters which reached her day by day with faithful regularity, but there -came a time when she was absorbed in the details of a small exhibition -of the very latest manifestations of French art, and the Count's letters -were scarcely looked at before they were thrown aside. Then, suddenly he -made abrupt and most unlooked-for intrusion into Mrs. Robinson's life, -at a time when the old nurse was accustomed to expect freedom from -Penelope's studies in sentiment--that is, during the few weeks of the -years which were always spent by Mrs. Robinson working hard in the -studio of some great Paris artist. - -Penelope had known how to organize her working life very intelligently; -she so timed her visits to Paris as to arrange with a French painter, -who was, like herself, what the unkind would call a wealthy amateur, to -take over his flat, his studio, and his servants. - -During nine happy weeks each spring Mrs. Robinson lived the busy -Bohemian life which she loved, and which, she thought, suited her so -well; but Mrs. Mote was never neglected, or, at least, never allowed -herself to feel so, and occasionally her mistress found her a useful, if -over-vigilant, chaperon. Mrs. Mote was on very good terms with the -French servants with whom she was thus each year thrown into contact. -Their easy gaiety beguiled even her grim ill-temper, and, fortunately, -she never conceived the dimmest suspicion of the fact that they were all -firmly persuaded that she was the humble, but none the less authentic, -'mère de madame'! - - -Now in the spring following her stay in Switzerland, not many days after -she had settled down to work in Paris, Mrs. Robinson desired the -excellent _maître d'hôtel_ to inform Mrs. Mote that she was awaited in -the studio. 'Motey, you remember the French count we met in Switzerland -last year?' Before giving the maid time to answer, she continued: 'Well, -I heard from him this morning. He asks me to go and see him. He says he -is very ill, and I want you to come with me.' Penelope spoke in the -hurried way usual to her when moved by real feeling. - -Then, when the two were seated side by side in one of the comfortable, -shabby, open French cabs, of which even Mrs. Mote recognized the charm, -Penelope added suddenly: 'Motey--you don't think--do you doubt he is -really ill? It would be a shabby trick----' - -'All gentlemen, as far as I'm aware, ma'am, do shabby tricks sometimes. -There's that saying, "All's fair in love and war"; it's very -advantageous to them. I don't suppose the Count's heard it, though; he -knew very little English, poor young fellow!' But Motey might have -spoken more strongly had she realized how very passive was to be on this -occasion her rôle of duenna. - -At last the fiacre stopped opposite a narrow door let into a high blank -wall forming the side of one of those lonely quiet streets, almost -ghostly in their sunny stillness, which may yet be found in certain -quarters of modern Paris. Penelope gave her companion the choice of -waiting for her in the carriage or of walking up and down. Mrs. Mote did -not remonstrate with her mistress; she simply and sulkily expressed -great distrust of Paris cabmen in general, and her preference for the -pavement in particular. Then, with some misgiving, she saw Mrs. Robinson -ring the bell. The door in the wall swung back, framing a green lawn, -edged with bushes of blossoming lilac, against which Penelope's white -serge gown was silhouetted for a brief moment, before the bright vision -was shut out. - -First walking, then standing, on the other side of the street, finally -actually sitting on the edge of the pavement, but not before she had -assured herself even in the midst of her perturbation of spirit that it -was spotlessly clean, the old nurse waited during what seemed to her an -eternity of time, and went through what was certainly an agony of -fright. - -The worst kind of fear is unreasoning. Mrs. Mote's imagination conjured -up every horror; and nothing but the curious lack of initiative which -seems common to those who have lived in servitude held her back from -doing something undoubtedly foolish. - -At last, when she was making up her mind to something very desperate -indeed, though what form this desperate something should take she could -not determine, there fell on her ears, coming nearer and nearer, the -sound of deep sobbing. A few moments later the little green door, -opening slowly, revealed two figures, that of Mrs. Robinson, pale and -moved, but otherwise looking much as usual, and that of a stout, -middle-aged woman, dressed in black, who, crying bitterly, clung to her, -seeming loth to let her go. - -Very gently, and not till they were actually standing on the pavement -outside the open door, did Penelope disengage herself from the trembling -hands which sought to keep her. Motey did not understand the words, 'Mon -pauvre enfant, il vous aime tant! Vous reviendrez demain, n'est ce pas, -madame?' but she understood enough to say no word of her long waiting, -to give voice to no grumbling, as she and her mistress walked slowly -down the sunny street, after having seen the little green door shut -behind the short, homely figure, lacking all dignity save that of grief. - -In those days, as Mrs. Mote, sitting up there remembering in the -darkness, recalled with bitterness, Mrs. Robinson had had no confidante -but her old nurse, and Penelope had instantly begun pouring out, as was -her wont, the tale of all that had happened in the hour she had been -away. - -'Oh, Motey, that is his poor mother! It is so horribly sad. He is her -only child. Her husband was killed in the Franco-Prussian War when she -was quite a young woman, and she has given up her whole life to him. Now -the poor fellow is dying'--Penelope shuddered--'and I have promised to -go and see him every day till he does die.' - - -III - -It was with no feeling of pity that Mrs. Mote now turned in her own mind -to the second episode. - -A journey to Madrid in search of pictured dons and high hidalgos had led -Mrs. Robinson to make the acquaintance of a Spanish gentleman, a certain -Don José Moricada; and the old Englishwoman, with her healthy contempt -of extravagance of behaviour and language, could now smile grimly as she -evoked the striking individuality of the man who had given her the worst -quarter of an hour she had ever known. - -At the time of their first meeting Don José had seemed to Penelope to -embody in his single person all the qualities which may be supposed to -have animated the noble models whose good fortune it was to be -immortalized by Velasquez; indeed, he ultimately proved himself -possessed to quite an inconvenient degree of the passion and living -fervour which the great artist, who was of all painters Penelope's most -admired master, could so subtly convey. - -With restrained ardour the Don had placed himself, almost at their first -meeting, at the beautiful Englishwoman's disposal, and Penelope had -seldom met with a more intelligent and unobtrusive cicerone. At his -bidding the heavy doors of old Madrid mansions, embowered in gardens, -and hidden behind gates which had never opened even to the most -courteous of strangers, swung back, revealing treasures hitherto -jealously hidden from the foreign lover of Spanish art. Together they -had journeyed to the Escurial in leisurely old-world fashion, driving -along the arid roads and stony tracks so often traversed at mule gallop -by Philip of Arragon; and the mouldering courts of the great -death-haunted palace through which her Spanish gallant led Mrs. Robinson -had rarely seen the passage of a better contrasted couple. - -Softer hours were spent in the deserted scented gardens of Buen Retiro, -and not once did the Spaniard imply by word or gesture that he expected -his companion's assent to the significant Spanish proverb, _Dame ye -darte he_ (Give to me, and I will give to thee). - -Penelope had never enjoyed a more delicate and inconsequent romance, or -a more delightful interlude in what was then a life overfull of unsought -pleasures and of interests sprung upon it. In those days Mrs. Robinson -had not found herself. She was even then still tasting, with a certain -tearfulness, the joys of complete freedom, and those who always lie in -wait, even if innocently, to profit by such freedoms, soon called her -insistently back to England. - -They had an abettor in Mrs. Mote, whose long-suffering love of her -mistress had seldom been more tried than during the sojourn in Spain, -spent by the maid in gloomy hotel solitude, or, more unpleasing still, -in company where she felt herself regarded by the Spaniard as an -intolerable and somewhat grotesque duenna, and by her mistress as a -bore, to be endured for kindness' sake. But the boredom of her old -nurse's companionship was not one which Penelope often felt called upon -to share with her indefatigable cavalier, and, as there came a time when -Don José and Mrs. Robinson seemed to the old nurse to be scarcely ever -apart, Mrs. Mote often felt both angry and lonely. - -Suddenly Penelope grew tired, not of Spain, but of Madrid, perhaps also -of her Spanish friend, especially when she discovered, with annoyance, -that he had arranged, if not to accompany her, at least to travel on -the same days as herself first to Toledo, and thence to Seville. Also -something else had happened which had proved very distasteful to Mrs. -Robinson. - -The English Ambassador, an old friend of her parents, and a man who, as -he had begun by reminding Penelope at the outset of their detestable -conversation, was almost old enough to be her grandfather, had called on -Mrs. Robinson and said a word of caution. - -The word was carefully chosen; for the old gentleman was not only a -diplomatist, but he had lived in Spain so many years that he had caught -some of the Spanish elusiveness of language and courtesy of phrase. -Penelope, with reddening cheek, had at first made the mistake of -affecting to misunderstand him. Then, with British bluntness, he had -spoken out. 'Spaniards are not Englishmen, my dear young lady. You met -your new friend at my house, and so I feel a certain added -responsibility. Of course, I know you have been absolutely discreet; -still, I feel the time has come when I should warn you. These Spanish -fellows when in love sometimes give a lot of trouble.' He had jerked the -sentence out, angry with her, angrier perhaps with himself. - - -The day before Mrs. Robinson was leaving Madrid, and not, as she -somewhat coldly informed Don José Moricada, for Toledo, there was a -question of one last expedition. - -On the outskirts of the town, in an old house reputed to have been at -one time the country residence of that French Ambassador, Monsieur de -Villars, whose wife had left so vivid an account of seventeenth-century -Madrid, were to be seen a magnificent collection of paintings and -studies by Goya. According to tradition, they had been painted during -the enchanted period of the Don Juanesque artist's love passages with -the Duchess of Alba, and very early in her acquaintance with the -Spaniard Penelope had expressed a strong desire to see work done by the -great painter under such romantic and unusual circumstances. And Don -José had been at considerable pains to obtain the absent owner's -permission. His request had been acceded to only after a long delay, and -at a moment when Mrs. Robinson had become weary both of Madrid and of -her Spanish gallant's company. - -It seemed, however, churlish to refuse to avail herself of a favour -obtained with so much difficulty. For awhile she had hesitated; not only -did the warning of the old Ambassador still sound most unpleasantly in -her ears, but of late there had come something less restrained, more -ardent, in the attitude of the Spaniard, proving only too significantly -how right the old Englishman had been. But even were she to return -another year to Madrid, the opportunity of visiting this curious old -house and its, to her, most notable contents, was not likely to recur. - -The appointment for the visit to Los Francias was therefore made and -kept; but when Don José, himself driving the splendid English horses of -which he was so proud, called at the hotel for Mrs. Robinson, he found, -to his angry astonishment, that her old nurse, the maid he so disliked, -was to be of the company. - -During the drive, Mrs. Mote, in high good-humour at her approaching -release from Madrid, noticed with satisfaction that her mistress's -Spanish friend seemed preoccupied and gloomy, though Mrs. Robinson's -high spirits and apparent pleasure in the picturesque streets and byways -they passed through might well have proved infectious. - -At last Los Francias was reached; and after walking through deserted, -scented gardens, where Nature was disregarding, with triumphant success, -the Bourbon formality of myrtle hedges, marble fountains, and sunk -parterres, the ill-assorted trio found themselves being ushered by a -man-servant, with great ceremony, into a large vestibule situated in the -centre of a house recalling rather a French château than a Spanish -country-house. - -In answer to a muttered word from the Spaniard, Mrs. Mote heard her -mistress answer decidedly: 'My maid would much prefer to come with us -than to stay here with a man of whose language she doesn't know a word. -Besides, this is _not_ the last time. I hope to come back some day, and -you will surely visit England.' - -On hearing these words Don José had turned and looked at his beautiful -companion with a curious gleam in his small, narrow-lidded eyes, and a -foreboding had come to the old servant. - -The high rooms, opening the one into the other, still contained shabby -pieces of fine old French furniture, of which the faded gilding and -moth-eaten tapestries contrasted oddly with the vivid, strangely living -paintings which seemed ready to leap from the walls above them. The -heavy stillness, the utter emptiness, of the great salons oddly affected -the old Englishwoman, walking behind the other two; she felt a vague -misgiving, and was more than ever glad to remember that in a few days -Mrs. Robinson would have left Madrid. - -Suddenly, when strolling through the largest, and apparently the last of -the whole suite of rooms, Mrs. Mote missed her mistress and Don José. - -Had they gone forward or turned back? She looked round her, utterly -bewildered, then spied in the wall a narrow aperture to which admission -was apparently given by a hinged panel, hung, as was the rest of the -salon, with red brocade. - -This, then, was where and how the other two had disappeared. She felt -relieved, even a little ashamed of her unreasoning fear. - -For a moment she hesitated, then stepped through the aperture into a -narrow corridor, shaped like an S, and characteristic--but Motey knew -nothing of this--of French château architecture; for these curiously -narrow passages, tucked away in the thickness of the wall, form a link -between the state rooms of many a great palace and the 'little -apartments' arranged for their owner's daily and familiar use. - -The inner twist of the S-shaped corridor was quite dark, but very soon -Mrs. Mote found that the passage terminated with an ordinary door, -through which, the upper half being glazed, she saw her mistress and the -Spaniard engaged in an apparently very animated conversation. - -The room in which stood the two she sought was almost ludicrously unlike -those to which it was so closely linked by the passage in which the -onlooker was standing. Perhaps the present owner of the old house, or -more probably his wife, had found the Goyas oppressive company, for here -no pictures hung on brocaded walls; instead, the round, domed room, -lighted only from above, was lined with a gay modern wall-paper, of -which the design simulated a fruitful vine, trained against green -trellis-work. Modern French basket furniture, the worse for wear, was -arranged about a circular marble fountain, which, let into the tiled -floor, must have afforded coolness on the hottest day. - -Memories of former occupants, and of another age, were conjured up by a -First Empire table, pushed back against the wall; and opposite the door -behind which the old nurse stood peering was the entrance, wide open, to -a darkened room, while just inside this room Mrs. Mote was surprised to -see a curious sign of actual occupancy--a small, spider-legged table, on -which stood a decanter of white wine, a plate of chocolate cakes, and a -gold bowl full of roses. - -But these things were rather remembered later, for at the time the old -woman's whole attention was centred on her mistress and the latter's -companion. Mrs. Robinson, her back turned to the darkened room beyond, -was standing by a slender marble pillar, rimmed at the top with a -tarnished gilt railing; a long grey silk cloak and boat-shaped hat, -covered with white ostrich feathers, accentuated her tall slenderness, -for in these early days of widowhood Penelope was exquisitely, -miraculously slender. With head bent and eyes cast down, she seemed to -be listening, embarrassed and ashamed, to Don José Moricada. One arm and -hand, the latter holding a glove, rested on the marble pillar, and her -whole figure, if instinct with proud submissiveness, breathed angry, -embarrassed endurance. - -As for the Spaniard, always sober of gesture, his arms folded across his -breast in the dignified fashion first taught to short men by Napoleon, -he seemed to be pouring out a torrent of eager, impassioned words, every -sentence emphasized by an imperious glance from the bright dark eyes, -which, as Mrs. Mote did not fail to remind herself, had always inspired -her with distrust. - -The unseen spectator of the singular scene also divined the -protestations, the entreaties, the reproaches, which were being uttered -in a language of which she could not understand one word. - -For a few moments she felt pity, even a certain measure of sympathy for -the man. To her thinking--and Mrs. Mote had her own ideas about most -matters--Penelope had brought this torrent of words and reproaches on -herself; but when the old nurse heard the voice of the Spaniard become -more threatening and less appealing, when she saw Mrs. Robinson suddenly -turn and face him, her head thrown back, her blue eyes wide open with -something even Motey had never seen in them before--for till that day -Penelope and Fear had never met--then the onlooker felt the lesson had -indeed lasted long enough, and that, even at the risk of angering her -mistress, the time had come when she should interfere. Her hand sought -and found the handle of the door. She turned and twisted it this way and -that, but the door remained fast, and suddenly she realized that -Penelope was a prisoner. - -In this primitive, but none the less potent, way had the Spaniard made -himself, in one sense at least, master of the situation--the old eternal -situation between the man pursuing and the woman fleeing. - -Caring little whether she was now seen or not, Mrs. Mote pressed her -face closely to the glass pane. She looked at the lithe sinewy figure of -Penelope's companion with a curiously altered feeling; a great sinking -of the heart had taken the place of the pity and contempt of only a -moment before. - -For awhile neither Penelope nor Don José saw the face behind the door. -Mrs. Robinson had turned away, and had begun walking slowly round the -domed hall, her companion following her, but keeping his distance. At -last, when passing for the second time the open door leading to the -darkened room beyond, she had looked up, uttered an exclamation of angry -disgust, and had slackened her footsteps, while he, quickening his, had -decreased the space between them.... - -When, in later life, Penelope unwillingly recalled the scene, her memory -preferred to dwell on the grotesque rather than on the sinister side of -the episode. But at the moment of ordeal--ah, then her whole being -became very literally absorbed in supplication to the dead two who when -living had never failed her: her father and Melancthon Robinson. - -They may have been permitted to respond, or perhaps a more explicable -cause may have brought about a revival of pride and good feeling in the -Spanish gentleman; for when there came release it seemed as if Mrs. Mote -was the unwitting _dea ex machina_. - -The two, moving within panther and doe wise, both saw, simultaneously, -the plain, homely face of Mrs. Robinson's old nurse staring in upon -them, and the sight, affording the woman infinite comfort and courage, -seemed to withdraw all power from the man, for very slowly, with -apparent reluctance, Don José Moricada turned on his heel, and unlocked -the door. - -The maid did not reply to the rebuke, uttered in a low tone, 'Oh, Motey, -we've been waiting for you such a long time.' Instead, she turned to the -Spaniard. 'My lady is tired, sir. Surely you've showed her enough by -now.' - -He bent his head, silently opening again the glazed door and waiting for -them to pass through, as his only answer. - -But Penelope's nerve had gone. She was clutching her old nurse's arm -with desperate tightening fingers. 'I can't go through there, Motey, -unless'--she spoke almost inaudibly--'unless you can make him walk -through first.' - -Mrs. Mote was quite equal to the occasion. 'Will you please go on, sir? -My mistress is nervous of the dark passage.' - -Again the Spaniard silently obeyed the old servant, and Penelope never -saw the look, full of passionate humiliation and dumb craving for -forgiveness, with which he uttered the words--though they brought vague -relief--explaining that he was leaving his groom to drive her and her -maid back to the hotel alone. - -During the moments which followed, Mrs. Robinson, looking straight -before her, spoke much of indifferent matters, and pointed out to Mrs. -Mote many an interesting and characteristic sight by the roadside; but -both the speaker's knee and the hands clasped across it trembled -violently the while, and when they were at last safely back again in the -hotel, after Mrs. Robinson had said some gracious words to Don José -Moricada's English groom, and had given him more substantial tokens of -her gratitude for the many pleasant drives she had taken with his noble -master, a curious thing happened. - -Having prepared the bath which had been her mistress's first order when -they found themselves in their own rooms, Motey, now quite her stolid -self again, on opening the sitting-room door, found her mistress engaged -in a strange occupation. Mrs. Robinson, still standing, was cutting the -long grey silk cloak, which she had been wearing but a moment before, -into a thousand narrow strips. The maid's work-basket, a survival of -Penelope's childhood--for it had been the little girl's first -birthday-gift to her nurse--had evidently provided the sharp cutting-out -scissors for the sacrifice. - -To a woman who has done much needlework there is something dreadful, -unnatural, in the wanton destruction of a faithful garment, and Mrs. -Mote stood looking on, silent indeed, but breathing protest in every -line of her short figure. But Penelope, after a short glance, had at -once averted her eyes, and completed her task with what seemed to the -other a dreadful thoroughness. - -Then the relentless scissors attacked the charming hat. Each long white -plume was quickly reduced to a heap of feathery atoms, and the -exquisitely plaited straw was slashed through and through. 'You can give -all the other things I have worn to-day to the chambermaid,' Mrs. -Robinson said quickly, 'and Motey--never, never speak of--of--our stay -here, in Madrid I mean, to me again. We shall leave to-night, not -to-morrow morning.' - - -And now, looking down below, seeing the moving figures pacing slowly all -together, then watching two of the shadowy forms detach themselves from -the rest, and wander off into the pine-wood, then back again, down the -steps which led to the lower moonlit terraces and so to the darker -sea-shore, Mrs. Mote felt full of vague fears and suspicions. - -Again she felt as if she were standing behind a door, barred away from -her mistress. But, alas! this time it was Penelope who had turned the -key in the lock, Penelope pursuing rather than pursued, and longing for -the moment of surrender. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - 'L'Amour est comme la dévotion: il vient tard. On n'est - guère amoureuse ni devote à vingt ans ... les prédestinées - elles-mêmes luttent longtemps contre cette grace d'aimer, - plus terrible que la foudre qui tomba sur le chemin de Damas.' - - ANATOLE FRANCE. - - ... 'a Shepherdess, and fair was she. - He found she dwelt in Stratford, E., - Which ain't exactly Arcadee.' - - -I - -The radiant stillness of early summer morning lay over the gardens of -Monk's Eype; and though the wide stone-flagged terrace was in shadow, -the newly-risen sun rioted gloriously beyond, flecking with pink and -silver the sheets of sand which spread their glistening spaces from the -shore to the sea. - -Cecily Wake, already up and dressed, sitting writing by her open window, -felt exquisitely content. The pungent scent thrown out by the geranium -bushes which rose from the curiously twisted vases set at intervals -along the marble balustrade floated up to where she sat, giving a -delicate keenness to the warm sea-wind. She longed to go out of doors -and make her way down to the little strip of beach which she knew lay -below the terraces and gardens; but the plain gold watch which had been -her father's, and a treasured possession of her own since she had left -the convent school, told her that it was only a quarter to six. - -Alone the birds, the butterflies, and herself seemed to be awake, in -this enchanting and enchanted place, and she put the longing from her. -Now and again, as she looked up from the two account-books lying open -before her on the old-fashioned, rather rickety little table set at -right angles to the window, and saw before and below her the splendid -views of land and sea, came joyous anticipations of pleasant days to be -spent in the company of Mrs. Robinson. To her fellow-guests--to Downing, -to Wantley--she gave no thought at all. Winfrith alone was a possible -rival. She sighed a little as she remembered that Penelope had seen him -yesterday, and would doubtless see him to-morrow. - -The girl was well aware--for only the vain and the obtuse are not always -well aware of such things--that David Winfrith had no liking for her; -more, that he regarded her affection for Mrs. Robinson as slightly -absurd; worst of all, that he viewed with suspicion and disapproval her -connection with the Melancthon Settlement and its affairs. - -Some folk are born to charity--such was Cecily Wake; and some, in these -modern days at any rate, have charity thrust upon them--such, in the -matter of the Melancthon Settlement, was David Winfrith. Problems -affected him far more than persons; and though the apparently insoluble -problems of London poverty, London overcrowding, and London -thriftlessness, had become to him matters full of poignant concern, he -gave scarcely a thought to the individuals composing that mass of human -beings whose claims upon society he recognized in theory. What thought -he did give was extremely distasteful to him, perhaps because he -regarded those who now provided these problems as irrevocably condemned -and past present help. - -Winfrith had never cared to join in the actual daily effort made by the -small group of educated, refined people, who were the precursors of the -many now trying to grapple with a state of things which the thinkers of -that time were just beginning to realize. Still, his hard good sense had -been of the utmost use to the Settlement, or rather to Mrs. Robinson, -during the years which immediately followed her husband's death. - -But though he had been the terror, and the vigorous chaser-forth, of the -sentimental faddist, he had at no time understood the value of that -grain of divine folly without which it is difficult to regain those, -themselves so foolish, that seem utterly lost. - -Winfrith had been astonished, and none too well pleased, when he had -found that certain of Cecily Wake's innovations, especially a -day-nursery where mothers could leave their babies throughout their long -working hours, had received the flattery of imitation from several of -the new philanthropic centres then beginning to spring up in all the -poorer quarters of the town. Cecily was full of the eager constructive -ardour of youth, and during the two years spent by her at the Settlement -her infectious energy had quickened into life more than one of the paper -schemes evolved by Melancthon Robinson. - -To the girl, in this early, instinctive stage of her life, problems were -nothing, individuals everything. The Catholic Church enjoins the duty of -personal charity, insisting upon its efficacy, both to those who give -and to those who receive, as opposed to that often magnificent -impersonal institutional philanthropy so much practised in this country. -Thus, Cecily's instinct in this direction had never been checked, and -the first sermon to which, as a child, she had listened with attention -and understanding had been one in which a Jesuit had insisted on the -duty of helping those who cannot, rather than those who can, help -themselves. - -But even if Cecily Wake had never been taught the duty of charity, her -nature and instinct would have always impelled her to lift up those who -had fallen by the way, and to seek a cure for the apparently incurable. -Then, as sometimes happens, the burdens which others had refused became, -when she assumed them, surprisingly light; and often she felt abashed to -find with what approval, and openly-expressed admiration, her two -mentors at the Settlement, Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret, regarded -some action or scheme which had cost her nothing but a happy thought and -a little hard work to carry through. - -Cecily, an old-fashioned girl, was humble-minded, and far more easily -cast down by a word of admonition concerning some youthful fault or want -of method than lifted up by successes which sometimes seemed to those -about her to be of the nature of miracles. - -Even now, on this the first morning of her holiday, she was struggling -painfully with the simple accounts of the day-nursery; for she had -promised Mrs. Pomfret to make out a detailed statement of what its cost -had actually been during the past month, and as she caught herself -repeating 'Five and four make fifty-four,' she felt heartily ashamed of -herself, knowing that Winfrith would indeed despise her if he knew how -difficult she found this simple task! - - -II - -There came a sudden sound below her window, the muffled tread of steps -on the stone flags, and the tall, angular figure of Sir George Downing -strode into view. He was bare-headed, but about his square, powerful -shoulders hung the old-fashioned cloak which had attracted Wantley's -attention the afternoon before. When he reached the marble parapet -Cecily saw that he was carrying a large red despatch-box, which he -placed, and then leant upon, across the flat, weather-stained top of the -balustrade. - -As she gazed at the motionless, almost stark figure, of which the head -was now sunk between the shoulders, Cecily felt that he strangely -disturbed her peaceful impression of the scene, and that, while in no -sense attracted by, or even specially interested in him, she was -curiously conscious of his silent, pervading presence. - -She tried to remember what Lord Wantley had said to her the evening -before concerning this same fellow-guest, for after the two men had -joined their hostess on the terrace, Mrs. Robinson and Downing, leaving -the younger couple, had wandered off into the pine-wood which formed a -scented rampart between Monk's Eype, its terraces and gardens, and the -open down. - -At once Wantley had spoken to his companion of the famous man, and of -his life-history, which he seemed to think must be familiar to Cecily as -it was to himself. 'If you are as romantic as all nice young ladies -should be, and as, I believe, they are,' he had said, 'you must feel -grateful to Mrs. Robinson for giving you the opportunity of meeting such -a remarkable man. Even I, _blasé_ as I am, felt a thrill to-day when I -realized that Persian Downing was actually here.' There had been a -twinkle in his eye as he spoke, but even so his listener had felt that -he meant what he said. - -Like most young people, Cecily dreaded above all things being made to -look foolish, and so, not knowing what to answer--for she knew but -little of Persia and nothing at all of Sir George Downing--she had -wisely remained silent. But now she reddened as she remembered how -ignorant and how awkward she must have seemed to her dear Penelope's -cousin, and she made up her mind that she would this very day ask Mrs. -Robinson why Sir George Downing was famous, and why Lord Wantley -considered him specially interesting to the romantic. - - -Almost at once came the opportunity. There was a light tap at the door, -and as it opened Cecily saw Penelope, a finger to her lips, standing in -the wide corridor, of which the citron-coloured walls were hung with -large, sharply-defined black-and-white engravings of Italian scenery and -Roman temples. - -For a moment they stood smiling at one another; then Mrs. Robinson -beckoned to the girl to come to her. 'I thought it just possible you -might already be up,' she whispered, 'and that you would like to come -down to the shore. Last night I promised Sir George Downing to take him -early to the Beach Room, which I have had arranged in order that he may -be able to work there undisturbed.' Then, as together they walked down -the corridor, she added: 'I am afraid he has been already waiting some -time, for I found it so difficult to dress myself--without Motey, I -mean!' and, with a graver note in her voice, 'It's rather terrible,' she -said, 'to think how dependent one may become on another human being. -Poor old Motey! from her point of view I could not possibly exist -without her. When I was abroad--last spring, I mean--I often got up -quite early to paint, but Motey always managed to be earlier--I never -could escape her! However, to-day I've succeeded, and you, child, are a -quite as efficient, and a much pleasanter chaperon.' - -Cecily did not stop to wonder what Mrs. Robinson could mean by these -last words, uttered with strange whispering haste. She had at once -noticed, as people generally do notice any change in a loved or admired -presence, that her friend this morning looked unlike herself; but a -moment's thought had shown that this was owing to the way in which -Penelope had dressed her hair. The red-brown masses, instead of being -cunningly coiled above and round the face, had been thrust into a gold -net, thus altering in appearance the very shape of their owner's head, -of her slender neck, and even, or so it seemed to her companion, of the -delicate, cameo-like features. Cecily was not sure whether she approved -of the change, and Mrs. Robinson caught the look of doubt in the girl's -ingenuous eyes. - -'Yes, I know I failed with my hair! In that one matter Motey will be -able to exult; but, fortunately, I remembered that I had a net. My -father had it made in Italy for mamma, and all through my childhood she -always wore it, I envying her the possession. One day when I was ill -(you know I was far too cosseted and pampered as a child) I said to her: -"I'm sure I should get well quicker if you would only lend me your gold -net!"--for I was a selfish, covetous little creature--and, of course, -she did give it me. But poor mamma never got back her net. After I was -tired of wearing it, or trying to wear it, I made a breastplate of it -for my favourite doll. I kept it more than twice seven years, and now -you see I've found a use for it!' - -They were already halfway down the staircase which connected the upper -story of Monk's Eype with the hall, when came the earnest question: -'Penelope, I want to ask you--now--before we go out, why Sir George -Downing is famous, and what he has done to make him so?' - -For a moment Mrs. Robinson made no answer. Then Cecily, her feet already -on the rug laid below the lowest marble stair, felt a firm hand on her -shoulder. Surprised, she turned and looked up. Penelope stood two or -three steps higher, and though the younger woman in time forgot the -actual words, she always remembered their gist, and the rapt, glowing -look, the deliberation, with which they had been uttered. - -'I am glad you have asked me this. I meant--I wanted--to speak to you -of him yesterday, before you met him. For, Cecily'--the speaker's hand -leaned heavily on the girl's slight shoulder, and her next words, though -not uttered loudly, rang out as a confession of faith,--'if my -acquaintance with Sir George Downing has been short, and I admit that it -has been so, measured by time, his friendship and--and--his regard have -become very much to me. I reverence the greatness of his mind, of his -heart, and of his aims. Some day you will be proud to remember that you -once met him.' - -A little colour suffused the speaker's face, seeming to intensify the -blue of her clear, unquailing eyes, to make memorable the words she had -said. - -More indifferently she presently added: 'As to why he has lately become -what you call famous, ask the reason of my cousin, Lord Wantley. He will -give what is, I suppose, the true explanation--namely, that Sir George -Downing has of late years revealed himself as a brilliant diplomatist, -as well as a remarkable writer, able to describe, as no one else has -been able to do, the strange country which has become his place of work -and dwelling. Other circumstances have also led, almost by accident, to -his name becoming known, and his life in Persia discussed, by the sort -of people whose approval and interest confer fame.' - -In silence they walked together across the hall to the glass door, -through which could be seen, darkly outlined against the line of sea, -the angular, bent figure of the man of whom they had been speaking. - -And then Mrs. Robinson again opened her lips; again the clear voice -vibrated with intense, unaccustomed feeling: 'I should like to say one -more thing--Always remember that Sir George Downing has never sought -recognition; and though it has come at last, it has come too late. Too -late, I mean, to atone for a great injustice done to him as a young -man--too late to be now of any real value to him, unless it helps him -to achieve the objects he has in view.' - -But though the words were uttered with a solemnity, a passion of -protest, which made the voice falter, when speaker and listener joined -Downing, it was Cecily whose hazel eyes were full of pity, Penelope -whose radiant and now softened beauty made the man, tired and seared -with life, whose cause she had been so gallantly defending, feel, as he -turned to meet her, once more young and glad. - -That sunny morning hour altered, and in a measure transformed and -deepened, Cecily Wake's emotional nature. Then was she brought into -contact, for the first time, with the rarefied atmosphere of a great, -even if unsanctified passion, and that she was, and for some -considerable time remained, ignorant of its presence and nearness made -the effect on her mind and heart, if anything, more subtle and enduring. - -To this convent-bred orphan girl Love was the lightsome pagan deity, -synonymous with Youth, whose arrows sometimes stung, perhaps even -fastened into the wound, but who threw no shadow as he walked the earth, -seeking the happy girls and boys who had leisure and opportunity--Cecily -was very human, and sometimes found time to sigh that she had -neither--to enjoy the pretty sport of love-making, with the logical -outcome of ideal marriage. - -Life just then would have been a very different matter had she realized -that Cupid spent a considerable portion of his time in the neighbourhood -of the Settlement, and not always with the happiest results. Of course, -Cecily knew that even in Stratford East there were happy lovers, such, -for instance, the girl for whom she destined Penelope's wedding-ring; -but on the whole she was inclined to believe that Cupid reserved his -attentions, or at any rate his swiftest arrows, for those young people -who enjoy the double advantage of good birth and wealth. Even them she -would have thought more likely to meet with Cupid in the country than in -the town, just as the believer in fairyland finds it impossible to -associate the Little People with the London pavement, however much he -may hope to meet with them some day sporting in grassy glades or under -the hedgerows. - -And so, while the other two were well aware that Love walked with them, -down the steep steps cut out of the soft blue lias rock, Cecily Wake was -utterly unconscious of his nearness, and this although the unseen -presence quickened her own sensibilities, and made her more ready to -receive new and unsought emotions. - - -III - -To Mrs. Robinson, looking up into Downing's face, full of fearful, -exultant joy in his presence--she had not felt sure that he would really -come to Monk's Eype--the Beach Room, as arranged by her for her great -man, cried the truth aloud. - -Very divergently does love act on different natures, sometimes, alas! -bringing out all that is grotesque and absurd in a human being, happily -more often evoking an intelligent tenderness which seeks to promote the -material happiness of the beloved. - -Penelope had spent happy hours preparing the place where Downing, while -under her roof, was to do the work he had so much at heart, and nothing -had been omitted from the Beach Room which could minister to his -peculiar ideals of comfort. - -On the large table, where twenty odd years before the little Penelope -Wantley and the dour-faced boy, David Winfrith, had set up their mimic -fleets of wooden boats, were many objects denoting how special had been -her care. Thus, in addition to the obvious requirements of a writer, -stood a replica of the old-fashioned opaquely-shaded reading-lamp which -she knew was always included in his travelling kit; close to the lamp -were simple appliances for the making of coffee, for she was aware of -Downing's almost morbid dislike to the presence, about him, of servants; -and, behind a tall eighteenth-century screen, brought from China to Wyke -Regis by some seafaring man a hundred years ago, was a camp-bed which -would enable the worker, if so minded, to remain with his work all -night. - -Apart from these things, the large room had been left bare of ordinary -furniture, but across the uneven oak boards, never wholly free from -cobweb-like sheets of glittering grey sand, were strips of carpet, for -Penelope had remembered Downing's once telling her that he generally -came and went barefooted in that mysterious Persian dwelling--part -fortress, part palace--to which her thoughts now so often turned with a -strange mingling of dread and longing. - - -The man for whom all these preparations had been made, after passing -through the heavy wooden door which shut out wind, sand, and spray, -paused a moment and looked about him abstractedly. - -Downing had always been curiously sensitive to the spirit and influence -of place, and the oddly-shaped bare room, partly excavated from the -cliff, into which for the moment no sun penetrated, struck him with -sudden chill and gloom. Mrs. Robinson, intently watching him, aware of -every flicker of feeling sweeping over the lean, strongly-accentuated -features, saw the momentary hesitation, the darkening of his face, and -there came over her, also, a feeling of sharp misgiving, a fear that all -was not well with him. - -Since they had first looked into one another's eyes, Penelope had never -felt Downing to be so remote from herself as during the brief hours they -had spent together the evening before; and now he still seemed to be -mentally withdrawn, communing apart in a place whither she could not -follow him. - -Standing there in the Beach Room, she asked herself whether, after all, -she had not been wrong to compel him to come to Monk's Eype, imprudent -to subject him, and herself, to such an ordeal. Yet, at the time she had -first proposed his coming, she had actually made herself believe that in -this way would be softened the blow she knew herself about to inflict on -those who loved her, and those whose respect she was eager to retain. 'I -want my mother to meet you,' she had said, in answer to a word of -hesitation, even, as she now saw looking back, of repugnance, on -Downing's part, 'for then, later, she will understand, even if she does -not approve, what I am about to do.' - -And so at her bidding he had come; and now, this morning, they both -knew, and felt ashamed to know, how completely successful they had been -in concealing the truth from those about them. - -That first night, when out of earshot of Lord Wantley and Cecily Wake, -Downing's words, uttered when they had found themselves alone for the -first time for many days, had been: 'I feel like a thief--nay, like a -murderer--here!' And yet, as she had eagerly reminded herself, he had -stolen nothing as yet--that is to say, nothing tangible--only her -heart--the heart which had proved so enigmatical a Will-o'-the-wisp to -many a seeker. - -And now, returning up the steep steps, going up slowly, as if she were -bearing a burden, with Cecily silent by her side, respecting her mood, -Mrs. Robinson blamed herself, with something like anguish, for not -having been content to let Downing stay on in London. When there he had -written to her twice, sometimes three times, a day, letters which seemed -to bring him much nearer to herself than she felt him to be now, for -they had been of ardent prevision of a time when they would be always -together, side by side, heart to heart, in that far-away country which -had become to her full of mysterious glamour and delight. - -She stayed her steps, and, turning, looked at the sea with a long -wavering look, as she remembered, and again with a feeling of shame, -though she was glad to know that this could not be in any sense shared -by Downing, that one reason she had urged for his coming had been the -nearness to Monk's Eype of David Winfrith's home. - -She had become aware that, by lingering with her so long in France while -on his way to England, Downing had lost a chance of furthering his -political and financial projects. - -The former Government had consisted of men who, even if not friendly to -himself, sympathized with his aims; but now, among the members of the -incoming Liberal Ministry, Persian Downing was looked at with suspicion, -and regarded as one who desired to embroil his country with the great -European Power who is only dangerous, according to Liberal tradition, -when aggressively aroused from her political torpor. - -Winfrith alone among the new men was known to have other views. He had -in a sense made his name by a book concerning Asian problems, and Mrs. -Robinson, with feminine shrewdness, felt sure that he would not be able -to resist the chance of meeting, in an informal way, the man who -admittedly knew more of Persia and its rulers than any Englishman alive. - -No woman, save, perhaps, she who only lives to make a sport of men, -cares to be present as third at the meeting of a man who loves her and -of the man whom she herself loves. And so Penelope had arranged in her -own mind that her cousin, Lord Wantley, should be the link between -Winfrith and Downing. - -She had, however, meant to prepare the way, and it was with that object -in view that she had asked Winfrith to ride with her the day before. But -to her surprise, almost to her indignation and self-contempt, she had -found that the name of Sir George Downing, from her to her old friend, -had literally stuck in her throat, and she had been relieved when she -found that Winfrith was to be for some days absent from the -neighbourhood. - - -When she and Cecily were once more standing on the broad terrace spread -out before the villa, Mrs. Robinson broke her long silence. Resolutely -she put from her the painful thoughts and the perplexities which had -possessed her, and 'It must be very nice,' she said, 'to be a good girl. -I was always a very naughty girl; but I am good now, and I want to beg -your pardon for having been so very horrid to you yesterday--I mean -about the ring.' - -'Be horrid to me again,' said Cecily, 'but never beg my pardon; I don't -like to hear you do it. Besides,' she added quaintly, 'you can never be -really horrid to me, for I shall not let you be.' - -'You are a comfortable friend, child, if even rather absurd at times. -But now about this morning. I have arranged for Ludovic to drive you and -Miss Theresa over to the monastery. We won't mention the plan to mamma, -because she thinks Beacon Abbas the abiding-place of seven devils.' - -'I'm afraid Aunt Theresa won't be well enough to get up to-day; but, of -course, I can go to church by myself.' - -'In that case, you and Ludovic can walk across the cliffs. It will be a -good opportunity for you to describe to him the delights of the -Settlement, and perhaps to make him feel a little ashamed of having done -so little to help us.' - -They were now close to the open windows of the dining-room, and Cecily -could see the stately figure of Lady Wantley bending over a small table, -on which lay, open, a large Bible. - - -IV - -An hour later an oddly-assorted couple set out for Beacon Abbas, bound -for the monastery which had been so great an eyesore to the famous -Evangelical peer. - -Wantley's critical taste soon found secret fault with the blue-and-white -check cotton gown, which, if it intensified the wearer's pure colouring, -was surely unsuited to do battle with sea-wind; the sailor-hat, however, -was more what the young man, to himself, called _de circonstance_; but -he groaned inwardly over the clumsy shape of the brown laced shoes which -encased what he divined to be the pretty, slender feet of his companion, -and he thoroughly disapproved of a shabby little black bag fastened to -her belt. - -It must be admitted that Cecily did not compare, outwardly at least, -very favourably with the three girls who had formed part of the -house-party he had left the day before, though even in them, as regarded -their minds, however, not their appearance, Wantley had found plenty to -cavil at. - -Perhaps Cecily's critic would have been surprised and rather nettled, -had he known that he also was undergoing a keen scrutiny, and one not -altogether favourable, from the candid eyes which he had soon decided -were the best feature in the girl's serious face. - -Wantley's loosely-knit figure, of only medium height, clad in what even -she realized were somewhat unconventional clothes for church-going; the -short pointed beard (Cecily felt sure that only old gentlemen were -entitled to wear beards); the grey eyes twinkling under light eyebrows; -the nondescript light-brown hair brushed sleekly across the lined -forehead--these did not compose a whole according well with her ideal of -young manhood. But, after all, Penelope had declared her cousin to be -quite clever enough to be of use to the Settlement. There, as Cecily -knew well, even the most unpromising educated human material could -almost always be made useful: already, in imagination, she saw Lord -Wantley teaching an evening class of youths to draw, for surely Mrs. -Robinson had said he was a good artist. - -As they walked along the path through the pine-wood, the fresh, keen -air, the sunlight falling slantwise through the pine-trees, softened the -young man's mood. He felt inclined to bless the girl for her silence: -inpertinent appreciation of nature was one of the traits he found most -odious in those of his young countrywomen with whom fate--and -Penelope--had hitherto brought him in contact. Wantley far preferred the -honest--but, oh, how rare!--girl Philistines who bluntly avowed -themselves blind to the charms of sea, land, and sky. - -Not that he felt inclined to include Cecily Wake among these. He had -seen her face when a sudden bend of the path had revealed the long -turning coast-line, and spread the wide seas below them; but she had -uttered no exclamation, refrained from trite remark, and so the heart of -this rather fantastic young man warmed to her. - -'And now,' he said, holding open the wicket-gate which led from the wood -to the open stretch of down--'and now that the moment has come to reveal -our mutual aversions, I will begin by confessing that quite my pet -aversion in life has long been your Settlement.' Then, as his companion -only reddened by way of answer, he altered his tone, and added more -seriously: 'I esteem all that I have ever heard of Melancthon Robinson. -I never saw him, for I was in America both when the marriage and when -his death took place, but I have no patience with sham playing at -Christian Socialism. Of course, I know that the Melancthon Settlement -was but a pioneer of better things, and that it has led the way to the -establishment of several more practical undertakings.' (Here Cecily bit -her lip.) 'But when I think of all that my uncle--I of course mean -Penelope's father--accomplished in the way of really benefiting and -bettering the condition of our working people, and that, I imagine, -without ever even seeing the East End--when I consider how he would have -regarded the Melancthon Settlement----' - -He smiled a rather ugly smile, but still Cecily Wake made no answer. -Nettled by her silence, he added suddenly: 'I will give you an instance -of what I mean. You know my cousin Penelope?' - -For the first time Wantley realized that the girl walking by his side -had a peculiarly charming smile, and he altered, because of that smile, -what he had meant to be a franker expression of feeling. - -'Now, honestly, Miss Wake, can you imagine Penelope, even in intention, -living an austere life among the London poor, and occasionally pulling -them up by the roots to see if they were growing better under her -earnest guidance? The fact that young Robinson thought it possible that -she should ever do so added, to my mind, a touch of absurdity to what -was, after all, a sad business.' - -'And yet he and she did really live and work at the Settlement,' -objected Cecily quietly, and he was rather disappointed that she showed -so little vehemence in defence of her friend. - -'That's true, tho' I believe Penelope was very often away during the -four months the marriage lasted, it was a new experience, and we all -enjoy--Penelope more than most of us, perhaps--new experiences and new -emotions.' - -'But our people'--the girl spoke as if she had not heard his last words, -and Wantley was pleased with the low, rounded quality of her voice--'our -people, those of them who are still there, for you know that they come -and go in that part of London, have never forgotten that time: I mean -when Penelope lived at the Settlement. Perhaps you think that poor -people do not care about beautiful things; if so, you would be surprised -to see how those to whom Mrs. Robinson gave drawings treasure them, how -they ask after her, how eager they are to see her!' - -'She doesn't often give them that pleasure.' The retort was too obvious. -He delighted in being Devil's Advocate, and it amused him to see the -colour at last come and go in cheeks still pale from too long -acquaintance with London air. - -But the time had come to call a truce. The little town of Wyke Regis lay -below them, looking, even to the boats lying on the sea, like a medieval -map, and, for some time before they reached the road leading to the -monastery, they could see streams of people passing through the great -doors, which, forming a true French _porte-cochère_, gave access first -to monastic buildings built round three sides of a vast paved courtyard, -and then to the spacious gardens and orchard, where jutted out the -curious miniature basilica which had been the pride and pleasure of the -Popish Lord Wantley. - -To Cecily's surprise, perhaps a little to her disappointment, Wantley -refused to accompany her into the chapel; instead, he remained outside -in the sunshine, smoking one cigarette after another, and amusing -himself by deciphering the brief inscriptions on the plain slabs of -stone which, sunk into the grass under and among the apple-trees, marked -the graves of two generations of French monks. - -Meanwhile, Cecily Wake--for they had arrived some minutes late, and Wyke -Regis was now full of summer visitors--knelt down at the back of the -chapel, among the curiously miscellaneous crowd of men and women -generally to be found gathered together just within the doors of a -Catholic place of worship. - -After she had said her simple prayers, not omitting the three requests, -one of which at least she trusted would be granted, according to the old -belief that such a favour is extended to those who enter for the first -time a duly consecrated church, Cecily, during the chanting of the -Creed, allowed her eyes to wander sufficiently to enjoy the singular -beauty and ornate splendour of the monastery chapel. - -She soon saw which were the windows connected with Penelope's family. On -the one was emblazoned the mailed figure of St. George crushing the -dragon, presumably of Wantley, under his spurred heel. Obviously of the -same period was the St. Cecilia, who, sitting at an old-fashioned -Italian spinet, seemed to be charming the ears of two musically-minded -angels. More crude in colouring, and more utilitarian in design, was the -figure of good St. Louis dispensing justice under the traditional rood: -this last window, as the girl was aware, was that which the young man, -who had refused to come into the chapel, had raised to the memory of his -own father. - -Just as the bell rang, warning those not in sight of the high-altar that -the most solemn portion of the Mass was about to begin, there arose, -close to where Cecily was kneeling with her face buried in her hands, -the loud, discordant cry of an ailing child. - -Various pious persons at once turned and threw shocked glances at a -woman who, alone seated among the kneeling throng, and herself nodding -with fatigue, was shifting from one arm to another a fat curly-headed -little boy, whom Cecily, now well versed in such lore, instinctively -guessed to be about two years old. - - -A few minutes later, Wantley, tired of waiting in the deserted orchard, -pushed open the red-baize door. - -At first he saw nothing; then, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the -dimmer light, he became aware that at the end of a little lane of -people, and outlined against a rose-coloured marble pillar, stood the -blue-clad figure of a young woman holding to her breast a little child, -the two thus forming the immemorial group which has kept its hold on the -imagination of Christendom throughout the ages. - -Cecily was swaying rhythmically, now forward, now backward, her head -bent over that of the child. She did not see Wantley, being wholly -absorbed in her task of quieting and comforting the little creature now -cradled in her arms; but he, as he looked at her, felt as if he then saw -her for the first time. - -Over the whole scene brooded a curious stillness, the stillness with -which he was already familiar, owing to his haunting, when abroad, the -long Sunday services held alike in the great cathedrals and the little -village churches of France and Italy. - -Long years afterwards, Wantley, happening to be present at one of those -futile conversations in which are discussed the first meetings of those -destined to know each other well, in answer to the somewhat impertinent -question, uttered, however, by a youthful and therefore privileged -voice, 'And do you, Lord Wantley, remember your first meeting with her?' -answered in all good faith: 'I first saw her in our Roman Catholic -chapel at Beacon Abbas, nursing a little beggar child. She wore a bright -blue frock, and what I took to be a halo; as a matter of fact it was a -sailor-hat!' And then, from more than one of those that were present, -came the words, 'How nice! and how exactly what one would have expected -from what one knows of her now!' And Wantley, happy Wantley, saw no -cause to say them nay. - -Yet the half-hour which followed might well have effaced the memory of a -more tangible vision, and have impressed a man less whimsical and -easy-going as almost intolerably prosaic. - -After the congregation had dispersed, he had had to wait at a short -distance, but not, as he congratulated himself, out of earshot, while -Cecily Wake and the Irish mother of the ailing child held what seemed to -be an interminable conversation. The listener then became acquainted, -for the first time, with certain not uninteresting data as to how the -citizens of our great Empire are prepared for their struggle through -existence. He learnt that the child's first meal that Sunday, -administered by the advice of 'a very knowing woman,' had consisted of a -half-glass of the best bitters and of a biscuit; he overheard Cecily's -realistic if gently worded description of what effect this diet was -likely to have on an unfortunate baby's interior, and he admired the way -in which the speaker mingled practical advice with praise of the poor -little creature's prettiness. - -Finally, from the shabby waist bag Wantley had looked at with so much -disfavour a couple of hours before, Cecily took a leaflet, which she -handed to the woman, the gift being softened by the addition of a -two-shilling piece. He heard her say, 'This is milk money; you will not -spend it on anything else, will you?' And there had followed a few -mysterious sentences, uttered in lower tones, of which Wantley had -caught the words, 'afternoon,' 'Benediction,' 'fits,' and 'doctor.' - -At last the woman had shuffled away with her now quiescent burden, and -as they passed through the monastery gates Wantley saw with concern that -his companion looked pale and tired. 'If you propose coming back here -this afternoon, and seeing that woman again,' he said with kindly -authority, 'I will drive you over. Perhaps by that time your aunt will -be well enough to come too.' - -'Oh, I hope not!' Cecily's expression of dismay was involuntary. 'Aunt -Theresa only likes my helping poor people whom I know about already,' -she explained. - -'And does she approve of the Settlement?' He could not forbear the -question. The girl blushed and shook her head, smiling. 'Of course not. -She feels about the Settlement much as you do, only she thinks all that -sort of work ought to be left to nuns. But Mrs. Robinson persuaded the -Mother Superior of the convent where I was brought up, to write and tell -Aunt Theresa that she might at least let me try and see if I could do -what Penelope proposed.' - -'I think that Penelope has had decidedly the best of the bargain,' -Wantley rejoined dryly; for now, looking at his companion with new eyes -of solicitude, he saw the effects of that work which he also thought -might well be left to nuns, or at any rate to women older than Cecily. -But he was somewhat taken aback when, encouraged by the kindly glance, -his young companion exclaimed impulsively, 'Why are you--what makes -you--so unfair to Penelope? And why have you always refused to have -anything to do with the Settlement?' - -Wantley turned and looked at her rather grimly. 'So ho!' he said to -himself, 'my shortcomings have evidently been revealed. That's too bad!' -And then, aloud, he answered, quite gravely, 'If I am unfair to my -cousin--I mean, of course, unduly so--she is suffering for the sins of -her parents, or perhaps I should say of her father, by whom, as you are -possibly aware, I was adopted in a sort of fashion after the death of my -mother.' - -Cecily looked at him surprised. To her apprehension, the great Lord -Wantley had been one of those men who, in another and a holier age, -might well have been canonized. Of Lady Wantley she knew, or thought she -knew, less--indeed, they had never met till the evening before; but, -while admitting to herself her own complete lack of comprehension of the -older woman's peculiar religious views, Cecily was prepared to idealize -her in the double character of the famous philanthropist's widow and as -Penelope's mother. - -But Wantley, his easy-going nature now singularly moved and stirred, was -determined not to spare her. - -In short, dry sentences he told her of his happy childhood, of his -father's conversion to the Catholic faith, followed shortly after by -that now ruined father's death. Of Lord Wantley's reluctant adoption of -him, coupled with a refusal to give him the education he had himself -received, and which is, in a sense, the birthright of certain -Englishmen. - -He described, shortly indeed, but with a sharpness born of long-endured -bitterness, the years which he had spent as an idle member of Lord and -Lady Wantley's large household. Instinct warned him to pass lightly over -Penelope's share in his early troubles and humiliations; but there were -things in his recital which recalled, as almost every moving story -generally does recall, episodes in the listener's own life; and when at -last he looked at her, partly ashamed of his burst of confidence, he saw -that he had been successful in presenting his side of the story, more, -that Cecily was looking at him with new-born sympathy and interest. - -Then a slight accident turned the current of their thoughts into a -brighter and a lighter channel. Wantley suddenly dropped the heavy old -Prayer-Book of which he had taken charge, and, as it fell on to the -path, what seemed a page detached itself, and, fluttering out, was -caught between the tiny twigs of a briar-bush. As he bent to rescue and -restore, he could not help seeing that what was lying face upwards on -the mass of little leaves was one of the 'Holy Pictures' so often placed -by Catholics as markers in their books of devotion. - -On the upper half of the small white card had been pasted an inch-square -engraving of a little child guided by its guardian angel, while -underneath was rudely written, in a childish handwriting, each word so -formed as to resemble printing: 'Dear Angel, help me to-day to practise -Obedience, Punctuality, and Kindness, for the love of the Holy Child and -His blessed Mother.' - -As Wantley placed the little card back again between the leaves of -Cecily's shabby Prayer-Book, of which the title, 'The Path to Heaven,' -pleased him by its unquestioning directness, he said, smiling, 'And may -I ask if you still believe, Miss Wake, in the actual constant presence, -near to you, of a guardian angel?' - -'Of course I do!' She looked at him with wide-open eyes of surprise. - -'But,' he said deferentially, 'isn't that a little awkward sometimes, -even for you?' - -Cecily made what was for her a great mental leap. - -'Isn't everything--of that sort--a little awkward, sometimes, for all of -us?' she asked. - -'Yes,' he said; 'there must be times when guardian angels must feel -inclined to edge off somewhat, eh? or do you think they fly off for rest -and change when their charges annoy them by being contrary?' - -Cecily looked at him doubtfully. He spoke quite seriously, but she -thought it just possible that he was laughing at her. 'I suppose that -they do not remain long with very wicked people,' she said at last, and -he saw a frown of perplexity pucker her white forehead. 'But I'm sure -they do all they can to keep us good.' - -'I wonder,' he said reflectively, 'what limitation you would put to -their power? To give you an instance; you admit that had your aunt been -at church to-day you could not have taken charge of that poor baby, or -afterwards helped, as you most certainly did help, its tired mother. -Now, do you suppose that this baby's guardian angel provoked, by some -way best known to itself, your excellent aunt's headache?' - -'Laugh at me,' she said, smiling a little vexedly, 'but not at our own -or at other people's guardian angels; for I suppose even you would admit -that if they are with us they have feelings which may be hurt?' - -As he held the wicket-gate open for her to pass through from the cliff -path into the pine-wood boundary of Monk's Eype, Wantley said suddenly: -'I wonder if you have ever read a story called "In the Wrong Paradise"?' -and as Cecily shook her head he added: 'Then never do so! I am sure your -guardian angel would not at all approve of the moral it sets out to -convey.' And then, just as she was going up from the flagged terrace -into the central hall of the villa, he said, the laughter dying wholly -out of his voice: 'And if I may do so, let me tell you that I hope, with -all my heart, that I may ultimately be found worthy to enter whichever -may happen to be _your_ Paradise.' - -A look of great kindness, of understanding more than he had perhaps -meant to convey, came over Cecily's candid eyes. She made no answer, but -as she ran upstairs to her aunt's room she said to herself: 'Poor -fellow! Of course he means the Church. Oh, I must pray hard that he may -some day find his way to his father's Paradise and mine!' - - -She found her aunt lying down, and apparently asleep, on the broad -comfortable old sofa which was placed across the bottom of the bed, -opposite the window. The pretty room, hung with blue Irish linen forming -an admirable background to Mrs. Robinson's fine water-colours, looked -delightfully cool to the girl's tired eyes; the blinds had been pulled -down, and Cecily, walking on tiptoe past her aunt, sat down in a low -easy-chair, content to wait quietly till Miss Wake should open her eyes. -But the long walk, the sea-air, had made the watcher drowsy, and soon -Cecily also was asleep. - -Then, within the next few moments, a strange thing happened to Cecily -Wake. - -After what seemed a long time, she apparently awoke to a sight which -struck her as odd rather than unexpected. - -On the elder Miss Wake's chest, nestling down among the folds of her -white shawl, sat a tiny angel, whose chubby countenance was quite -familiar to Cecily, as his brown curls and pale, sensitive face -recalled, though, of course, in a benignant and peaceful sense, the -little child whom she had soothed in church. - -Cecily tried to get up and go to her aunt's assistance but something -seemed to hold her down in her chair. 'Please go away,' she heard -herself say, quite politely, but with considerable urgency. 'How can my -aunt's headache get better as long as you sit there? Besides, your -little charge is much in need of you!' - -But the angelic visitor made no response, and she noticed, with dismay, -that he wore on his chubby little face the look of intelligent obstinacy -so often seen on the faces of very young children. - -Again she said: 'Please go away. You are really not wanted here'--as a -concession she added, 'any more!' But he only flapped his little wings -defiantly, and seemed to settle down among the warm folds of Miss -Theresa's shawl as if arranging for a long stay. - -Cecily was in despair; and she began to think that everything was -strangely topsy-turvy. 'Perhaps,' she said to herself, 'he only -understands Irish, so I'll try him with French!' and, speaking the -language, to her so dear, which lends itself so singularly well to -courteous entreaty, she again begged her aunt's strange guest to take -his departure, pointing out that his mission was indeed fulfilled, and -there were reasons, imperative reasons, why he should go away. Then, to -her dismay, the little angel's eyes filled with tears, and at last he -spoke impetuously: 'Mais oui, j'ai de quoi!' he cried angrily in an -eager childish treble. - -Cecily felt herself blush as she answered hurriedly, soothingly: 'Mais, -petit ange, mon cher petit ange, je ne dis pas le contraire!' and she -had hardly time to add to herself, 'Then he _was_ Irish, after all,' -when the blinds, which were drawn down, all flapped together, although, -as Cecily often assured herself afterwards, there was absolutely no -wind, and the girl, rubbing her eyes, once more saw the white shawl as -usual crossed over primly on her aunt's chest, while Miss Theresa Wake, -opening her eyes, suddenly exclaimed: 'Is that you, my dear? I have not -been asleep exactly, but I now feel much better and less oppressed than -I did a few moments ago.' - -Cecily never told her curious experience, but a day came when the -dearest of all voices in the world asked imperiously: 'Mammy, do angels -ever come and talk to people? I mean to usual people, not to saints and -martyrs. Of course, I _know_, they do to _them_.' And Cecily answered, -very soberly: 'I think they do sometimes, my Ludovic, for an angel once -came and talked to me.' But not even to this questioner did she reveal -what the angelic visitant had said to her. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - L'amour est de toutes les passions la plus forte, parce qu'elle - attaque à la fois la tête, le coeur et le corps. - - -I - -All over the East, and even nearer home, on the Continent, old women -take a great place, and are even permitted to play a great rôle, in the -human affairs of those about them. Here in England it is otherwise. Here -they are allowed but grudgingly the privilege of standing on the bank -whence they see helpless boats, laden with freights to them so precious, -drifting down a current of whose dangerous places, of whose shoals and -shallows, their knowledge and experience are counted of no moment. - -In a French country-house three such women as Lady Wantley, Theresa -Wake, and the old nurse, Mrs. Mote, would have been the pivots round -which the younger people would have naturally revolved. At Monk's Eype -their presence--and this although each was singularly individual in -character and disposition--did not affect or modify one jot the actions -of the men and women about them. - -Mrs. Robinson, now weaving with unfaltering hand her own destiny, -absorbed in her own complicated emotions of fear, love, and pain, would -have listened incredulously indeed, had a seer, greatly daring, warned -her that each of these three old women might well, were she not careful -to respect their several prejudices, bring her to shipwreck. - -Downing, whose business it had long been to study those about him with -reference to their attitude to himself, instinctively avoided the -solitary company of Lady Wantley, for in her he recognized a possible -and formidable opponent. But of old Miss Wake's presence in the villa he -was scarcely conscious. Penelope's maid he knew to be a point of danger, -the living spark which might set all ablaze. - -The day after his coming to Monk's Eype, Sir George Downing and Mrs. -Mote had met face to face, and he had turned on his heel without a word -of greeting. Yet when he had last seen her they had parted pleasantly, -the servant believing, foolishly enough, that she and her mistress were -then seeing the last of one who had been their inseparable companion for -many, to her increasingly anxious, days. - -Mrs. Mote's crabbed face and short, ungainly figure were burnt into -Downing's memory as having cast the only shadow on the sunny stretch of -time which had so marvellously renewed his youth, brought warmth about -his chilled heart, and made the future bright exceedingly. And so the -meeting with the old nurse had been to him a sharp reminder that one -person at least at Monk's Eype already wished him ill, and would fain -see him go away for ever. - -The maid also avoided him, though she sat long hours at her window, -taking note of his comings and goings, jealously counting the moments -that her mistress chose to spend in his company, either down in the -Beach Room, or, more often, pacing up and down on the broad terrace, and -under the ilex-trees which protected from relentless sea-winds the -delicate flowering shrubs that were counted among the greatest glories -of Monk's Eype. - -It was there, under those trees, completely screened from the windows -which swept the terrace, that Mrs. Robinson preferred to spend what -leisure Sir George Downing allowed himself from his work. More than once -Motey had come down from her watching-place, and had crept into the -little pine-wood to watch, to overhear, what was being done and what was -being said in the ilex grove. But the old woman's unhappy, suspicious -eyes only saw what they had seen so often before: her mistress and -Downing walking slowly side by side, she listening, absorbed, to his -utterances. Sometimes Penelope would lay her hand a moment on his arm, -with a curious, familiar, tender gesture--curious as coming from one who -avoided alike familiarity and tenderness when dealing with her friends. - -Only once, however, had Mrs. Mote surprised a gesture which might not -have been witnessed by all the world. One afternoon when a strand of -Mrs. Robinson's beautiful hair had become loosened, and so uncoiled its -length upon her shoulder, Downing, turning towards her, had suddenly -taken it up between his fingers and raised it to his lips. Then the old -nurse had seen the bright gleam of what was so intimately a part of her -mistress mingling for a moment with the dark moustache heavily streaked -with white, and she had clenched her hands in impotent anger and -disgust. - - -II - -Her aunt's presence at Monk's Eype scarcely affected Cecily Wake. The -two had never become intimate; the girl's young eagernesses and -enthusiasms disturbed Miss Wake, and even her sunny good temper and -buoyancy were a source of irritation to one who had led so grey and -toneless a life. - -On the other hand, Miss Theresa Wake was really attached to the -beautiful woman whom she called cousin. - -She watched Penelope far more closely than the latter knew during those -still, hot August days, when the thin, shrunken figure of the spinster -lady, wrapped, in spite of the heat, in an old-fashioned cashmere shawl, -sat back in one of the hooded chairs set on the eastern side of the -terrace. When out in the open air Miss Wake always armed herself with -one of the novels which had been thoughtfully provided by her kind -hostess for her entertainment; but often she would lay the volume down -on her knee, and gaze, her dim eyes full of speculation, at Mrs. -Robinson's brilliant figure coming and going across the terrace, to and -from the studio, sometimes--nay, generally--accompanied, shadow-wise, by -the tall, lean form of Sir George Downing. - -After watching these two for a while, Miss Wake would find her -interrupted novel oddly uninteresting and dreary. - -To Cecily these holiday days were not passing by as happily as she had -thought they would. She felt for the first time in her short life -disturbed, she knew not why; distressed, she knew not by what. - -The hours spent with Mrs. Robinson, doing work she had looked forward to -doing, seemed strangely dull compared with those briefer moments when -Wantley strolled or sat by her side, looking down smiling into her eyes, -asking whimsical questions concerning the Settlement, with a view--or so -he said--of settling there himself, if Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret -would accept him as a disciple! - -Twice in those ten days he had gone with her to early Mass at Beacon -Abbas; and oh, how pleasant had been the walks along the cliff path, how -soothing the half-hours spent in the beautiful chapel, with Wantley -standing and kneeling by her side. But on the second occasion of their -return from Beacon Abbas Penelope had greeted the two walkers, or rather -had greeted Cecily, with a questioning piercing look. Was it one of -dissatisfaction, of slight jealousy, or simply of surprise? That one -glance--and Wantley was well aware that it was so--put an end to any -further joint expeditions to the monastery chapel. - -During these same unquiet days, when Cecily's heart would beat without -reason, when she seemed to be always waiting, she knew not for what, the -girl became fond, in a shy, childish way, of Penelope's mother. - -Perhaps because she was utterly unlike any other woman Cecily Wake had -ever seen, or even imagined, Lady Wantley exercised a curious -fascination over her heart and mind. The tall, stately figure, wrapped -in sweeping black and white garments, was seen but seldom in the -sunshine, out of doors. Since her widowhood she had lived a life -withdrawn from the world about her, and she had occupied what had been a -sudden and unwelcome leisure by writing two mystical volumes, which had -enjoyed great popularity among those ever ready to welcome a new -interpretation of the more esoteric passages of the Scriptures. - -When staying at Monk's Eype, Lady Wantley would spend long hours of -solitude in the Picture Room; and there Cecily would sometimes find -her, absorbed in a strangely-worded French or English book of devotion, -from which, looking up, she would make the girl read her short passages. -At other moments Cecily would discover her engaged in writing long -letters of spiritual advice to correspondents, almost always unknown to -her, who had read her books, and who wished to consult her concerning -their own spiritual difficulties and perplexities. - -When not thus employed Lady Wantley sat idle, her long, -delicately-modelled hands clasped loosely together, enjoying, as she -believed, actual communion with her own dead--with the fine, -true-hearted father, whose earthly memory was so dear to her; with the -beloved mother, to whom as she grew older she felt herself to be growing -more alike and nearer; with the husband who, however stern and -awe-inspiring to others, had ever been fond and tender to herself. The -little group of strangely assorted souls seemed ever gathered about her, -and in no distant, inaccessible heaven. - -Once, when Cecily Wake had come upon her in one of these strange -companied trances, Lady Wantley had said very simply: 'I have been -telling Penelope's father of her many perfections: of her goodness to -those who, if they are the disinherited of the earth, are yet the heirs -of the kingdom--those whom he himself ever made his special care. I -think, dear child, that, if you would not mind my doing so, I will also -some day tell him--my husband, I mean--of you, and of Penelope's love -and care for you.' And she had added, as if to herself: 'But how could -she be otherwise? Was she not, even before her birth, dedicated to the -Lord in His temple?' - -Lady Wantley was sometimes in a sterner mood, when hell seemed as near -as--ay, nearer than--heaven. Evil spirits then appeared to encompass -her, and she would feel herself to be wrestling with their dread master -himself. When this was so, her delicate, bloodless face would become -transfigured, and the large, heavy-lidded grey eyes would seem to flash -out fire, while Cecily listened, awed, to strange majestic utterances, -of which she knew not that their source was the Apocalypse. - -That this convent-bred girl had a genuine belief in the Evil One, and a -due fear of his cunning ways, was undoubtedly a link between Lady -Wantley and herself; as was also the softer fact of her great affection -for the one creature whom Lady Wantley loved with simple human devotion. -After hearing the older woman talk, as she so often did talk, of her -loved and admired daughter, Cecily would feel grieved, even a little -perplexed, when next she perceived how lightly Penelope esteemed this -boundless mother-love. - -In no material thing did Mrs. Robinson neglect Lady Wantley. Every -morning she would make her way into the Picture Room, ready with some -practical suggestion designed to further her mother's comfort during the -coming day; but to Penelope, much as she loved her, Lady Wantley never -alluded to the matters which lay nearest to her heart. She found it -easier to do so to the Catholic girl than to the creature she had -herself borne, over whose upbringing she had watched so zealously, and, -as she sometimes admitted to herself in moments of rare self-sincerity, -with so little success. - - -III - -Wantley only so far remembered the presence at Monk's Eype of Penelope's -mother as to thank Heaven that she had nothing in common with the -match-making dowagers, of whom he had met certain types in his way -through life, and who at this moment would have brushed some of the -bloom from his fragrant romance. - -Absorbed as he had already become in the novel feeling of considering -another more than himself, he yet found the time now and again to wonder -why it was that he saw so little of the remarkable man to whom he stood -in at least the nominal relation of host. That first evening they had -sat up together long into the night, and there had been, not only no -apparent barrier between them, but the younger man had been both -fascinated and interested by the other's account of the land where he -had already spent the best half of his life. Such had been the magic of -Downing's manner, such the infectious quality of his sustained -enthusiasm, that for a moment Wantley had wondered whether he also might -not create a career for himself in that country of which the boundless -resources and equally boundless necessities had now been made real to -him for the first time. - -Then, as it had seemed, gradually, but looking back he saw that the -change had come very quickly, Wantley had perceived that Downing avoided -instead of seeking or welcoming his company. True, the other man was -engaged in heavy work, spending much of his time in the Beach Room, and -often returning there late in the evening; but even so Wantley could not -understand why Downing now seemed desirous of seeing as little of him as -possible. The knowledge made him a little sore, the more so that he -attributed the change in the other's manner to some careless word -uttered by Penelope. - -Another grievance, and one which pushed the other into the background of -his mind, was the fact that Mrs. Robinson, more capricious, more -restless than her wont, absorbed each day much of the time and attention -of Cecily Wake. That the latter apparently regarded this constant call -on her leisure as a privilege, in no sense softened the young man's -irritation: it seemed to him that his cousin took an impish delight in -frustrating his attempts--somewhat shamefaced at first, openly eager as -time went on--to be with the girl. - -Wantley consoled himself by bestowing on the aunt the time and the -attention he would fain have bestowed on the niece. The elder Miss Wake -soon came to regard him as an exceptionally agreeable and well-bred man, -with a strong leaning to Catholicism--even, she sometimes ventured to -hope, to the priesthood; for many were Lord Wantley's questions -concerning monasteries and convents, and had he not on two week-day -mornings escorted her niece to Mass at Beacon Abbas? According to Miss -Wake's limited knowledge of the ways of men, and especially of the ways -of noblemen, such zeal, if it involved early rising, was quite -exceptional, and must surely be done with an object. - -Poor Wantley, unconscious of these hopes, his sense of humour for the -moment more or less suspended, found the mornings especially hang heavy -on his hands, for Cecily, after an hour spent with Penelope in the -studio, generally disappeared upstairs into her own room till lunch; and -this absorption, as he supposed, in business connected with the -Melancthon Settlement did not increase his liking for the place which -filled so much of Cecily's heart, and took up so much of the time he -might have spent with her. - -At last the day came when the young man solved the innocent mystery of -how Cecily Wake spent her mornings. Passing along the terrace, he -overheard a fragmentary conversation which showed him that his cousin -was using her young friend as secretary, handing over to her the large -correspondence which dogs the hours of every man and woman known to have -the disposal of great wealth. When there had been no one at hand more -compliant, Wantley had himself undertaken the task of dealing with the -hundred and one absurd, futile, often pathetic, requests for help, -which filled by far the greater part of Mrs. Robinson's letter-bag. Too -well he knew the tenor of the various remarks which now fell upon his -ear; one sentence, however, at once compelled closer attention: 'I have -had a letter--to which I should like you also to send an answer. It's -from David Winfrith. Please say I'm glad he's back, and that we will -drive over there to-morrow. Write to him and say I have asked you to do -so, as I am too busy to answer his letter to-day.' - -Wantley, with keen irritation, heard the low, hesitating answer: 'If you -don't mind, I would so much prefer not to write to Mr. Winfrith. You -know he has never liked me, and I am sure he would feel very much -annoyed if he thought'--the soft voice paused, but went bravely on--'if -he thought I had seen any letter of his to you----' - -'But you have not seen his letter! Still, I dare say you're right. We -will drive over there to-day--the more so that I have something else to -do in that neighbourhood.' - -A moment later Wantley heard the door of the studio opening and -shutting, and knew that his cousin was alone. He walked in through the -window prepared to tell Mrs. Robinson, and that very plainly, his -opinion of what he considered her gross selfishness. But quickly she -carried the war into the enemy's country. - -'I saw you,' she said, with heightened colour, 'and I didn't think it -very pretty of you to stand listening out there!' - -Then, struck by the look of suppressed anger which was his only answer, -she added: 'Perhaps I've been rather selfish the last few days, but you -and she see quite as much of each other as is good for you, just at -present. And, Ludovic, I've been longing to show you something which, I -think even you will agree, exactly fits your present condition.' - -She took from the table a prettily bound volume, in which had been -thrust an envelope as marker. 'Listen!' she cried, and then declaimed -with emphasis, and partly in the faultless French which he had always -envied her: - -'_First Old Bachelor_: "Et les jeunes filles? Aime-tu ça? Toi?" - -'_Second Old Bachelor_: "Hélas! mon ami, je commence!"' - -Wantley bit his lip. He could not help smiling. 'You have not shown her -that?' he asked suspiciously. - -'No, indeed! How could you think such a thing, even of me?' Mrs. -Robinson rose; she came and stood by him, and as their eyes met he saw -that she was strangely moved. 'Ah, Ludovic,' she said softly, 'you are a -lucky man!' - -He looked away. 'Do you really think that she likes being with me?' he -asked awkwardly. - -'Yes, even better than with me--now!' The young man knew, rather than -saw, that her eyes were full of tears, and in spite of his absorption in -himself and his own affairs, he found time to wonder why Penelope was so -unlike herself--so gentle, so moved. Her next words confirmed his -feeling of uneasy astonishment, for, 'You won't ever set her against -me,' she asked, 'whatever happens, will you?' - -Wantley felt amused and a little touched. 'My dear Penelope!' he cried, -'I think it's my turn now to ask you how you could think such a thing, -even of me? Also I must say you do her a great injustice. Why, she loves -you with all her heart! Not even'--he used the first simile that came -into his mind--'not even an angel with a flaming sword would keep her -from you.' - -'No; but some Roman Catholic notion of obedience to one's lawful owner -might prove more tangible than a flaming sword!' - -The harsh words grated on Wantley's ear; he wondered why women -sometimes put things so much more coarsely than a man, in a similar -case, would do. - -But before he could answer Penelope had moved away, and, with a complete -change of voice, and a return of her usual rather disdainful serenity of -manner, was saying: 'I see Sir George Downing coming up from the Beach -Room. By the way, I want to tell you that he finds he can't work -properly with so many people about, and I have suggested that he should -put in a few days at Kingpole Farm. I believe the lodgings there are -very comfortable, and the place has the further advantage of being near -Shagisham. You know he wishes to meet David Winfrith, and I thought, -perhaps, that the introduction'--Penelope now spoke with nervous -hesitation--'would come better from you.' - -Wantley assented cordially, pleased that his cousin should for once -propose a common-sense plan in which he, Wantley, would play a proper -part. - - -Wantley, as Penelope shrewdly suspected--for to her he had never worn -his heart upon his sleeve--had spent from boyhood onwards much more time -than was good for his soul's health in self-pity and self-examination. - -This was especially true during that portion of the year when he was in -England, and especially the case when he was staying, as he did each -summer, at Monk's Eype. In his heart he grudged his beautiful cousin the -possession of a place created by a man to whom they stood in equal -relationship, but which, as he never failed to remind himself when in -Dorset, had always belonged to the Lord Wantley of the day. At Monk's -Eype he felt himself a stranger where he ought to have felt at home; and -this was the more painful to him because the villa had been the creation -of the one man with whom he believed himself to be in closer affinity -than with any other former bearer of his name. - -During his long idle youth, Wantley's happiest moments had been those -spent in wandering along the byways of France, Spain, and Germany. He -had been denied the ordinary upbringing of his rank and race, but, -during the long Continental journeys in which he had been the companion -of Lord and Lady Wantley and their daughter, he had learnt and seen much -which in later life was to cause him abiding pleasure and comfort, the -more so as he was a fair artist, and came of scholar stock. - -Brought up by a mother to whom her son's future had been the only -consoling thought in a middle age of singular trials and perplexities, -Ludovic Wantley had from childhood realized, to an almost pathetic -extent, the pleasant possibilities of life as a British peer. But very -soon after he had succeeded his cousin he discovered that much of the -glories, and all the pleasures attached to the position would be denied -him, partly from want of means, more perhaps from lack of that -robustness of outlook induced, not wholly to his spiritual advantage, in -the average public school boy. - -When abroad Wantley never became, as it were, forgetful of his -identity--never affected the incognito so dear, and sometimes so useful, -to the travelling English peer. Indeed, young Lord Wantley had soon -become the Continental innkeeper's ideal 'milord,' content to pay well -for indifferent accommodation, delighted rather than otherwise to meet -with those trifling mishaps which annoy so acutely the ordinary tourist, -and content to come back, winter after winter, to the same auberge, -osteria, or gasthaus. - -In yet another matter he differed greatly from the conventional -travelled and travelling Englishman: he came and went alone, apparently -feeling no need, as did most of his countrymen, of congenial -companionship. One day the kindly landlady of one of those stately -posting inns, yclept 'Le Tournebride,' which may still be found -scattered through provincial France, had ventured to suggest that the -next time she had the pleasure of seeing him she hoped he would come -accompanied by 'une belle milady.' He had smiled as he had answered: -'Jamais! jamais! jamais!' But that particular 'Tournebride' had known -him no more. - -Wantley had thought much of marriage. What man so situated does not do -so? He knew, or thought he knew, that to him money and marriage must be -synonymous terms, and the knowledge had angered him. In one of his rare -moments of confidence he had said to his cousin: 'Like your eccentric -friend who always knew when there was a baronet in the room, I always -know when there's an heiress there. And, what is more serious, her -presence always induces a feeling of repulsion!' - -Penelope had laughed suddenly, and then changed the subject. Any -allusion to Wantley's monetary affairs held for her a sharp if small -pin-prick of conscience. For a while she had tried, it must be admitted -in but a fitful and desultory way, to bring him in contact with the type -of English girl, often, let it be said in parenthesis, a not unpleasing -type of modern girlhood, who is willing to consider very seriously, and -in all good faith, the preliminaries to a bargain in which she and her -fortune, a peer and his peerage, are to be the human goods weighed -opposite one another in the balance of life. - -There had also been periods in Wantley's life when he had found himself -in love with love, and ready to weave an ardent romance round every -pretty sentimentalist in search of an adventure. But these feelings had -never deepened into one so strong as to compel the thought of an -enduring tie. His fastidious critical temperament shrank from concrete -realities, and as time went on he had felt, over-sensitively, how little -he had to offer to a woman of the kind to whom he sometimes felt a -strong if temporary attraction. - -As he grew older, passed the border-line of thirty, the longing for the -stability afforded by a happy marriage appealed to him, for awhile, far -more than it had done when he was a younger man. And so for some two -years, being then much abroad, he had toyed with the idea of making, in -France or in Italy, a _mariage de convenance_ with some well-born, -well-dowered girl who should leave her convent-school to become his -wife, and with whom he would promise himself, when in the mood, an -after-marriage romance not lacking in piquancy. - -Unfortunately, Wantley was an Englishman, and by no means as -unconventional as he liked to think himself. Accordingly, when he came -to consider, and even more when he came to discuss, with some -good-natured French or Italian acquaintance, the preliminaries of such a -marriage as had appealed to his fancy, his gorge rose at certain sides -of the question then closely presented to his notice, and finally he put -the idea from him. - - -This spring Wantley had returned to England, ready, as usual, to spend -the summer in half-unwilling attendance on his lovely cousin, and -further than he had been for many years from all thought of marriage. - -Then, with what seemed at times incredible and disconcerting swiftness, -had come over him, in these few days of sunny quietude, a limitless -unreasoning tenderness for a young creature utterly unlike his former -ideals of womanhood. Even when aghast at the thought of how easily he -might have missed her on the way of his life--even when he felt her -already so much a part of himself that he could no longer have described -her, as he had first seen her, to a stranger--Wantley admitted, nay, -forced on himself the knowledge, that she was not beautiful, not even -particularly gifted or clever. One reason why he had always displayed so -sincere a lack of liking for the heiresses, willing to be peeresses, -whom Penelope had thrust upon his notice, had been that to him they had -all looked so unaccountably plain; and yet, compared with Cecily Wake, -he knew that more than one of these young women might well have been -considered a beauty. - -Wantley had always been fond of analyzing his own emotions, and now the -simplicity, as well as the strength, of his feeling amazed him. When -with Cecily Wake he felt that he was journeying through some delicious -unknown country, the old Paradise rediscovered by them two, she still a -sweet mysterious stranger, whose better acquaintance he was making day -by day. But when she was no longer by his side, and there were many -hours he could only spend in thinking of her, then Wantley felt as a -mother feels about her own little child, as if he had always known her, -always loved her with this placid and yet uneasy care, this trusting and -yet watchful tenderness. - -He had ever deprecated enthusiasm, and had actively disliked -philanthropists, as only those who in early youth are constrained to -endure the company of enthusiasts and the atmosphere of philanthropy can -deprecate the one and dislike the other. Well, now, so the young man -whimsically told himself, had come what his old enemies--those who had -gathered about his uncle and aunt in days he hated to remember--would -doubtless have recognised as a distinct 'call.' It seemed to him that he -had made a good beginning that first Sunday afternoon, when he had kept -the aunt in play while the niece had accomplished her prosaic errand of -mercy. - - -The same evening, late at night, he had gone into the room which had -been the great Lord Wantley's study, and, under the grim eyes of the man -who had never judged him fairly, he had pulled out faded Blue-Books, -reports, and pamphlets which had been the tools of a mighty worker for -his kind. Then, lamp in hand, he had wandered on into the studio, and -there, oddly out of keeping with their fellows on the pretty quaintly -placed white shelves framing the door, he had found newer, more -digestible, contributions to the problems to which he was now, half -unwillingly, turning his mind. - -He took down a slim, ill-printed volume, bearing on the title-page the -name of Philip Hammond, and composed of essays which had first appeared -in the more serious reviews. Setting down his lamp on Penelope's deal -painting-table, he opened the little book with prejudice, read on with -increasing attention, and finally placed it back on the shelf with -respect. - -Even so, his lips curled as he remembered the only time he had seen the -writer. The two men had met by accident in Mrs. Robinson's London house, -and Wantley had been amused by Hammond's obvious--too obvious--devotion -to the beautiful widow of the man whose aims and whose ideals he had -known how to describe so well in this very book. For the hundredth time -Wantley asked himself in what consisted Penelope's power of attracting -such men as had been apparently Melancthon Robinson, as was undoubtedly -Philip Hammond, as had become--to give the clinching instance--David -Winfrith. - -The day before, when driving back to Monk's Eype from the place where he -had been spending a few pleasant days, he had passed the two riders, and -had seen them so deeply absorbed in one another's conversation that they -had ridden by without seeing him. - -For a moment, as he had driven by quickly in a dogcart belonging to his -late host, and therefore unfamiliar to Penelope and her companion, he -had caught a look--an unguarded, unmasked, passionate look--on -Winfrith's strong, plain face. - -What glance, what word on his companion's part, had brought it there? -That Winfrith should allow himself to be thus moved angered Wantley. He -set himself to recall very deliberately certain things that his mother, -acting with strange lack of good feeling, had told him, when he was -still a boy, concerning Lady Wantley's mother, Penelope's grandmother. -He wondered if Penelope _knew_. On the whole he thought not. But in any -case, who could doubt from whom she had had transmitted to her that -uncanny power of bewitching men, of keeping them faithful to herself, -while she remained, or at least so he felt persuaded, quite unaffected -by the passions she delighted in unloosing? - -In his own mind, and not for the first time, he judged his cousin very -hardly. And yet, after that evening, Wantley never thought so really ill -of her again, for, when he felt tempted to do so, he seemed to hear the -words which he had heard said that day for the first, though by no means -for the last, time: 'Why are you--what makes you--so unfair to -Penelope?' - -And even as he walked through the sleeping, silent house he reminded -himself, repentantly, that his cousin's love-compelling power extended -to what was already to him the best and purest, as it was so soon to be -the dearest, thing on earth. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - 'La Passion, c'est l'ascétisme profâne, aussi rude que ascétisme - religieux.'--ANATOLE FRANCE. - - -I - -Within two hours of his curious conversation with his cousin, Wantley -saw Mrs. Robinson and Cecily Wake start off, alone, for Shagisham. - -With his hands in his pockets, his head slightly thrown back, standing -in a characteristic attitude, the young man watched them drive away in -the curious low dogcart which had been designed by Penelope for her own -use. As he turned back into the hall an unaccountable depression seized -on him. The memory of his cousin's words concerning Cecily was far from -giving him pleasure. He felt as if in listening he had been treacherous, -not so much to the girl as to their own ideal relation to one another. - -It is surely a mistake to say, as is so often said, that uncertainty and -doubt are the invariable accompaniments of the beginning of a great -passion. Wantley had felt, almost from the first, as sure of her as he -had felt of himself, and yet his reverence for Cecily was great, and his -opinion of his own merits most modest. - -Death might come, and now he had become strangely afraid of death, but -Cecily, living, he knew would and must belong to him. He was so sure of -this, and he loved her so well as she was, that he had no desire, as -yet, to do that which would let all the world share his dear mysterious -secret, become witness of his deep content. And so, though Penelope had -been very gentle--indeed, save at one moment, very delicate in what she -had implied rather than said--Wantley would have been better pleased -had the words remained unuttered. - -Then his mind went on to wonder why his cousin had seemed so distressed -and so unlike her restrained and, with him, always wholly possessed -self. What had signified her odd words, her pleading look, so full of -unwonted humility? Things were not going well with Wantley to-day, and -his vague discontent was suddenly increased by the recollection that -George Downing was leaving Monk's Eype. - -Since Downing's arrival Wantley had not once been down to the Beach -Room. Mrs. Robinson knew how to insure that her wishes, whatever they -might be, should be known and respected, and so, partly in obedience to -a word said by her regarding her famous guest's dislike of interruption, -partly because he had felt Downing's manner become more and more frigid -during the brief moments when the two men were obliged to place -themselves in the courteous juxtaposition of host and guest, the younger -had studiously avoided forcing his company on the elder. - -Now, remembering Penelope's words concerning the part he was to play in -the matter of introducing Downing to David Winfrith, he felt that he -might without indiscretion seek the other out. - - -Wantley was surprised by the warmth of his welcome. Downing seemed -really glad to have his solitude invaded, and a moment later his -visitor, sitting with his back to the broad window, at right angles to -the older man's powerful figure, was realizing with some amusement and -astonishment how carefully Penelope's old play-room had been arranged -with a view to its present occupant's convenience and even comfort. - -His cool, observant eyes first took note of the camp-bed, only partly -hidden by the splendid Chinese screen, never before moved from its place -in the great Picture Room of the villa; then of the strips of felt laid -down over the oak floor; of the comfortable chair in which Downing was -now leaning back--lastly, his glance rested on the wide writing-table, -covered with papers, note-books, and a map held flatly to the wind-swept -surface of the table by a small revolver. - -Wantley also perceived a pile of rugs, generally kept in the hall of the -villa, for which he had searched in vain a day or two before, when he -wanted something to wrap about the knees of old Miss Wake. This, then, -was where they had been spirited away! - -He charitably reminded himself that Persian Downing, in spite of his -straight, long figure, his keen eyes, his powerful chin and jaw, was no -longer a young man, and with much living alone had doubtless found time -to acquire the art of securing for himself the utmost physical comfort. -Wantley's admiration for him somewhat unreasonably declined in -consequence, and no suspicion that these little arrangements, these -little luxuries, might be the sole fruit of another person's intelligent -thoughtfulness even crossed his mind. - -They were both smoking--Downing an old-fashioned pipe, and his visitor -one of the small French cigarettes of which he always carried a store -about with him, and which had been the most tangible sign of his release -from thraldom, the great Lord Wantley's horror and contempt of smoking -and of smokers having been only equalled by his abhorrence of drinking -and of drunkards. - -The early afternoon light, reflected from the sea and sand outside, -flooded the curious cavernous room with radiance, throwing the upper -half of Downing's broad, lean figure in high relief. Wantley, himself in -shadow, looked at him with renewed interest and curiosity, and as he did -so he realized that there must have been a time when the man before him -would have been judged singularly handsome. Now the large features were -thin to attenuation--the brown skin roughened by much exposure to heat -and dust; the grey eyes, gleaming under the bushy eyebrows, sunken and -tired; while the thick moustache, streaked with white, hid the firm, -delicately modelled mouth, and gave an appearance of age to the face. - -'If you do not find the farm comfortable,' said Wantley, breaking what -had begun to be an oppressive silence, 'I hope you will return here for -awhile. There won't be a soul in London yet.' - -'Excepting my old friend, Mr. Julius Gumberg,' objected Downing. 'I -believe he has not been out of town for years, and I sometimes think -that in this, at any rate, he has proved himself wiser than some of his -fellows.' - -'Mr. Julius Gumberg,' said the other, smiling, 'has always seemed to me, -since I first had the honour of his acquaintance, to be the ideal -Epicurean--the man who has mastered the art of selecting his pleasures.' - -'True!' cried Downing abruptly. 'But you must admit that not the least -of his pleasures has always been that of benefiting his friends.' - -'But that, after all, is only a refined form of self-indulgence,' -objected Wantley, who had never been in a position so to indulge -himself. - -An amused smile broke over the other's stern mouth and jaw. 'That theory -embodies the ethical nihilism of the old Utilitarians. Of course you are -not serious; if you were, your position would be akin to that of the -Persian mystics who teach the utter renunciation of self, the sinking of -the ego in the divine whole. But then,' added Downing, fixing his eyes -on his companion, and speaking as if to himself--'but then comes the -question, What is renunciation? The Persian philosopher would give an -answer very different from that offered by the Christian.' - -'Renunciation is surely the carrying out of the ascetic ideal--something -more actively painful than the mere doing without.' Wantley spoke -diffidently. - -'Undoubtedly that is what the Christian means by the word, but is there -not the higher degree of perfection involved in the French saint's -dictum?' Downing stopped short; then, with very fair, albeit -old-fashioned, accent, he uttered the phrase, '_Rien demander et rien -refuser._ Of course, the greatest difference between the point of view -held by the Persian sages and, say, the old monkish theologians is that -concerning human love.' - -Wantley leaned forward; he threw his cigarette out of the window. 'Ah,' -he said, 'that interests me! My own father became a Roman Catholic, an -act on his part, by the way, of supreme renunciation. I myself can see -no possible hope of finality anywhere else; but I think that, as regards -human love, I should be Persian rather than monkish.' He added, smiling -a little: 'I suppose the Persian theory of love is summed up by -FitzGerald;' and diffidently he quoted the most famous of the quatrains, -lingering over the beautiful words, for, as he uttered them, he applied -them, quite consciously, to himself and Cecily Wake. What wilderness -with her but would be Paradise? - -Her face rose up before him as he had seen it for a moment the day -before, when, coming suddenly upon her in the little wood, her honest -childish eyes had shone out welcome. - -Downing looked at him thoughtfully. 'Ah, no; the Persian mystic of -to-day would by no means assent to such simplicity of outlook. Jami -rather than Omar summed up the national philosophy. The translation is -not comparable, but, still, 'twill serve to explain to you the Persian -belief that renunciation of self may be acquired through the medium of a -merely human love;' and he repeated the lines: - - - 'Though in this world a hundred tasks thou tryest, - 'Tis love alone which from thyself will save thee; - Even from earthly love thy face avert not, - Since to the real it may serve to raise thee.' - - -'That,' cried Wantley eagerly, 'absolutely satisfies me, and strikes me -as being the highest truth!' - -Downing again smiled--a quick, humorous smile. 'No doubt,' he said -rather dryly, 'so thought the student who, seeking a great sage in order -to be shown the way of spiritual perfection, received for answer: "If -your steps have not yet trod the pathway of love, go hence, seek love, -and, having met it, then return to me." The theory that true love, even -if ill-bestowed, partakes of the Divine, is an essential part of the -Sufi philosophy.' - -'And yet,' objected Wantley, 'there are times when love, even if well -bestowed, may have to be withdrawn, lest it should injure the creature -beloved.' - -'So I should once have said,' answered Downing, leaning forward and -straightening himself in his chair; 'but now I am inclined to think that -that theory has been responsible for much wrong and pain. I myself, as a -young man, was greatly injured by holding for a time this very view. I -was attracted to a married woman, who soon obtained over me an -extraordinary and wholly pure influence. But you know what the world is -like; I cannot suppose that in these matters it has altered since my -day. It came to my knowledge that our friendship was arousing a certain -amount of comment, and so, after much painful thought and discussion -with myself, I made up my mind--wrongly, as I now believe--to withdraw -myself from the connection.' He added with a certain effort: 'To this -determination--come to, I can assure you and myself, from the highest -motives--I trace, in looking back, some unhappiness to her, and to me -the utter shipwreck of what were then my worldly chances. My withdrawal -from this lady's influence brought me into contact with another and a -very evil personality. Now, had I been then, as I now am, a student of -Persian philosophy, I might be----' - -Downing stopped speaking abruptly. As he threw himself back, his great -powerful figure seemed to collapse. Wantley looked at him, surprised and -greatly touched by the confidence. - -'I will tell you,' resumed Downing, after a long pause, 'of another -Persian belief, to which I now fully adhere. The sages say that as God -is, of course, wholly lacking in _bukhl_--that is, stinginess or -meanness--it is impossible for him to withhold from any man the thing -for which he strives with sufficient earnestness; and this,' he added, -looking at his companion, 'I have myself found to be true. If a man -devotes all his energies to the pursuit of spiritual knowledge, he -becomes in time----' - -'Automatically holy,' suggested Wantley, smiling. - -'And capable,' concluded Downing, 'of accomplishing what we call -miracles.' - -'But to such a one surely human love would be denied, even in Persia?' - -'Undoubtedly, yes. But the man who has striven successfully on a lower -plane, whose object has been to compass worldly power and the defeat of -his enemies--to him human love is not only not denied, but may, as we -have seen, bring him nearer to the Divine.' - -'But meanwhile,' objected Wantley, 'love, and especially the pursuit of -the beloved, must surely stay his ambition, and even interfere with his -success?' - -'Only inasmuch as it may render him more sensitive to physical danger -and less defiant of death.' - -The young man had expected a very different answer. 'Yes,' he said -tentatively; 'you mean that a soldier, if a lover, is less inclined to -display reckless bravery than those among his comrades who have not the -same motive for self-preservation?' - -'No, no!' exclaimed Downing impatiently; 'I do not mean that at all! All -history is there to prove the contrary. I was not thinking of -straightforward death in any shape, but of treachery, of assassination. -The man who loves'--he hesitated, his voice softened, altered in -quality--'above all, the man who knows himself to be beloved, is more -alive, more sensitive to the fear of annihilation, than he who only -lives to accomplish certain objects. The knowledge that this is so might -well make a man pause--during the brief moments when pausing is -possible--and it has undoubtedly led many a one to put deliberately from -himself all thought of love.' - -Wantley looked at him with some curiosity, wondering whether his words -had a personal application. - -'Now, take my own case,' continued Downing gravely. 'I am in quite -perpetual danger of assassination, and in this one matter, at any rate, -I am a fatalist. But should I have the right to ask a woman to share, -not only the actual risk, but also the mental strain? I once should have -said no; I now say yes.' - -Wantley was too surprised to speak. - -There was a pause, then Downing spoke again, but in a different tone: -'Oddly enough, the first time was the most nearly successful. In fact, -the person who had me drugged--perhaps I should say poisoned--succeeded -in his object, which was to obtain a paper which I had on my person. -Papers, letters, documents of every kind, are associated in my mind with -mischief, and I always get rid of them as soon as possible. Mr. Gumberg -has boxes full of papers I have sent him at intervals from Persia. I -have arranged with him that if anything happens to me they are to be -sent off to the Foreign Office. Once there'--he threw his head back and -laughed grimly--'they would probably never be looked at again. In no -case have I ever about me any papers or letters; everything of the kind -is locked away.' - -'Yes; but you have to carry a key,' objected Wantley. - -'There you have me! I do carry a key. One is driven to trust either a -human being or a lock. I prefer the lock.' - - -Wantley, as he left the Beach Room, felt decidedly more cheerful. The -conversation had interested and amused him. Above all, he had been moved -by the recital of Downing's early romance, and he wondered idly who the -lady in question could have been, whether she was still living, and -whether Downing ever had news of her. - -During the whole of their talk there had been no word, no hint, of the -existence of the other's wife, who, as Wantley, by a mere chance word -uttered in his presence in the house where he had recently been staying, -happened to know, was even now in England, the honoured guest of one of -his uncle's old fellow-workers. - -He said to himself that there was a fascination about Downing, a -something which might even now make him beloved by the type of -woman--Wantley imagined the meek, affectionate, and intensely feminine -type of woman--who is attracted by that air of physical strength which -is so often allied, in Englishmen, to mental power. He felt that the man -he had just left, sitting solitary, had in his nature the capacity of -enjoying ideal love and companionship, and the young man, regarding -himself as so blessed, regretted that this good thing had been denied to -the man who had spoken of it with so much comprehension. - -Slowly making his way upwards from the shore, Wantley turned aside, and -lingered a few moments on the second of the three terraces. Here, in -this still, remote place, on this natural ledge of the cliff, guarded -by a stone balustrade which terminated at intervals with fantastic urns, -now gay with geranium blossoms, gaining intensity of colour by the -background of blue sky and bluer waters, he had only the day before, for -a delicious hour, read aloud to Cecily Wake. - -From his father Wantley had inherited, and as a boy acquired, an -exceptional love and knowledge of old English poetry, and, giving but -grudging and unwilling praise to modern verse, he had been whimsically -pleased to discover that to the girl Chaucer and La Fontaine were more -familiar names than Browning and Tennyson, of whose works, indeed, she -had been ignorant till she went to the Settlement, where, however, -Philip Hammond had soon made her feel terribly ashamed of her ignorance. - -Standing there, his thoughts of Cecily, of Downing, of Persian -mysticism, chasing one another through his mind, Wantley suddenly -remembered Miss Theresa Wake, doubtless still sitting solitary in her -hooded chair. - - -II - -Cecily's aunt, whom he himself already secretly regarded with the not -altogether uncritical eye of a relation, was to Wantley a new and -amusing variety of old lady. Miss Theresa Wake had the appearance, -common to so many women of her generation, of having been petrified in -early middle age. A brown hair front lent spurious youth to the thin, -delicate face, and her slight, elegant figure was only now becoming -bent. It was impossible to imagine her young, but equally difficult to -believe that she would ever grow really old. - -The young man who aspired to the honour of becoming in due course her -kinsman, found a constant source of amusement in the fact that her -sincere, unaffected piety was joined to a keen, almost morbid, interest -in any worldly matter affecting her acquaintances. When with Miss Wake -it was positively difficult for a sympathetic person to keep from -mentioning people, and so, 'I think we shall have David Winfrith here in -a few minutes,' he said, when, having sought her out, he was anxious to -make amends for his neglect. 'Penelope and your niece will probably -bring him back. My cousin is very anxious that he should meet Sir George -Downing, who is leaving soon.' - -'Leaving soon? He will be greatly missed.' - -The remark was uttered primly, and yet, as Wantley felt, with some -significance. The phrase diverted him, it seemed so absurdly -inappropriate; for Downing had stood, and that to a singular degree, -apart from the ordinary life of the villa. - -But the old spinster lady was pursuing her own line of thought. 'I -suppose,' she said hesitatingly, 'that the Settlement would not be -affected should Penelope marry again? Of course, I am interested in the -matter on account of my niece.' - -Wantley looked at her, surprised. 'I don't see why it should make the -slightest difference, the more so that David Winfrith has of late years -taken a great part in the management of the Melancthon Settlement--in -fact, the place has been the great tie between them. I should not care -myself to spend the money of a man to whom my wife had once been -married, but I am sure Winfrith will feel no such scruple, and the -possession of the Robinson fortune might make years of difference to him -in attaining what is, I suppose, his supreme ambition. After all, and of -course you must not think that I am for a moment comparing the two men, -where would Dizzy have been without Mrs. Lewis?' - -'But what would Mr. Winfrith have to do with it?' inquired Miss Wake. -'Was he a friend of Penelope's husband? How could he influence the -disposal of the Robinson fortune?' - -It was Wantley's turn to look, and to be, astonished. 'I understood we -were speaking of Penelope's marrying again,' he said quickly, 'and I -thought that you, like myself, had come to the conclusion that she would -in time make up her mind to marry Winfrith. He's been devoted to her -ever since she can remember. Why, they were once actually engaged, and I -should never be surprised any time, any moment--to-day, for -instance--were she to tell us that they were to be married.' - -The old lady remained silent, but he realized that her silence was not -one of consent. 'Surely you were thinking of David Winfrith?' he -repeated. 'There has never been, in a serious sense, anyone else.' - -A little colour came to Miss Wake's thin, wrinkled cheeks, and she began -to look very uncomfortable. 'I was thinking of someone very different,' -she said at last, 'but you have made me feel that I was quite wrong.' - -An odious suspicion darted into the young man's mind. He suddenly felt -both angry and disgusted. After all this constant dwelling on other -people and their affairs must often lead to ridiculous and painful -mistakes, to unwarrantable suspicions. 'You surely cannot mean----' he -began rather sternly, and waited for her to speak. - -'I was thinking of Sir George Downing,' she answered, meeting his -perturbed look with one of calm confidence. 'Surely, Lord Wantley, now -that I have suggested the idea, you must admit that they are greatly -interested in one another? At no time of my life have I seen much of -lovers; but, though I have not wished in any way to watch Penelope and -this gentleman, and though I have, of course, said nothing to my niece -Cecily, it has seemed to me quite dear that there is an attachment. In -fact'--she spoke with growing courage, emboldened by his silence--'I -have no doubt about my cousin's feelings. Would not the marriage be a -suitable one? Of course there must be a certain difference of age -between them, but she seems, indeed I am sure she is, so very devoted to -him.' - -'I confess the thought of such a thing never occurred to me.' - -Wantley spoke slowly, unwillingly; and even while he uttered the words -there came to him, as in an unbroken, confirmatory chain, the memory of -little incidents, words spoken by Penelope, others left unsaid, her -altered manner to himself--much unwelcomed evidence that Miss Wake had -been perhaps clear-sighted when they had all been blind. He felt a -sudden pang of pity for his cousin, a feeling as if he had suddenly -seen, through an open door, a sight not meant for his eyes. For a moment -he deliberated as to whether he should tell Miss Wake of the one fact -which made impossible any happy ending to what she believed was true of -the relations between Mrs. Robinson and Sir George Downing. - -'I think I ought to tell you,' he said at length, 'that a marriage -between them is out of the question. Sir George Downing has a wife -living. They are separated, but not divorced.' There was a painful -moment of silence; then he added hastily: 'I know that my cousin is -fully aware of the fact.' - -Then, to his relief, Miss Wake spoke as he would have had her speak. 'If -that is so,' she cried,' I have been utterly mistaken, and I beg your -and Penelope's pardon. It is easy to make mistakes of the kind. You see, -I have lived so long out of the world.' - -There was a note of appeal in the thin, high voice. - -'But indeed,' said Wantley quickly, 'my cousin is very unconventional, -and your mistake was a natural one. I myself, had I not known the -circumstances, would probably have come to the same conclusion.' - -Their eyes met, and for a brief moment unguarded glances gave the lie to -their spoken words. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - 'On ne choisit pas la femme que l'on doit aimer.' - - -I - -The Rectory at Shagisham had the great charm of situation. In his study -old Mr. Winfrith stood on the same level as the top of his church -steeple, and his windows commanded wide views of the valley where lay -the scattered houses composing his cure, of the low hills beyond, and of -the sea. The best had been done that could be done with the steep, -wind-swept garden, and the square, low rooms, which had seen little, if -any, alteration in forty years, opened out upon a lawn kept green with -constant watering. - -To Cecily the old-fashioned house, with its curious air of austere, -unfeminine refinement, was very interesting. She had never seen a -country clergyman at home, and her imagination had formed a picture of -Winfrith's father very different from the small, delicate-looking old -man who welcomed her and Mrs. Robinson with great warmth of manner, -while Winfrith himself showed almost boyish pleasure at the unexpected -visit. 'They must be very lonely here sometimes,' was Cecily's unspoken -thought, as the old clergyman ushered her with some ceremony into the -drawing-room, which had the curious unlived-in look so often seen in a -room associated, to those still living, with a dead woman's presence. - -Before passing out on to the lawn Mr. Winfrith directed Cecily's -attention to a portrait which hung over the mantelpiece. It was that of -a brilliant-looking girl, dressed more or less gipsy-fashion, the -colouring of her red cheeks, so bright as to give the impression that -the sitter had rouged, being daringly repeated in a scarf twisted round -her dark hair. 'David's mother,' he said proudly. 'Do you not think -there is a great likeness between them?' - -Cecily looked doubtfully at the picture. 'Of course he is not nearly so -handsome'--Mr. Winfrith spoke rather plaintively--' but I assure you he -is really very like her. This portrait was painted before our marriage. -Lord Wantley--I mean Mrs. Robinson's father--thought it one of the best -ever painted by the artist'--Mr. Winfrith looked puzzled--' I forget his -name, though at one time I knew him quite well. I'm sure you would know -it, for he's a great man. He was often at Monk's Eype, and painted Lady -Wantley several times. But this was one of his early efforts, and I -myself'--the old man lowered his voice, fearing lest the stricture -should be overheard by his other guest--' much prefer his earlier -manner.' And then he led her out into the garden, and handed her over to -the care of his son, while he himself turned eagerly, confidingly, to -Penelope. - -David Winfrith at Shagisham, waiting on his old father, acting as -courteous host to his own and that dear father's guest, seemed a very -different person from the man who acted as mentor to the Melancthon -Settlement. - -Only the most unemotional, and, intellectually speaking, limited, human -being is totally unaffected by environment. Winfrith, when at home, not -only appeared another person to his London self, but he behaved, and -even felt, differently. At Shagisham he came under the only influence to -which he had ever consciously submitted himself--that of his simple and -spiritually minded father, a man so much older than himself that he -seemed a survival from a long-past generation. - -Another cause, one known fully to very few beside himself, made him a -different man when at home. There, at Shagisham, he never forgot certain -facts connected with the early life of his parents--facts made known to -him in a letter written by his mother before her death, and handed to -him by his father when they had returned, forlornly enough, from her -funeral. And after the boy--he was sixteen at the time--had read and -burnt the letter, he had looked at the lovely valley, the beautiful old -church, and the pretty rectory, with altered, alien eyes. - -Had Winfrith followed his instinct he would never have come there again, -but he had forced himself to keep this feeling hidden from his father, -and many times, both when at college and, later, through his working -year, he took long journeys in order to spend a few brief hours with the -old man. - -But he had no love for the place where he had spent his lonely -childhood, and he did not like Shagisham any the better when he -perceived that he had become in the opinion of the neighbourhood which -had once looked askance at Mr. Winfrith and his only child, an important -personage, able to influence the fate of lowly folk seeking a job, and -that of younger sons of the great folk, bound, with less excuse, on the -same errand. - -Walking beside Penelope's young friend, he took pains to make himself -pleasant, and, happily inspired, he at last observed: 'And so you have -made friends with Lord Wantley? He's a very good fellow, and there's -much more in him than Mrs. Robinson is ever willing to admit. He might -be very useful to the Settlement.' Cecily said to herself that she had -perhaps misjudged her companion, and she determined that she would -henceforth listen to his criticisms of her schemes with more submission. - - -But what mattered to David Winfrith the young girl's good opinion? -Penelope's unexpected coming had put him in charity with all the world. - -Certain men are instinctive monogamists. For this man the world held no -woman but she whom he still thought of as Penelope Wantley. There had -been times when he would willingly have let his fancy stray, but, -unfortunately for himself, his fancy had ever refused to stray. - -Of late years he had been often thrown with beautiful and clever women, -some of whom had doubtless felt for him that passing, momentary -attraction which to certain kinds of natures holds out so great an -allurement. But Winfrith, in these matters, was wholly apart from most -of those who composed the world in which he had to spend a certain -portion of his time. - -Even now, while making conversation with Cecily Wake, he was longing to -hear what Penelope could be saying that appeared to interest his father -so much. Mrs. Robinson had taken the arm of the little old clergyman; -they had turned from the wide lawn and steep garden beyond, and were -looking at the house, Penelope talking, the other listening silently. -'No doubt,' said Winfrith to himself, 'they are only discussing what -sort of creeper ought to be added to the west wall this autumn!' - -At last he and his father changed partners, and when the latter, taking -charge of Cecily, had led her off to the sloping kitchen-garden, where -stood the well, the boring of which had been the old man's one -extravagance since he had first come to Shagisham, unnumbered years -before, Mrs. Robinson said abruptly: 'Whenever I see your father, David, -I can't help wishing that you were more like him! He is so much broader -and more kindly than you are--in fact, there seems very little of him in -you at all----' - -'If you are so devoted to him,' he said, smiling, but rather nettled, -'I wish you would come and see him oftener. You know how fond he is of -you.' He added, but in a tone which destroyed the sentiment conveyed in -the phrase: 'In that one matter, at any rate, you must admit that he and -I are very much alike!' - -Something in the way he said the words displeased Mrs. Robinson. To her -Winfrith's deep, voiceless affection was as much her own, to do what she -willed with, as were any one of her rare physical attributes. The -thought of this deep feeling lessening in depth or in extent was even -now intolerable; and, while giving herself every licence, and arrogating -every right to go her own way, it incensed her that he should, even to -herself, allude lightly to his attachment. She answered obliquely, eager -to punish him for the lightest deviation from his usual allegiance. - -'I know I ought to come oftener,' she said coolly, 'but then, of course, -you yourself hitherto have always been the magnet--not, to be sure, a -very powerful magnet, for 'tis a long time since I've been here.' - -Winfrith reddened. Try as he would--and as a younger man he had often -tried--he could not cure himself of blushing when moved or angered. His -mother, to the very end of her life, had been proud of a beautiful -complexion. - -'I was just telling your father'--she gave him a strange sideway -glance--'the story of the traveller who, crossing the border of a -strange country, came upon a magnificent building which seemed familiar, -though he knew it to be impossible that he had ever seen it before. Then -suddenly he realized that it was one of the castles he had built in -Spain! Now, there, David,' said Mrs. Robinson, pointing with her parasol -to the old-fashioned house before them, 'is the only castle I ever built -in Spain, and I never come here without wondering what sort of dwelling -I should have found it.' As he made no answer, she turned and drew -nearer to him, exclaiming as she did so: 'Ah, que j'étais heureuse, dans -ces bons jours où nous étions si malheureux!' - -French was to Winfrith not so much a language as a vocabulary for the -fashioning of treaties and protocols, a collection of counters on whose -painfully considered, often tortuous combinations the fate of men and -nations constantly depended. It may be doubted therefore, whether, if -uttered by any other voice, he would have understood the significance of -the odd phrase in which his companion summed up the later philosophy of -so many women's lives. As it was, its meaning found its way straight to -his heart. He turned and looked at his companion fixedly--a long, -searching look. He opened his lips---- - -But Penelope had said enough--had said, indeed, more than she had meant -to say, and produced a far stronger effect than she had intended to -produce. - -Mentally and physically she drew back, and as she moved away, not very -far, but still so as to be no longer almost touching him, 'You owe my -visit to-day,' she cried quickly, and rather nervously, 'to the fact -that Sir George Downing, the man they call Persian Downing, is anxious -to make your acquaintance. He and Ludovic have made friends, and I think -Ludovic wants to bring him over to see you.' - -'Do you mean that Sir George Downing is actually staying with you?' he -asked, with some astonishment. 'I had no idea that any of you knew him.' - -'We met him abroad, and he has just been staying a few days at Monk's -Eype. He wanted to finish an important paper or report, and we had the -Beach Room arranged as a study for him. But he is rather peculiar, and -he fancies he could work better in complete solitude, and so, on our way -back from here, Cecily and I are going to see if we can get him lodgings -at Kingpole Farm. But, David, he really is most anxious to meet you. He -says you are the only man in the new Government who knows anything about -Persia; one of the chapters in your book seems to have impressed him -very much, and he wants to talk to you about it.' - -As she spoke her eyes dropped. She avoided looking at his face. The bait -was a gross one, but then the hand which held it was so delicate, so -trusted, and so loved. - -'A friend of Wantley's?' he repeated. 'I wish I had known that before.' - -'I don't think the acquaintance has been a long one, but they seem to -get on very well together.' The words were uttered hurriedly. Penelope -was beginning to feel deeply ashamed of the part she was playing. - -Winfrith went on, with some eagerness: 'How extraordinary that Persian -Downing should find his way down here! He is one of the few people whom -I have always wished to meet.' - -Her task was becoming almost too easy, and with some perverseness she -remarked coldly: 'And yet I believe your present chief--I mean Lord -Rashleigh--refused to see him when he was in London?' - -'Refused is not quite the word. Of course, such a man as Downing has the -faults of his qualities. He arrived in town on a Tuesday, I believe; he -requested an interview on the Wednesday; and then, while the chief was -humming and hawing, and consulting the people who were up on the whole -matter, and who could have told him what to say and how far he could go -in meeting Downing--who, of course, has come back to England with his -head packed full of schemes and projects--the man suddenly disappeared, -leaving no address! Rashleigh was very much put out, the more so that, -as you doubtless know, our people distrust Downing.' - -Penelope was looking down, digging the point of her parasol into the -soft turf at their feet. 'There was some story, wasn't there, when Sir -George Downing was a young man? Some woman was mixed up with it. What -was the truth of it all?' - -He hesitated, then answered unwillingly: 'The draft of an important -paper disappeared, and was practically traced from Downing's possession -to that of a Russian woman with whom he was known to have been on -friendly terms. But it's admitted now that he was very harshly treated -over the whole affair. I believe he had actually met the lady at a F.O. -reception! He may have been a fool--probably he was a fool--but even at -the time no one suspected him of having been anything else. The woman -simply and very cleverly stole the paper in question.' - -'I am sure he ought to be very much obliged to you for this kind version -of what took place.' - -'Well,' he said good-humouredly, 'I happen to have taken some trouble to -find out the truth, and I'm sorry if the story isn't sensational enough -to please you. But the consequences were serious enough for Downing. He -was treated with great severity, and finally went on to America. It was -there, at Washington, that he became acquainted with my uncle, and, -oddly enough, I have in my possession some of the letters written by him -when first in Persia. I shall now have the opportunity of giving them -back to him.' - -'And out there--in Persia, I mean--did you never come across him?' - -'Unfortunately, I just missed him. No one here understands the sort of -position he has made for himself--and indeed, for us--out there. It was -the one country, till he came on the scene, where we were not only -lacking in influence, but so lacking in prestige that we were being -perpetually outwitted. Downing, as I reminded Rashleigh the other day, -has always been pulling our chestnuts out of the fire. Of course, you -can't expect such a man to have the virtues of a Sunday-school teacher.' - -Penelope still kept her eyes averted from Winfrith's face, still -ruthlessly dug holes in her old friend's turf. - -'And when in Persia, in Teheran, what sort of life does he lead there?' -She tried to speak indifferently, but her heart was beating fast and -irregularly. - -But Winfrith, seeing nothing, answered willingly enough: 'Oh, a most -extraordinary sort of life. One of amazing solitariness. He has always -refused to mix with the social life of the Legations. Perhaps that's why -he acquired such an influence elsewhere. Of course, I heard a great deal -about him, and I'll tell you what impressed me most of the various -things I learned. They say that no man--not even out there--has had his -life attempted so often, and in such various ways, as has Persian -Downing. All sorts of people, native and foreign, have an interest in -his disappearance.' - -Penelope's hand trembled. The colour left her cheek. - -'How does he escape?' she asked. 'Has he any special way of guarding -himself from attack?' - -'If he has, no one knows what it is. He has never asked for official -protection, but it seems that from that point of view his G.C.B. has -been quite useful, for now there's a sort of idea that his body and soul -possess a British official value, which before they lacked. He's been -"minted" so to speak.' - -But Mrs. Robinson hardly heard him. She was following her own trend of -thought. There was a question she longed, yet feared, to ask, and though -desperately ashamed at what she was about to do, she made up her mind -that she could not let pass this rare, this unique, opportunity of -learning what she craved to know. 'I suppose that he really _has_ lived -alone?' she asked insistently. And then, seeing that she must speak yet -more plainly: 'I suppose--I mean, was there anything against his -private character, out there, in Teheran?' - -A look of annoyance crossed Winfrith's face. He was old-fashioned enough -to consider such questions unseemly, especially when asked by a woman. -'Certainly not,' he replied rather stiffly. 'I heard no whisper of such -a thing. Had there been anything of the kind, I should, of course, have -heard it. Teheran is full of petty gossip, as are all those sorts of -places.' - -As they turned to meet old Mr. Winfrith and Cecily Wake, Penelope -thought, with mingled feelings of relief and pain, of how easy it had -all been, and yet how painful--at moments, how agonizing--to herself. - -The father and son were loth to let them go, and even after the old man -had parted from his guests David Winfrith walked on by the side of the -low cart, leading the pony down the steep, stone-strewn hill which led -to the village, set, as is so often the way in Dorset, in an oasis of -trees. As they rounded a sharp corner and came in sight of a large house -standing within high walls, surrounded on three sides by elms, but on -one side bare and very near to the lonely road, he suddenly said -'Good-bye,' and, turning on his heel, did not stay a moment to gaze -after them, as Cecily, looking round, had thought he would. - - -II - -Penelope checked the pony's inclination to gallop along the short, -smooth piece of road which lay before them, and, when actually passing -the large house which stood at the beginning of the village, she almost -brought him to a standstill. - -Cecily then saw that the blinds, bright red in colour, of the long row -of upper windows--in fact, all those that could be seen above the high -wall--were drawn down. - -'Look well at that place,' said her companion suddenly, 'and I will -tell you why David Winfrith never willingly passes by here when he is -staying at Shagisham.' - -Till that moment Mrs. Robinson had had no intention of telling Cecily -anything about this place, or of Winfrith's connection with its solitary -occupant, but she wished to escape from her own thoughts, to forget for -a moment certain passages in a conversation, the memory of which -distressed and shamed her. - -To attain this end she went further on the road of betrayal, telling -that which should not have been told. 'It's a very curious story,' she -said, 'and David will never know that I have told it to you.' - -As she spoke she shook the reins more loosely through her hand, and gave -the pony his head. - -'I must begin by telling you that Mrs. Winfrith, David's mother, was -much younger than her husband, and in every way utterly unlike him. -Before her marriage she had been something of a beauty, a spoilt, -headstrong girl, engaged to some man of whom her people had not -approved, and who finally jilted her. She came down here on a visit, met -Mr. Winfrith, flirted with him, and finally married him. For a time all -seemed to go very well: they had no children, and as he was very -indulgent she often went away and stayed with her own people, who were -rich and of the world worldly. It was from one of them, by the way--from -a brother of hers, a diplomatist--that David got his nice little -fortune. But at the time I am telling you of there was no thought of -David. Not long after Mr. and Mrs. Winfrith's marriage, another couple -came to Shagisham, and took Shagisham House, the place we have just -passed. Their name was Mason, and they were very well off. But soon it -became known that the wife was practically insane--in fact, that she had -to have nurses and keepers. One of her crazes was that of having -everything about her red; the furniture was all upholstered in -bright-red silk, the woodwork was all painted red, and people even said -she slept in red linen sheets! Mrs. Winfrith became quite intimate with -these people. She was there constantly, and she was supposed to have a -soothing effect on Mrs. Mason. In time--in fact, in a very short -time--she showed her sympathy with the husband in the most practical -manner, for one day they both disappeared from Shagisham together.' - -'Together?' repeated Cecily, bewildered. 'How do you mean?' - -'I mean'--Penelope was looking straight before her, urging the pony to -go yet faster, although they were beginning to mount the interminable -hill leading to Kingpole Farm--'I mean that Mrs. Winfrith ran away from -her husband, and that Mr. Mason left his mad wife to take care of -herself. Of course, as an actual fact, there were plenty of people to -look after her, and I don't suppose she ever understood what had taken -place. But you can imagine how the affair affected the neighbourhood, -and the kind of insulting pity which was lavished on Mr. Winfrith. My -father, who at that time only knew him slightly, tried to induce him to -leave Shagisham, and even offered to get him another living. But he -refused to stir, and so he and Mrs. Mason both stayed on here, while -Mrs. Winfrith and Mr. Mason were heard of at intervals as being in -Italy, apparently quite happy in each other's society, and quite -unrepentant.' - -'Poor Mr. Winfrith!' said Cecily slowly. But she was thinking of David, -not of the placid old man who seemed so proud of his flowers and of his -garden. - -'Yes, indeed, poor Mr. Winfrith! But in a way the worst for him was yet -to come. One winter day a lawyer's clerk came down to Shagisham House to -tell the housekeeper and Mrs. Mason's attendants that their master was -dead. He had died of typhoid fever at Pisa, leaving no will, and having -made no arrangements either for his own wife, or for the lady who, in -Italy, had of course passed as his wife. Well, Mr. Winfrith started off -that same night for Pisa, and about a fortnight later he brought Mrs. -Winfrith back to Shagisham.' - -Penelope waited awhile, but Cecily made no comment. - -'For a time,' Mrs. Robinson went on, 'I believe they lived like lepers. -The farmers made it an excuse to drop coming to church, and only one -woman belonging to their own class ever went near them.' - -'I know who that was,' said Cecily, breaking her long silence--'at -least, I think it must have been your mother.' - -'Yes,' said Penelope, 'yes, it was my mother. How clever of you to -guess! Mamma used to go and see her regularly. And one day, finding how -unhappy the poor woman seemed to be, she asked my father to allow her to -ask her to come and stay at Monk's Eype. Very characteristically, as I -think, he let mamma have her way in the matter; but during Mrs. -Winfrith's visit he himself went away, otherwise people might have -thought that he had condoned her behaviour.' - -She paused for a moment. - -'Something so strange happened during that first stay of Mrs. Winfrith's -at Monk's Eype. Mamma found out, or rather Mrs. Winfrith confided to -her, that she had fallen in love, rather late in the day, with Mr. -Winfrith, and that she could not bear the gentle, cold, distant way in -which he treated her. Then mamma did what I have always thought was a -very brave thing. She went over to Shagisham, all by herself, and spoke -to him, telling him that if he had really forgiven his wife he ought to -treat her differently.' - -'And then?' asked Cecily. - -'And then'--Penelope very shortly ended the story--'she--mamma, I -mean--persuaded him to go away for six months with Mrs. Winfrith. They -spent the time in America, where her brother was living as attaché to -the British Legation. After that they came home, and about five years -before I made my appearance, David was born.' - -'And Mrs. Mason?' asked Cecily. - -'Mrs. Mason has lived on all these years in the house we passed just -now. I have myself seen her several times peeping out of one of the -windows. She has a thin, rather clever-looking face, and long grey -curls. She was probably out just now, for she takes a drive every -afternoon; but she never leaves her closed carriage, and, though she can -walk quite well, they have to carry her out to it. She is intensely -interested in weddings and funerals, and, on the very rare occasions -when there is anything of the sort going on at Shagisham, her carriage -is always drawn up close to the gate of the churchyard. She was there -the day Mrs. Winfrith was buried. My father, who came down from London -to be present, was very much shocked, and thought someone ought to have -told the coachman to drive on; but of course no one liked to do it, and -so Mrs. Mason saw the last of the woman who had been her rival.' - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - 'Est-ce qu'une vie de femme se raconte? elle se sent, elle passe, - elle apparait.'--SAINTE BEUVE. - - -I - -That Sir George Downing should spend the last days of his sojourn in -Dorset at Kingpole Farm, a seventeenth-century homestead, where, -according to local tradition, Charles II. had spent a night in hiding -during his hurried flight after the Battle of Worcester, had been Mrs. -Robinson's wish and suggestion. He had welcomed the idea of leaving -Monk's Eype with an eagerness which had pained her, though in her heart -she was aware that she had thus devised a way out of what had become to -them both a most difficult and false situation. - -Very soon after Downing's arrival at Monk's Eype Penelope had become -acutely conscious of the mistake she had made in asking him to come -there. After painful moments spent with him--moments often of -embarrassed silence--she had divined, with beating heart and flushed -cheek, why all seemed to go ill between them during this time of waiting -and of suspense, which she had actually believed would prove a -prolongation of the halcyon, dream-like days that had followed their -first meeting. - -This beautiful, intelligent woman, with her strange half-knowledge of -the realities of human life, and the less strange ignorances, which she -kept closely hidden from those about her, had often received, especially -in her 'Perdita' days, confidences which had inspired her with a deep -distaste of those ignoble shifts and ruses which perforce so often -surround a passion not in itself ignoble, or in any real sense impure. - -She had been glad to assure herself that in this case--that of her own -relation to Downing--nothing of the kind need sully the beginnings of -what she believed with all her heart would be a noble and lifelong -love-story. Accordingly, there had been a tacit pact as to the reserve -and restraint which should govern their relations the one to the other -during the few weeks of Downing's stay in England. - -When the time came they would leave together openly, and with a certain -measured dignity, but till then they would be friends, merely friends, -not lovers. - -But Mrs. Robinson had not considered it essential, or indeed desirable, -that there should be no meeting in the interval, and she had seen no -reason why her friend's schemes should not have what slender help was -possible from the exercise of her woman's wits. Hence she had planned -the meeting with David Winfrith; hence she had asked Downing to become -one of her guests at Monk's Eype, and after some demur he had -reluctantly obeyed. - -During the days that had immediately followed his coming, days which saw -Downing avoiding rather than seeking his hostess's presence, Penelope -often pondered over the words, the first he had uttered when they had -found themselves alone: 'I feel like a thief--nay, like a -murderer--here!' Extravagant, foolish words, uttered by one whose -restraint and wisdom had held for her from the first a curious -fascination. - -Alas! She knew now how ill-advised she had been to bring him to Monk's -Eype, to place him in sharp juxtaposition with her mother, with her -cousin Wantley, even with such a girl as Cecily Wake. The very -simplicity of the life led by Mrs. Robinson's little circle of -unworldly, simple-minded guests made intimate talk between herself and -Downing difficult, the more so that feminine instinct kept few her -visits to the Beach Room. - -Now and again, however, a softened glance from the powerful lined face, -a muttered word expressive of deep measureless feeling, the feel of his -hand grasping hers, would suddenly seem to prove that everything was -indeed as she wished it to be between them, and for a few hours she -would feel, if not content, at least at peace. - -But even then there was always the haunting thought that some extraneous -circumstance--sometimes she wondered if it could have been any foolish, -careless word said by Wantley--had modified the close intimacy of their -relation. - - -II - -There had been a week of this strain and strange chill between them, -when one night Penelope, feeling intolerably sore and full of vague -misgivings, suddenly determined to seek Downing out in the Beach Room. -It fell about in this wise. After the quiet evening had at last come to -an end, she went upstairs with Cecily and old Miss Wake, dismissed -Motey, and then returned to the studio, hoping he would come to her -there. - -But an hour wore itself away, and he did not come. - -Mrs. Robinson went out on to the moonlit terrace, and for awhile paced -up and down, watching the lights in the villa being put out one by one. -She knew that her old nurse would not go to sleep till she, Penelope, -were safe in bed; and she felt, though she could not see them, Mrs. -Mote's eyes peering down at her, watching this impatient walking up and -down in the bright moonlight. But what would once have so keenly annoyed -her no longer had power to touch her. She even smiled when the candle in -Mrs. Mote's room was extinguished, and the blind carefully and -ostentatiously drawn down. She knew well that the old woman would sit -behind it, waiting impatiently, full of suspicious anger, till she saw -her mistress return from the place whither she was now bound. - -As she went down the steps leading to the shore, Penelope, her eyes cast -down, pitied herself with the frank self-pity of a child deprived of -some longed-for happiness; she had so looked forward to these days with -Downing, spent in this beloved place, which she was about to give up, -perhaps never to see again, for his sake. - -At last, when standing on the strip of dry sand heaped above the wet, -glittering expanse stretching out to the dark sea, Penelope came upon -the circle of bright light, warring with the moonlit shore below, thrown -by Downing's lamp through the window of the Beach Room. - -The sight affected her curiously. For a moment she felt as if she must -turn back; after all, he was engaged upon matters of great moment, -perhaps of even greater moment to himself than the question of their -relation the one to the other. She suddenly felt ashamed of disturbing -him at his work--real work which she knew must be done before he went -back to town. - -But the window, through which streamed out the shaft of greenish-white -light, was wide open, and soon Downing heard, mingling with the surge of -the sea, the sound, the unmistakable dragging sound, of a woman's long -clinging skirt. - -He got up, opened the door, and, coming out took her in his arms and -drew her silently back with him into the Beach Room. Then, bending down, -his lips met and trembled on hers, and Penelope, her resentment gone, -felt her eyes fill with tears. - -A kiss, so trifling a gift on the part of some women as to be scarcely -worth the moments lost in the giving and receiving, is with other women, -indeed with many other women, the forerunner of complete surrender. - -In her thirty years of life two men only had kissed Penelope -Wantley--the one Winfrith, the other Downing. - -To-night there came to her with amazing clearness the vision of a -garden, ill-cared for, deserted, but oh! how beautiful, stretching -behind a Savoy inn in the mountainous country about Pol les Thermes. -There she and Downing, drawn--driven--to one another by a trembling, -irresistible impulse, had kissed for the first time, and for a moment, -then as now, she had lain in his arms, looking up at him with piteous, -questioning eyes. How long ago that morning seemed, and yet how few had -been the kisses in between! - -Suddenly she felt him loosen his grip of her shoulders; and he held her -away from himself, at arms' length, as deliberately, in the tone of one -who has a right to an answer, he asked her a certain question regarding -herself and Melancthon Robinson. - -She was pained and startled, reluctant to tell that which she had always -kept secret, and which she believed--so little are we aware that most -things concerning us are known to all our world--had never been -suspected. But she admitted his right to question her, and found time to -whisper to her secret self, 'My answer must surely make him glad'; and -so, her eyes lowering before his piercing, insistent gaze, she told him -the truth. - -But, as he heard her, Downing relaxed his hold on her, and with -something like a groan he said: 'Why did I not know this before? Why -should I have had to wait till now to learn such a thing from you?' And -as she, surprised and distressed, hesitated, not knowing what to say, he -to her amazement turned away, and in a preoccupied tone, even with a -smile, said suddenly: 'Go. Go now, my dear. It is too late for you to be -down here. I have work to finish to-night.' Then he opened the door, -and, with no further word or gesture of affection, shut her out in what -seemed for the moment utter darkness. - -But as she slowly began groping her way up the steps, sick at heart, -bewildered by the strangeness, by the coldness, of his manner, the door -of the Beach Room again opened, and she heard him calling her back with -a hoarse, eager cry. - -She hesitated, then turned to see his tall, lean figure filling up the -doorway, and outlined for a moment against the bright lamplit room, -before he strode across the sand to where she stood, trembling. - -Once more he took her in his arms, once more he murmured the words of -broken, passionate endearment for which her heart had hungered, only, -however, at last again to say, but no longer with a smile: 'Go. Go now, -my beloved--for I am only a man after all--only a man as other men are.' - -Then for some days Penelope had found him again become strangely cold -and alien. She had felt the situation between them intolerable, and -suddenly she had suggested the sojourn at Kingpole Farm. And on the eve -of his departure Downing again seemed to become instinct with the -mysterious ardour he had shown from the first moment they had met, from -the flash of time during which their eyes had exchanged their first -long, intimate, probing look. - - -Mrs. Mote had followed, with foreboding, agonizing jealousy, this -interlude of days in a drama of which she had seen the first, and of -which she was beginning to divine the last, act. - -It is not the apparently inevitable sin, so much as the apparently -avoidable folly, which most distresses those onlookers who truly love -the sinners and the foolish. During those still summer days the old -nurse felt she could have borne anything but this strange beguilement of -her mistress, by one whom the maid regarded as having outlived the age -when men make women happy. The sight of Mrs. Robinson, with whom, to -Motey's doting eyes, time had stood still, hanging on his words, having -eyes only for this man, who, though no longer young, yet seemed even -older than his age, struck the watcher as monstrous because unnatural. - -So far, Mrs. Mote had been unselfish in her repugnance for the -irrevocable step towards which she felt Penelope to be drifting, but of -late a nearer and more personal terror had taken possession of the old -woman. She was beginning to suspect that she herself was to have no part -in Mrs. Robinson's new life, and the suspicion drove her nearly beside -herself with anger and impotent distress. - -Many incidents, of themselves trifling, had instilled this suspicion in -her mind. Mrs. Robinson was trying to do for herself all the things that -Motey, first as nurse, and later as maid, had always done for her. -Sitting in her own room, next door to that of her mistress, and feeling -too proud and sore to come unless sent for, Mrs. Mote would hear the -opening and shutting of cupboards and drawers, the seeking and the -putting away by Penelope--this last an almost incredible portent--of her -own hat, veil, gloves, and shoes! - -Even more significant was the fact that of late Penelope had become so -considerate, so tender, of the old woman who had always been about her. -How happy a sharp, impatient word would now have made Mrs. Mote! But no -such word was ever uttered. Instead, Mrs. Robinson had actually -suggested that her maid should have a holiday. 'Me? A holiday? and what -should I do with a holiday?' Motey had repeated, bewildered, and then -with painful sarcasm had added, 'I suppose, ma'am, that is why you are -learning to do your own hair?' - -She had watched her enemy's departure for Kingpole Farm with sombre eyes -and sinking heart, wondering what this unexpected happening might -portend to her mistress. - -The day after that which had seen Downing leaving Monk's Eype, Mrs. -Robinson had found her riding-habit, and also a short skirt she often -wore when driving herself, laid out with some elaboration. 'I have -everything ready,' had said the old nurse sourly, 'for there will be -many rides and drives now, I reckon.' And Penelope, forgetting her new -gentleness, had exclaimed angrily: 'Motey, you are intolerable! Put -those things away at once!' - - -III - -In most people's lives there has come, at times, a sequence of days, -full of deep calm without, full of inward strife and disturbance within. - -The departure of Sir George Downing from Monk's Eype brought no peace to -the two women to whom his presence there had been of moment. Mrs. Mote -believed that his going heralded some immediate change in Mrs. -Robinson's life; as far as possible she never let her mistress out of -her sight, and the tarrying of Penelope from the villa an hour later -than she had been expected to do, more than once threw the old nurse -into a state of abject alarm. But Motey, during those still days, had -lost the clue to her nursling's heart and mind. - -For some days and nights after Downing had left her, and she had -deliberately denied herself the solace of his letters, Mrs. Robinson was -haunted by the thought--sometimes, it seemed, by the actual physical -presence--of her first love, David Winfrith. - -The memory of the hours spent by her with him at Shagisham constantly -recurred, bringing a strange mingling of triumph and pain. How badly she -had behaved to him that day! how treacherously! it might almost be said, -how wantonly! And yet, at the time, during that moment when she had come -close to him, and uttered those plaintive words which had so greatly -moved him, Downing for the moment had been blotted out of her memory, so -intense had been her desire to bring Winfrith back to his old -allegiance. - -Now, looking back at the little scene, she knew that she had succeeded -in her wish--but at what a cost! And in a few weeks, she could now count -the time by days, it would become the business of Winfrith's life to -forget her. She knew how his narrow, upright mind would judge her -action; with what utter condemnation and horror he would remember that -conversation held between them, especially that portion of it which -concerned Sir George Downing. - -The knowledge that Winfrith must in time realize how ill she had used -him that day brought keen humiliation in its train. 'I have been far -more married to him than I was to poor Melancthon!' she cried half aloud -to herself during one of the restless, unhappy nights, spent by her in -thinking over the past and considering the present; and the thought had -come into her mind: 'If I had married David, and then if he, instead of -Melancthon, had died, how much happier I should be to-day than I am -now!' - -But even as she had uttered the words, and though believing herself to -be the only creature awake in the still house, Penelope in the darkness -had blushed violently, marvelling to find herself capable of having -conceived so monstrous an idea. - -It added to Mrs. Robinson's unrest and disquiet to know, as she had done -through Wantley, now--oh, irony!--the only link between herself and -Kingpole Farm, that Downing and Winfrith had met more than once. The -interviews, or so she gathered from her cousin, had been, from Downing's -point of view, satisfactory, but she longed feverishly to know more--to -learn how David Winfrith had comported himself, what impression he had -made on the older man. - -It was significant that Penelope never gave a thought as to how Downing -had impressed Winfrith. To her mind the matter could not admit of -doubt--his personality must dominate all those with whom it came into -contact. - -Neither man knew of her relation, past or present, to the other. Still, -she felt a longing to be assured that all had gone well between them. It -added to her vague discomfort that Wantley, when telling her of what had -been the first meeting between the two men, had given her a quick, -penetrating look from out his half-closed eyes, and then had glanced -away in obvious embarrassment. - -Well, she would soon have to see Winfrith, for on him she counted--and -she never saw the refinement of cruelty involved--to make smooth, as -regarded certain material matters, the path before her. - -Mrs. Robinson wished to begin her new life stripped, as far as might be -possible, of all that must recall to her that which had come and gone -since she was Penelope Wantley. She hoped that by giving up the great -fortune left by her husband, she might blot out the recollection, not -only of poor Melancthon Robinson, for whose memory she had ever felt a -certain impatient kindliness, but also of David Winfrith, to whom her -tie of late years had been so close, though of that she had told Downing -nothing. - -This intention of material renouncement had not been imagined in the -first instance by Penelope--the Robinson fortune had cost her so little -and had been hers so long! But Downing, during one of their first -intimate talks and discussions concerning the future, had assumed that, -on her return to England, she would at once begin arranging for its -dispersion, and she had instantly accepted the idea, and felt herself -eager to act on it. Indeed, she had said after a short pause, and it was -the first time that she had mentioned to this new friend and still -unfamiliar lover, the oldest of her friends and the most familiar of -her lovers, 'David Winfrith will help me about it all.' - -'The new Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs?' he had asked, and she had -answered quickly: 'Yes, his father is one of the trustees of the -Settlement, and he has helped me a good deal over it.' - -No more had then been said, and since her return to England Mrs. -Robinson had done nothing concerning the matter. - -But now she must bestir herself, see Winfrith, and that soon. He knew -all about her affairs, and she intended that he should help her to -hasten the inevitable formalities. As to what she was to say to him, how -to offer, to one so matter-of-fact and clear-headed, any adequate reason -for her proposed action, she trusted to her wit and to his obtuseness. -He had often found the courage to tell her that some adequate provision -should be made by her for the Melancthon Settlement, and that, as -matters stood, too much was left to her own conscience and her own -generosity. Well, she would now remind him of his unpalatable advice, -and tell him that at last she was about to follow it. - - -Penelope also found time, during the days which followed Downing's -departure, to think of her mother--to wonder, with tightened throat, how -Lady Wantley would meet the ordeal coming so swiftly to meet and -overwhelm her. - -Even with those whose thoughts, emotions, and consciences seemed -channelled in the narrowest grooves it is often difficult to foresee -with what eyes, both of the body and of the soul, they will view any -given set of circumstances. Lady Wantley had always seemed extremely -wide-minded, in some ways nebulously so; but this had been in a measure -owing, so Penelope now reminded herself, to the fact that she had lived -a life so spiritually detached from those about her. - -Since her husband's death the mother's loyalty to her only child had -been unswerving, and she seemed to have transferred to Penelope the -unquestioning trust she had felt in Penelope's father. - -Old friends, including Mr. Julius Gumberg, had ventured to remonstrate, -and very seriously, when the lovely, impulsive girl had announced her -sudden engagement, after a strangely short acquaintance, to Melancthon -Robinson; but Lady Wantley--and her daughter, looking back in after -years, had often wondered sorely, with a shuddering retrospection, that -it had been so--had seemed quite content, quite certain, that her -beloved child was being Divinely guided. - -She had accepted, with the same curious detachment, the fact of -Penelope's widowhood, and during the years which followed had encouraged -her daughter to lead the life that suited her best, looking on with -indulgent eyes while Mrs. Robinson enjoyed what she always later -recalled as the 'Perdita' stage of her existence. - -This had been the period when the girl-widow, released from the bondage -into which she had entered so lightly, returned with intense zest to the -delightful frivolous world of which she had seen but little before her -marriage. For three or four years Mrs. Robinson enjoyed all that this -delicately dissipated section of society could give her in the way of -lightly balanced emotion and fresh sensation, and her mother had been -apparently in no wise shocked or surprised that it should be so. - -Then had followed a period of travel, when the young widow had seen -something of a wider world. Finally, Penelope had settled down to the -life of which we know--still, when she was in London, seeing something -of the gay, light-hearted circle of men and women who had once -surrounded 'Perdita' with the pleasant and not insincere flattery they -are ever ready to bestow on any and every human being who for the -moment interests and amuses them. Mrs. Robinson had retained her place, -as it were her niche, among them. They still delighted in 'Perdita's' -beauty, and in her exceptional artistic gift; also--and she would have -felt indeed angered and disgusted had she known it--her reputed wealth, -which was by no means so great as was rumoured, played its part in -keeping up her prestige with a world which is apt to become at times -painfully aware of the value of money. - -On the other hand, David Winfrith was not loved among these men and -women who considered high living thoroughly compatible with--indeed, an -almost indispensable adjunct to--high thinking. Winfrith took a grim -pleasure in acting as kill-joy to certain kinds of human sport to which -they were addicted, and, worse than that, he positively bored them! And -so, when Mrs. Robinson, having drawn him once more into her innocent, -but none the less dangerous, toils, had again formed with him an -absorbing and intimate friendship, certain of her acquaintances were no -longer as eager to be with her as they had once been, and they -considered that their dear 'Perdita' was making herself slightly -ridiculous. - -Another reason why Mrs. Robinson found it impossible to divine how her -mother would regard what she was now on the eve of doing, was because -the younger woman knew well how her father would have regarded such a -union as that which she was contemplating. - -Lord Wantley had not been in the habit, as his wife had always been, of -looking at life and those about him with charitable ambiguity; and there -was no doubt as to how the great philanthropist, who had been in his -lifetime a pillar of the Low Church party, regarded the slightest -deviation from the moral law. Penelope now remembered with great -discomfort and prevision of pain that concerning actual matters of life -and conduct Lady Wantley's 'doxy' had always been, so far as she knew -it, her husband's 'doxy.' - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - 'Ah! le bon chemin que le droit chemin!' - - DÉROULÈDE. - - -I - -Kingpole Farm was built at a time when loneliness was not feared, as it -has come to be, by the poor and by the workers of rural England, and, if -one can trust to outward signs, when country eyes were more alive than -they are now to beauty of surroundings, and to the uplifting quality of -wide, limitless expanses of land and sky. - -Sir George Downing had now been there more than a week, a time of entire -solitude, only broken by two long calls from David Winfrith. An old -bedridden man and his widowed daughter were the only inmates of the -farmhouse, and they troubled their lodger little. Accordingly, he had -had plenty of time both to work and to think, and, during the long -solitary walks which were his only recreation, he asked himself many -searching questions compelling truthful answers. - -Seeing Mrs. Robinson in her daily life at Monk's Eype had affected -Downing with curious doubt and melancholy, and had given him his first -feeling of uneasiness concerning their joint future. Till then he had -not thought of her as the centre of a world, each member of which would -be struck to the heart when they learnt what she was about to do. It was -characteristic of the man that he gave no thought as to how the matter -would affect himself. He conceived that each human being has a right to -judge and decide for himself as to any given line of conduct, and he had -long felt absolved from any personal duty as regarded his own wife. -After their second parting he had offered her the entire freedom -afforded by an American divorce, but she had refused to avail herself of -it. - -More, after leaving London, and before going to Monk's Eype, Downing had -made a swift, secret journey to the place where he had learnt that Lady -Downing was staying with some evangelical friends. The two had met in -the parlour of a village inn, and each had been more amazed and moved -than either would have thought possible by the physical changes time had -wrought in the other. - -With perhaps an unwise abruptness, he threw himself on her mercy, -telling her the whole truth, and only concealing the name of the woman -with whom he was about to form a new tie. - -But Lady Downing had seen in his intention, in his proposed action, only -an added reason for standing firm in the matter of a public divorce. She -pointed out, in the gentle, reasonable tone which he felt was all that -now remained of the Puritan girl he had once known, that Christian -marriage is indissoluble. 'Your sin would be the same in either case,' -she said; 'but if I consented to what you now desire, I should be a -participant in your sin.' - -As he had not told Penelope of his intention of seeking out his wife, -there had been no reason to acquaint her with his failure. - -But during those lonely days at Kingpole Farm Downing regretted, with -bitter, voiceless lamentation, that he had failed in inducing his wife -to consent to what would have so straightened the way before him. For -the path which had seemed a few weeks before so clear and smooth, he now -saw to be strewn with sharp stones and obstacles, which he knew would -hurt and wound the creature he had come to love with so jealous and so -absorbing a love, and who was about to give up so much for his sake. - - -II - -On the afternoon of the tenth day of his stay at Kingpole Farm, and not -long after he had seen the widowed daughter of his landlord go off for -the afternoon to see one of her gossips at Burcombe, the little town -which formed the only link between the farm and outer civilization, Sir -George Downing, standing by the window of his sitting-room, suddenly saw -the woman who now dwelt so constantly in his thoughts walking up the -lonely road, and instinctively his eyes travelled past her, seeking the -pony-cart and Cecily Wake. - -But the rounded edges of the hill remained bare, and Downing looked at -the advancing figure with longing eyes, with throbbing heart. It seemed -an eternity since they two had been really alone together, free from -probable interruption and from Mrs. Mote's suspicious, unfriendly eyes. - -Turning quickly away, he walked with impatient steps up and down the -old-fashioned farmhouse sitting-room, stifling the wish to go out and -meet her, there, on the solitary road. But her coming had been -unheralded. This was the first time she had come to him; hitherto it was -always he who had gone to her, and he felt that even in the matter of -moments she must choose that of their meeting. - -Mrs. Robinson did not seem in any haste. Even when actually on her way -up the prim flagged path, edged with wallflower, which led to the door -of the farmhouse, she turned and looked long at the wonderful view -spread out below the narrow ledge where wound the rough road above which -she was standing. - -Suddenly she put her hand to her breast; she had walked too quickly up -the steep winding way from the hamlet where she had been compelled to -leave her pony-cart; and as she stood, looking intently, with enraptured -eyes, at the marvellous sight before her--for a great storm was -gathering over the vast plain lying unrolled below--the man who watched -her from the farmhouse windows likened her in his mind to Diana, weary -for a moment of the chase. - -Her tall figure was outlined against the lowering white and grey sky, -the short dun-coloured skirt was blown about her knees by the high, -stinging wind, while the closely buttoned jacket, reaching but just -below the waist, revealed the exquisite arching lines of her shoulders -and throat. Mercury, rather than Diana, was evoked by the winged, -casque-like headgear which remained so firmly wedded, in spite of windy -buffetings, to the broadly coiled hair. - -Like all beautiful women who are also intelligent, Penelope's outward -appearance--the very character of her beauty--changed and modified -according to her mood. There were times when body was almost wholly -subordinate to mind; days, again, when her physical loveliness had about -it a mature, alluring quality, like to that of a ripe peach. - -So perhaps had Downing envisaged her during those first days when he had -been drawn out of his austere, watchful self by a charm Circe-like and -compelling, when Mrs. Robinson had been engaged in the great feminine -game at which she was so skilful a player--that of subduing a heart -believed to be impregnable. - -But her opponent himself had only caught fire, in any deep unchanging -sense, when his Circe had suddenly revealed another and a very different -side to her nature. - -Just as an apparently trivial incident will often deflect the whole -course of a human career, so, in the more complex and subtle life of the -heart, a physical accident may quicken feeling into life, or destroy -the nascent emotion. Downing had not been long at Pol les Thermes when -he fell ill from a return of the fever which often attacks Europeans in -Persia, and Mrs. Robinson, after two long, dull days, during which she -had been bereft of the stimulating presence of her new friend--or -prey--took on herself the office, not so much of nurse as of secretary, -to the lonely man. - -It was then, when her mere presence had seemed to lift him out of a pit -of deep physical depression, that Downing had found her to be a far more -enduringly attractive woman than the brilliant, seductive figure who had -appeared before him as a ripe delicious fruit, with which he had known -well enough he must never slake his thirst. Her he could have left, and -gone on his way, sighing that such Hesperidean apples were not for him. -It was the softer, and, it must be said, the more intelligent and -companionable, woman who received, during those days when she was simply -kind, confidences concerning his present ambitions, and his schemes for -benefiting the country with which he had now so many links, as well as -that which had given him birth, and which was about to welcome him back, -him the prodigal, with high honour. - -Mrs. Robinson would have been surprised indeed had she known how much -more it cost this friend she longed to turn into a lover to tell her of -the present fame than of the far-away disgrace. When he revealed to her -something of his hopes, of his plans, of what he intended to do when in -England, it meant that she had conquered a side of Downing's nature -which had been wholly starved since the great trouble which had ruined -his youth--that which longed for human intimacy and confidence. - -As he stood to-day looking at her from his window he felt a certain -surprise. Never had he seen her look quite as she did now--so girlish, -so virginal, so young, in spite of her thirty years of life. And -truly Penelope's present outward appearance--that of embodied -chastity--reflected, to quite a singular degree, her inward, instant -mood. For, though this visit to Kingpole Farm had been the outcome of an -intense longing to see Downing, and to be once more with him, she had -yet feared that seeking him out like this might seem overbold. Still she -had a good excuse, and one she could offer even to herself, namely, that -all manner of material matters had to be settled between them, -especially concerning her renouncement of the Robinson fortune. - -And yet, had Penelope believed in omens, she would surely have turned -back, for the few miles' drive had not been free of disagreeable -incident. - -First she had met the Winfriths, father and son, and she had been forced -to allow them to believe a lie, for she could not tell them whither she -was bound. Then, when some two miles from Kingpole Farm, and, -fortunately, not far from a blacksmith's forge, had come a mishap to one -of the wheels of her pony-cart, making further driving impossible, and -so she had gone on up the steep hill on foot, feeling perhaps -unreasonably ruffled and disturbed. - - -At last Downing saw her turn and walk up to the front-door. There was a -pause, and then she came in through the open door of his room, and -somewhat stiffly offered him her hand, still encased in a stout -driving-glove. - -So scrupulously did her host respect Mrs. Robinson's obvious wish to be -treated as a stranger, that he even avoided looking into her face as -they both instinctively walked over to where it was lightest--close to -the curtainless open window. - -Penelope had brought a packet of letters from Monk's Eype. 'I thought -they might be important. Pray read them now,' she said. - -Downing, eager to obey her, did so, while she, apparently absorbed in -watching the flying storm-clouds scurrying over the broad valleys -below, was yet intensely conscious of his presence, and of how strangely -young he looked to-day--how straight, how lean, how strong, how much -more a man, in the same sense that David Winfrith was a man, than he had -appeared to be at Monk's Eype, pitted against the shadowless youth of -Cecily Wake, and even of Wantley. - -Suddenly, having slightly turned her head, thinking to see Downing -without appearing to do so, Penelope became aware that he was watching -her with a melancholy, intense look. - -Her heart began to beat unaccountably fast. She turned away hurriedly, -and again looked out over the vast panorama of land and sky lying -unrolled before them. Then she began talking quickly, and not very -coherently, of the matters about which she had come to consult him. Had -he anything to suggest, for instance, concerning the money arrangements -which must now be made about the Melancthon Settlement? - -'The Melancthon Settlement?' - -Downing concentrated his mind on the problems now confronting his -companion. He rose suddenly to look for a book of reference which he -knew contained details of the working of similar philanthropic schemes, -and which he had procured when in London. But Mrs. Robinson also sprang -to her feet, and with a nervous gesture put her hand on the back of her -chair. - -She watched his coming and going, and when he brought back the book, and -handed her a pencil and some sheets of paper, she again sat down. - -But a grim look had come over Downing's face. He came and stood by her, -for the first time that day he touched her, and she felt the weight of -his hand on her shoulder as he said quietly: 'Are you afraid of me, -Penelope?' - -She looked up quickly, furtively. How strange to hear him thus pronounce -her name! Like that Prince and Princess in the French fairy tale, who -only called each other _mon coeur_ and _ma mie_, such familiarities as -'George' and 'Penelope' had not yet been theirs. - -'Oh no!' she cried, and inconsequently added: 'I only thought that you -might consider my coming here to-day odd, uncalled for----' - -But actions speak louder than words. Downing felt cut to the heart. He -knew that he had deserved better things of her than that she should leap -to her feet in fear if he did but move. But as he turned away, perplexed -and angered, Mrs. Robinson was bent on showing her repentance. She came -near to him, and even took his hand. 'I have been so unhappy,' she said -simply, 'since you went away. Believe me, I am only content when we are -together.' - -Downing still looked at her with troubled eyes. - -Drawing his hand out of hers, he set himself to discuss the various -business arrangements connected with her renouncement of the great -fortune she was giving up for the sake of his good name and repute; and, -listening to all he had to say, Penelope was impressed by his -conscientiousness, by his feeling that she would of course feel bound to -see that no portion of the large sum in question should slip into -unworthy hands. - -'I am sure,' he said at last, 'that your friend Mr. Winfrith will advise -better than I, in my ignorance of the actual working of the Melancthon -Settlement, can hope to do.' He unfortunately added: 'Since I have seen -him, I have wondered whether he will stand our friend?' - -Mrs. Robinson looked up quickly. 'No,' she answered very deliberately, -and Downing thought her oddly indifferent. 'I do not think David -Winfrith will have the slightest sympathy with me--with us. He is -exceedingly conventional.' - - -All at once a discussion, provoked by her, seemed to make the future -intimately near, especially to the man who suddenly found himself -answering questions, some childish and very frank in their expression, -about the life led by Europeans in Persia. Penelope, for the moment, -seemed to be looking forward to their joint existence as to a series of -exciting and romantic adventures. - -'Boxes not too large to go on mules? I thought camels always carried -one's luggage!' There was a touch of disappointment in her voice, but -before he could answer with the promise that she should have camels and -to spare--in fact, anything and everything she wanted, she had added: -'Two good English saddles,' and made a pencil note. - -'Nay, I will see to that!' said Downing quickly. - -Some of her questions were difficult to answer, for the questioner -seemed to forget--and, seeing this, Downing's heart grew heavy within -him--that her position among the other women of her own kind and race -out there would be one full of ambiguity. - -Not even his great power, the fear with which he was regarded, could -save her, were she to put herself in the way of it, from miserable and -petty insult. - -Hastily he turned the talk to his own house in Teheran. He had made no -attempt, as do so many Europeans, to alter the essentially Persian -character of his dwelling, and he lingered over the description of his -beautiful garden, fragrant with roses and violets, traversed by flowing -rivulets, cooled by leaping fountains. Penelope's face darkened when a -word was said concerning Mrs. Mote, or, rather, of the native badgee, or -ayah, who would, for a while at least, take her old nurse's place. 'I am -sure,' said he, rather awkwardly, 'that in time you will want an English -maid, especially at Laar'; and then he told her, not for the first time, -of the life they would lead when summer came, in tents, Persian fashion, -far above the pleasant hill villages, always avoided by Downing, where -the British, Russian, and French colonies have their gossip-haunted -retreats near the city. - -The thought of her old nurse reminded Mrs. Robinson that it was growing -late. She explained that at Burcombe she would be able to hire some kind -of conveyance to take her back to Monk's Eype, and as she watched -Downing preparing for the two-mile walk, she said solicitously: 'I -wonder if I ought to let you come with me? The rain may keep off till we -get down there, but you may have a terribly wet walk back, and, if you -fall ill here, I cannot come and be with you as I was at Pol les -Thermes.' - -As she spoke she looked at him, and her look, even more than her words, -moved Downing as a man is wont to be moved when the woman he loves -becomes suddenly and unexpectedly tender. 'Is it likely that I should -let you go alone?' he said, rather gruffly. 'You told me once you are -afraid of thunder. Well, I think we are going to have thunder, and very -soon.' - -But now his visitor seemed in no hurry to leave the curious, rather dark -room, with its old-fashioned furnishings. 'I wonder when we shall meet -again,' she said a little plaintively. - -But Downing made no answer. Instead, he flung open the door, preceded -her down the darkened passage, and then, or so it seemed to Penelope, -almost thrust her out on to the flagged path. - -Why this great haste, this sudden hurry to be quit of the farmhouse? As -yet there was no rain, and doubtless the high wind would keep off the -storm till night. In the last hour--nay, it was not even an hour since -she had felt the weight of Downing's hand laid in reproach on her -shoulder--her mood had indeed changed. Mrs. Robinson had been reluctant -to come in, but now she was very loth to go. - -There came a time in Penelope's life when every feeling she had ever -possessed for Downing--and, looking back, she had to tell herself that -she had loved him with every kind of love a woman may give a man--became -merged in boundless and awed gratitude, and when her thoughts would -especially single out this storm-driven afternoon and evening. But now -Mrs. Robinson felt aggrieved by his reserve, surprised at his coldness, -and, standing there on the flagged path, waiting while her companion -spent what seemed to her much unnecessary time in securely fastening the -door behind them, she felt very sore, and inclined to linger unduly. - -And so, as he came quickly towards her, Downing saw a curious look on -her face that caused his own expression suddenly to change. A light -leapt into his grey eyes, but Mrs. Robinson had turned pettishly away. -'I must stop a moment,' she said; 'the laces of my shoe have come -untied.' - -The wind was rising swirling clouds of dust below, but Downing caught -her words, and understood the mingled feelings which had prompted their -utterance. Quickly passing her, he knelt on the lowest of the steps -which led from the flagged path to the road, tied her shoe-laces, and -then, after glancing up and down the deserted road, he bent over and -kissed lingeringly, first one and then the other, of the wearer's feet. - -Then he sprang up, and, for a moment, he looked at her deprecatingly, -but Penelope, mollified by what she took to be an act of unwonted -humility and homage, laughed and blushed as she let him put her hand -through his arm. - -They walked down the hill in silence. The wind was still rising, large -drops of rain began to fall at intervals, and yet, for the first time -that afternoon, Mrs. Robinson felt wholly content. There was something -in her nature which responded to wild weather, and, but for the lateness -of the hour, she would have liked so to make her way through wind and -beating rain back to Monk's Eype. - -At last they found themselves on a level, monotonous stretch of road. To -the right, rising beyond a piece of rough, untilled ground, in the -centre of which stood a grove of high trees, lay the straggling little -town of Burcombe, and Mrs. Robinson looked doubtfully at the long, -rain-flecked road before them. 'If we make our way across, and go -through the grounds of Burcombe Abbey,' she said, indicating the grove -of trees, 'we should get to the town far sooner than by going round this -way. I think the place is let this summer, but if the storm becomes -worse, we might take shelter in one of the out-buildings, and send some -one for a carriage.' - -The first flash of lightning, the first real rush of rain, hastened -their decision. Downing looked down with a feeling of exultation at his -companion; her face was bent before the wind, but her voice was full of -strength and a certain joyous cheer. Still, when the lightning lit up -for a moment the lonely expanse of brown heath and rough ground about -them, he felt her involuntary shudder, and she held closer to him. - -Soon they had passed through a broken palisade into the comparative -shelter afforded by the high trees which surrounded and embowered the -remains of what had once been a famous Cistercian monastery. It was good -to be out of the storm, under one of the arched avenues which bordered a -straight dark pool, covered with still duck-weed, stretching before -them. - -As yet the rain had not had time to penetrate the canopy of green leaves -shutting out the grey sky, but the path along which Downing was hurrying -Penelope was already strewn with branches, some of dangerous size, and, -had he not held her strongly, more than once she would have slipped and -fallen. He saw that their wisest course would be to return to the open -ground they had left, but the knowledge that some kind of shelter lay -before them, if they could only reach it safely, made him keep the -thought to himself. - -If--if indeed! For there came a sudden rending, as it were, of earth and -water, an awful blinding flash; and then--in the interval between the -lightning and the crash of thunder--one of the tall trees on the -opposite side of the now rain-swept water fell with a heavy thud right -across the pool, its green apex settling down but a few yards in front -of the wayfarers. - -With a wholly instinctive gesture Downing flung both arms round his -companion, and in the face of each the other read the unspoken, -anguished question, 'Is this, then, to be the end, the solution, of our -strange romance, of our difficult problem?' But Mrs. Robinson shook her -head, with a sudden gesture signifying no surrender, and they pushed -blindly on, treading on and over the wood and leaves carpeting the way -before them. - -The avenue ended abruptly with a flight of steps cut in the steep green -bank of what at first Downing took to be another deep pool, dark with -weeds and studded with strange rocks. So vivid was this impression that -he stayed his own and Penelope's feet, while his eyes sought for a way -round to a curious building, not unlike the remains of an old mill, -which he saw opposite, and which promised the looked-for shelter. - -But gradually, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the twilight, he saw -that what he had taken for a sheet of still water was a stretch of -grass, smooth as a bowling-green, from which rose jagged pillars, and -uncouth, green-draped ruins, portions of the foundations of the old -abbey, while to the right, bordered by gaunt trees, a bare space -surrounded by low walls showed the site of what had been a vast medieval -church. - -The two, standing there, were struck by the look of dreadful desolation -presented by the scene, the more desolate, the more God-forsaken, by -reason of the fantastic-looking house which stood the other side of the -deep depression containing the abbey ruins. Silently, no longer arm in -arm, they went down the green steps, and made their way through what had -been the cells and spacious chambers, the guest-rooms and the broad -refectory, of the great monastery. - - -III - -Mrs. Robinson and Downing had sheltered but a moment in the porch of the -old-fashioned house, which doubtless incorporated some portion of the -monastic buildings, when the heavy, nail-studded door suddenly opened, -revealing a roomy vaulted hall. - -An old man, evidently a self-respecting and respected butler, stood -peering out into the semi-darkness, and as he did so invited them rather -crossly to come in. - -Mrs. Robinson stepped back into the wind and rain, for she felt in no -mood to confront a stranger. But the man repeated with some asperity: -'You are, please, to come in. Those are my mistress's orders. Now, don't -be keeping me in this draught!' - -At last, very reluctantly, they accepted his rather tart invitation, but -when they stood side by side in the lamplight before him, the old -manservant's tone altered at once. 'I beg your pardon, sir, but we do -get such tramps about here, and my mistress, she's that kind! One of the -maids saw you and the lady just after we thought one of the ruins had -been struck by lightning----' - -'I think the storm is dying down. If we may sit here in the hall for a -few moments, I am sure we could then go on quite well.' Mrs. Robinson -spoke with a touch of impatience. She felt greatly annoyed, and looked -at Downing imploringly. Surely he must realize how unpleasant it would -be if she were suddenly brought face to face with some London -acquaintance. But Downing seemed for the moment to have no thought of -her: he stood looking fixedly at the old man, trying to remember if he -could ever have been here before. The atmosphere of the house, even the -butler's impassive face, seemed familiar; but since he had been in -England his memory had played him many queer tricks. - -He sighed heavily, and the words Penelope had uttered a few moments -before at last penetrated his brain. 'Yes,' he said, rousing himself, -'the storm is passing by, and we must go on to Burcombe without delay.' - -'But my mistress particularly wished to speak to _whoever_ it was, sir.' -The man spoke urgently. - -'This is intolerable,' muttered Penelope; then aloud: 'But we are -neither of us fit to be seen by anybody. I am sure your mistress will -excuse us.' - -'My mistress will not _see_ you, ma'am'--the old man's tone was a -rebuke--'for she is blind.' - -He did not wait to hear any more objections, but turning, suddenly -opened a door on his right. - -Penelope shrugged her shoulders. What an unsatisfactory, odious day this -had been! But even so she motioned Downing to take off his old -rain-sodden cloak, anxious that he at least should look well before this -strange woman. Ah! but she was blind! - -The door which the old man had just opened, and as he thought carefully -closed, swung back, and the two standing outside saw into a pretty room, -of which the uneven oak floor was sunk below the level of the hall. They -heard, with some discomfort, the murmur of voices, and then the words, -uttered in the clear, rather mincing intonation affected by a certain -type of old-fashioned servant: 'But I'm quite positive that it is, -ma'am. The minute the gentleman stept in with the young lady I said to -myself, "Why, surely this is our Mr. Downing!" When he went away I'd -already been some years in Mr. Delacour's service, ma'am, and of course -I knew him quite well. I don't say he's not changed----' - -But as Penelope was looking for a way of escape, if not for Downing, -then most certainly for herself, the open door of the bright, gay little -sitting-room suddenly framed a slight, almost shadowy, figure of which -even Mrs. Robinson, standing there at bay, felt the disarming, pathetic -charm. - -There is often about a blind woman, especially about one who was not -born blind, a ghost-like serenity of manner, and even of appearance. - -Mrs. Delacour's voice still had its soothing, rather anxious quality, -but she spoke with restraint and dignified simplicity to the two -strangers, concerning one of whom she had just been told such an -amazing, and to her most moving, fact. 'Will you come in and rest?' she -said; 'I fear you must have gone through a terrible experience.' - -As they were entering the room, Downing suddenly stumbled--he always so -adroit, so easy in his movements--and Penelope, herself no longer -afraid, but feeling curiously soothed and comforted in this quiet, -gentle atmosphere, saw that he was terribly moved, his face ravaged with -contending feelings to which she had no clue. She looked away quickly, -but Downing seemed unaware of her presence, incapable of speaking. - -The two women talked together. Mrs. Robinson told of the tree struck by -lightning, of their danger, and still Downing did not, could not, speak. - -'Tell me,' said Mrs. Delacour at last--and her voice, in spite of her -determination, of her prayer, that it should not be so, trembled a -little--'is it true that George Downing is here? We once had a friend, a -very dear friend, of that name, and my old servant is convinced that it -was he who came in just now out of the storm.' - -Again there was silence. Mrs. Robinson looked at him reproachfully. Why -did he keep this gentle, kindly woman in suspense? Could it be for her, -Penelope's sake? But Downing suddenly held up his hand; he did not wish -the answer to come from any lips but his own--'Yes,' he said hoarsely, -'I am George Downing, come back, as you said I should come back, Mrs. -Delacour!' - -And then, or so it appeared to Penelope, a strange desire seized the -other two to make her go away, to leave them to themselves. No word was -said revealing Mrs. Robinson's identity, but there was a question of the -long drive to Wyke Regis. Mrs. Delacour offered her carriage, Downing -went to order it, and so for a moment the other two were left alone -together. Penelope tried to speak indifferently, but failed; she felt a -wild, an unreasoning jealousy of this sightless, white-haired woman with -whom she was leaving the man she loved. - -Did Mrs. Delacour, with the strange prescience of the blind, divine -something of what was passing in the other's mind? All she said was, -'Mr. Downing--or is it not Sir George now?--was with my husband, one of -his younger colleagues, at the Foreign Office, and we saw him -constantly. I fear this meeting must recall to him many painful -circumstances.' - -A moment later, as Downing was putting her into the carriage, unmindful -of the old man standing just inside the hall, Penelope drew him with her -into the darkness: 'Say that you love me!' she whispered, and he felt -her tears on his lips; 'say that you cannot bear to let me go!' - -And then she was comforted, for 'Shall I come with you?' he asked -urgently, no lack of longing now in his low, deep voice; 'let me go back -and tell her that I cannot let you go alone!' - -But again Penelope felt suddenly afraid--of herself, perhaps, rather -than of him. 'No, no!' she said hurriedly; 'it would be wrong, unkind, -to your old friend--to Mrs. Delacour.' - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - 'But there's one happy moment when the mind - Is left unguarded, waiting to be kind, - Which the wise lover understanding right, - Steals in like day upon the wings of light.' - - -I - -The absence of Mrs. Robinson from the villa, even for only a few hours, -afforded a curious relief, a distinct lightening of the atmosphere, to -all those--if one important exception be made, that of Mrs. Mote--whom -she had left at Monk's Eype on the afternoon of her expedition to -Kingpole Farm. - -Penelope's unquietude of mind had gradually affected all her guests. -Even her mother, the person of whom she saw least, had become dimly -aware that all was not as it should be, and, while not in any way as yet -connecting her daughter with Sir George Downing, she regarded him as an -evil and alien influence. - -Lady Wantley had taken an intuitive, unreasoning dislike to the -remarkable man whose presence she realized her daughter would have -wished her to regard as an honour; and though she was quite unaware of -it, a word ventured by Mrs. Mote very early in Downing's stay at Monk's -Eype had contributed to this feeling of discomfort and suspicion. - -Like most gifts, that of intuition can be cultivated, and Lady Wantley -had done all in her power to increase and fructify that side of her -nature. The mere presence of Downing in the same room with herself made -her feel as if she was suddenly thrust amid warring elements, and her -mind became shadowed by the suspicion that this man, when a dweller in -the Eastern country famed immemorially for the potency of its magic, had -foregathered with spirits of evil. That his going had not lifted the -clouds which seemed to hang so darkly over the whole of the little -company about her, Lady Wantley regarded as a proof that her suspicions -were well founded, for to her thinking it is far easier to evoke than to -lay demoniac influences. - -These thoughts, however, she kept to herself, and no knowledge that in -her mother Downing had a watchful antagonist came to increase Mrs. -Robinson's nervous unrest. - -During those same days following Downing's departure from Monk's Eype, -Mrs. Robinson and Wantley left off sparring, and Penelope would debate -uneasily whether it was his own affairs--or hers--which had so much -altered her cousin's manner, and made him become, to herself, more -kindly and considerate than she had ever before known him. But the young -man kept his own counsel. He and old Miss Wake never referred to the -conversation they had held the day Penelope and Cecily had driven over -to Shagisham; each, however, was aware that the other had felt relieved, -perhaps unreasonably so, to see Persian Downing leave Monk's Eype. - -Sometimes Wantley was inclined to think that Miss Wake had been utterly -misled, and then, again, some trifling circumstance would make him fear -that she had been right. - -The doubt was sufficiently strong to convince him that this was no -moment to speak--upon another matter--to Cecily Wake: In London, amid -the impersonal surroundings of the Melancthon Settlement, he would -pursue and bring to a happy ending--nay, to an exquisite beginning--his -and Cecily's simple romance. But in the meanwhile he saw no reason for -denying himself the happiness of being with her every moment of the day -not given up by her to Penelope. - -Once, when they were thus together, Cecily had said a word--only a word, -and in defence of a toy fund organized by a great London -newspaper--concerning her own giftless childhood and girlhood. - -There had been no kind relatives or friends to remember the convent-bred -child. Miss Wake's Christmas present had always been something useful -and, indeed, necessary, and Cecily, remembering, pleaded for the useless -doll and the unnecessary toy. - -Wantley, while pretending to be only half convinced, was composing in -his own mind a letter to the old servant who kept for him his few family -relics, his father's books, his mother's lace and simple jewels. Even -now, or so he told himself, the girl walking by his side, talking with -the youthful energy and certainty of being right which always both -amused and moved him, was herself sufficiently a child to enjoy a gift, -especially an anonymous gift, by post. - -And this was why the young man, usually so ready to grumble at the -inscrutable ways of Providence, hailed his cousin's departure, for what -she had announced would be a long afternoon's expedition, as a piece of -amazing good fortune. - -Each day a man rode over from the villa to Wyke Regis to fetch the -contents of the second post, and to-day the letters had come, by Mrs. -Robinson's orders, rather earlier than usual. Wantley lingered about in -the hall while the bag was being opened by Penelope. There were several -letters addressed to Downing, and these he saw, with a slight pang, were -quickly put aside with Penelope's own. Two parcels, both small, both -oblong in shape, were addressed in an uneducated handwriting to 'Miss -Cecily Wake,' and, puzzled, he peered down at them curiously. - -Then Wantley watched his cousin start off on her lonely way, while she -noted, with discomfort, that he asked no questions as to her -destination. The hour that followed was spent by him in walking up and -down the terrace, in reading the day's paper, which he thought had never -been so empty of interesting news, and in wondering why Cicely did not -come downstairs. He also asked himself, with some anxiety, what there -could possibly be in the second parcel that had arrived for her that -day. He thought he knew all about the contents of the first, and it -seemed odd that on the same day there should have come two.... - - -At last a happy inspiration led him to the studio, and there he found -the girl sitting, various of her treasures--for, like a child, she was -fond of bearing about with her her favourite possessions--spread out on -Penelope's painting-table. - -Physical delicacy is too often associated in people's minds with -goodness, but, as a matter of fact, to be good in anything but a very -passive sense almost always requires the possession of health. It was -because Cecily Wake had brought from her convent school unbroken -strength of body, and a mind which had never concerned itself with any -of the more painful problems of life, that she proved so valuable a -helper to Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret. Thanks to her perfect physical -condition, she was always ready to start off, at a moment's notice, on -the most tiring and the most dispiriting expeditions. Her feet seemed -never weary, her brain never exhausted, and, though she was sometimes -disappointed when things went wrong, she was always ready to start again -with unabated vigour to try and set them right. - -To Cecily Wake heaven and hell, the world and purgatory, were all -equally real, matter of fact, and to be accepted without question. She -knew nothing of the hell which people may make for themselves, and only -now, since she had been at Monk's Eype, had she realized that it is -possible to find a very fair imitation of heaven on this earth. - -Cecily's hell was very sparsely peopled, and that entirely with -historical characters. As to those who fill the dread place, they were, -to her thinking, an ill-sorted company, and probably very few of those -about her, while believing the numbers to be much greater, would have -included those whom she believed to be there. Judas, Henry VIII., the -man who tortured the little Dauphin in the Temple, the Bishop who -condemned Joan of Arc to be burnt--they, she thought, must surely all be -there. But, as regarded the world about her, Cecily was quite convinced -that, like William of Deloraine, 'Between the saddle and the ground, -they mercy sought and mercy found.' - -This little analysis of Cecily Wake's character and point of view is -necessary to explain one of the two gifts which had come to her by the -second post--that with which Wantley had not only had nothing to do, but -which had caused him some searching of heart, for he had been afraid -that it might be the outcome of one of those misunderstandings, those -misreadings of orders, which affect and annoy men so much more than -women. - -But the girl knew quite well from whom had come the six woolwork -table-napkin rings, although the only indication of the sender had been -the words, written on a piece of common note-paper - - - 'This is from a friend - Who loves you no end.' - - -She required no signature to tell her that the sender was a certain -Charlotte Pidder, with whom, more than a year before, Cecily, for a few -days, had been thrown into the most intimate, and it might be said -affectionate, contact. - -I am writing of a time when there was but one half-penny evening paper -in London, and when original, or even unusual, contributions were -regarded askance by editors. To the office of that paper came one day a -most remarkable letter, setting forth the sad case of a Cornish girl -who, having come up to London, and having there met with what the poor, -with their apt turn for language, term a 'misfortune,' had found it -impossible thenceforward to make an honest living. The writer explained -very simply his efforts on her behalf, but added that his resources had -come to an end, and that the mere fact that he was a man much in her own -class of life made those whom he sought to interest in her case look on -him, as well as on her, with suspicion. The editor of the evening paper -sent for the writer, convinced himself of the truth of his story, and -then printed the letter. - -The effect of its publication was instantaneous and extraordinary. To -that newspaper office letters poured in from all parts of the country, -some of the writers simply offering money, others expressing themselves -as willing to adopt the girl, while many were anxious to give her work -at a reasonable wage. These last were regarded by both the editor and -the girl's workman friend as being alone worthy of consideration. - -Then came the difficult question of how a choice among these would-be -employers was to be made, and the editor bethought himself of the -Melancthon Settlement. Very soon he had laid upon Mrs. Pomfret the whole -responsibility of how and where fortunate Charlotte Pidder should find a -home. Together Philip Hammond, Cecily Wake, and Mrs. Pomfret looked over -the letters. They finally weeded out twelve for further consideration, -and the interchange of further letters brought the number down to four. - -To the one who appeared to be the most sensible of these generous folk, -Mrs. Pomfret despatched Charlotte Pidder, only to have her sent back the -next day with a curt note to the effect that the good Samaritan could -not think of taking into her service a girl whose hair was short and -curly like a man's! This experience taught wisdom to the three people on -whom Charlotte's fate depended, and so it was decided that, before the -girl was sent off to another would-be benefactor, Cecily Wake should go -and spy out, as it were, the hospitable land. - -This is no place to tell the tale of Cecily's experiences, some -grotesque and some sinister. Soon a day came when she and Mrs. Pomfret -were compelled to look over again the letters which they had at first -rejected, and finally after a long journey by train and tram to a -comparatively poor neighbourhood, Cecily found two human beings, good, -simple-hearted, tender-minded folk, with whom there seemed some hope -that Charlotte Pidder would find a peaceful haven, and work her way back -to self-respect and some measure of happiness. It was arranged that her -'days out' should be spent at the Settlement, and she formed a deep, -dumb attachment to the girl, only a year or two older than herself, whom -she had seen take so much trouble on her behalf, and who had treated her -during those anxious days with such kindly, unforced sympathy and -consideration. - -These napkin-rings, with their red and blue pattern worked in Berlin -wool, represented many hours of toil, and Cecily, knowing this, was -meditating a letter of warm thanks to the sender, when Wantley walked -into the studio and looked questioningly at the table. At once he saw -the sheet of paper with its rudely-written lines. He looked quickly at -the girl, and then remarked: 'Victor Hugo once said that every kind of -emotion could be expressed in doggerel, and now I am inclined to think -he was right. But I like the poetry better than the present.' - -Cecily covered the poor little cardboard box with a sudden protective -gesture. 'I like them very much,' she said stoutly. 'The person who made -them for me has very little spare time, and it was very good of her to -take so much trouble. But I have had another present to-day--one you -will like better.' - -Wantley's hand went up to his mouth; he even reddened slightly. But -Cecily was not looking at him. Her hands were busy with the -old-fashioned fastening of a flat red-leather case. At last the little -brass hook slipped back, she lifted the lid, and there, lying on a faded -white satin pad, lay two rows of finely matched, though not very large, -pearls. - -The sight affected the two looking down at them very differently. To -Wantley the little red case brought back a rush of memories. He saw -himself again a little boy, standing by his pretty, fair mother's -dressing-table, sometimes allowed as a great treat to fasten the quaint -diamond clasp round the slender neck. Cecily simply flushed with -pleasure, and she felt full of gratitude to the kind giver, about whose -identity she felt no doubt. - -'Only the other day,' she said, smiling, 'Penelope noticed that I had no -necklace, nothing to wear in the evening--and now you see what she has -had sent me!' - -'Penelope? Then, do you think these pearls are a gift from my cousin?' - -'Of course they are! Who else would think of giving me anything of the -kind?' - -'Cannot you imagine any other'--Wantley's voice shook a little in spite -of himself--'any other person who might wish to give you pleasure?' - -Cecily looked up puzzled. He came round and stood by the table on which -lay the two gifts received by her that day. Very deliberately he took up -one of Mrs. Robinson's soft lead-pencils, and then wrote across a torn -piece of drawing-paper, - - - 'This is from a lover - Who will love you for ever,' - - -and laid it down so that it covered the pearls. 'You see,' he said, -'this is not, as was the other gift to-day, friendship's offering. But, -still, the words I have written there are meant quite as sincerely. -These pearls belonged to my mother. They were given to her by my father -on the first anniversary of their wedding-day, and I know how happy it -would have made her--have made them both--to think that you would wear -them.' - -He spoke quickly, and yet after the first moment, with great gravity. As -Cecily made no answer, he added: 'You will not refuse to take them from -me?' - - -II - -The old nurse had watched Penelope drive off alone that afternoon with -deep misgiving and fear, for she was quite sure that her mistress was -bound for Kingpole Farm. - -Motey had soon become aware that Mrs. Robinson received no letters from -Downing, and this, to a mind sharpened by jealousy and semi-maternal -instinct, only the more indicated the closeness and the thorough -understanding between them, and showed, or so the maid believed, that -all their plans as to the future were already arranged. - -Again and again she had been on the point of attacking her mistress, of -asking Penelope to confirm or to deny her suspicions, and many a night, -while lying awake listening through the closed door to Mrs. Robinson's -restless movements, always aware when her nursling was not asleep, Mrs. -Mote would make up long homely phrases in which to formulate her appeal. -But when daylight came, when she found herself face to face with -Penelope, her courage ebbed away, and she became afraid--for herself. - -What if anything said by her provoked a sudden separation from her -mistress? More than once in the last ten years Motey and Mrs. Robinson -had come to moments of sudden warfare, when the younger woman's -affection for her old nurse had been sorely tried, and yet on those -occasions, as Mrs. Mote was only too well aware, no feeling even -approaching that which now bound Penelope to Sir George Downing had been -in question. - -Sometimes the old woman told herself that she was a fool, and that her -terrors were vain terrors, for the actual proofs of what she feared was -about to happen were few. - -Again and again, during Mrs. Robinson's brief absences from the villa, -Motey had sought to find--what? - -She hardly knew. - -Never had Penelope, careless as she had always been hitherto of such -things, left one of Downing's letters about in her room, or, forgotten, -in a pocket. In the matter of her searching, the old nurse was troubled -by no scruples. She would have smiled grimly had some accident made -known to her how some of the people about her would have regarded this -turning out of pockets, this trying of locked places with stray keys. - -Poor Motey! She felt like a mother whose child has been given a packet -of poisoned sweets, and who knows that they must be found at all costs -before evil befalls. But so far her unscrupulous seeking had yielded -little or nothing to confirm what she was fast coming to believe an -absolute certainty--namely, that Penelope was on the eve of forming with -Downing what both intended should be a lifelong tie. - -Many little incidents, deepening this conviction, crowded on her day by -day, as it grew increasingly clear that Mrs. Robinson was silently -preparing for some great change in her life. The maid marvelled at the -blindness of Penelope's mother, of Wantley, even of Cecily Wake--how -could they help noting that Penelope never now spoke of the future, that -she made no plans, as she was so fond of doing, for the coming winter? - -Then, late in the afternoon which saw Mrs. Robinson at Kingpole Farm, -Motey at last found something which provided, to her mind, undoubted -proof. This was a formal business letter from a great London firm, -celebrated for the perfection of its Eastern outfits, and it contained -answers to a number of questions evidently written by one contemplating -a long sojourn in Teheran. - -Penelope, before starting out that afternoon, had shown considerable -annoyance at having mislaid a paper she wished to take with her. She had -made no secret of the fact, and both she and Motey had searched for the -envelope all over the large room. After her mistress had left, Mrs. Mote -had continued the search, and she had at last found this letter, laid -under some gloves which Penelope had at first intended to take, but had -rejected in favour of a thicker pair. - -The maid carried off this, to her, most sinister sheet of paper into her -own room, and as the evening closed in, and Penelope did not come back, -she saw in it, or rather in her mistress's desire to take it with her -that day, an indication that perhaps Mrs. Robinson had gone, not -intending to return, and that she might be at this very moment on her -way, and not alone, to London. - - -III - -Suspense has been described as the most terrible of the many agonies the -human heart and mind are so often called upon to endure. - -Mrs. Mote, sitting in the twilight watching the gathering storm, -listening in vain for the soft rumble of the little pony-cart, felt as -if actual knowledge that what she feared had happened would be -preferable to this anxiety. - -More than once she got up and stood by one of the long narrow windows in -the broad passage which commanded a view of the winding road, cut -through the down, on which Penelope, if she ever came back, must appear. -But Mrs. Mote was in no mood to pass the time of day with the upper -housemaid, who would soon be coming to light the tall argand lamp in the -corridor, and so at last she retreated into her room, there to remain in -still wretchedness, convinced that Penelope had indeed gone, though her -ears still remained painfully alive to the slightest sound which might -give the lie to her dread. - -It was eight o'clock. Already someone, probably Wantley, had ordered -dinner to be put back half an hour, when the deep, soft-toned -dressing-bell rang in the hall. - -The maid listened dully to the comings to and fro up and down the -staircase; there was an interval of silence; and then the door of her -room suddenly opened, and Lady Wantley's tall figure was outlined for a -moment against the dim patch of light afforded by the corridor window -opposite. - -'Surely your mistress did not intend to stay out so late to-night?' The -voice was full of misgiving and agitation. - -The old servant stood up; a curious instinct of loyalty to Mrs. Robinson -seemed to impel her to say no word of her great fear. And yet she felt -it not fair that Lady Wantley should be left in complete ignorance of -what, if she, the old nurse, were right, would soon be known to the -whole household. - -'Perhaps my mistress is not coming back to-night; perhaps she intended -to go on to London from Kingpole Farm,' she said in a curious, -hesitating tone. - -'From Kingpole Farm?' Lady Wantley advanced into the room. She turned -and closed the door into the passage, and then seemed to tower above the -stout little woman who stood before her in the twilight. - -Mrs. Mote had taken up a corner of the black apron she always wore, and -she was twisting it up and down in her fingers, remaining silent the -while. - -'Motey, what do you mean?' Lady Wantley spoke with a touch of haughty -decision in her voice. - -'What led you to suppose for a moment that my daughter has gone to -Kingpole Farm? That, surely, is where Sir George Downing is staying!' - -Then Mrs. Mote lost her head. She was spent with trouble, sick with -suspense, and exasperated by Lady Wantley's clearly-conveyed rebuke. -After all, Penelope was as dear--ay, perhaps dearer--to herself, the -nurse, as to the mother who had had so little of the real trouble -entailed by the rearing of her child. Was it likely that she, Motey, -would say anything reflecting on the creature whom she loved so well, -for whose honour she had often shown herself far more jealous than Lady -Wantley had seemed to be, and whom she had saved, or so she firmly -believed, from so many pitfalls? - -'What made me think of it?' she repeated violently. 'Why, I _know_ she's -there! She wasn't likely to keep away any longer! Oh, my lady, how is it -you've not seen, that you haven't come to understand, how it is with -her? I should have thought that anyone who cared for her, and who isn't -blind, must surely know, know that----' - -Mrs. Mote's voice fell almost to a whisper as she added, throwing out -her hands: 'She _do_ like him; it's no good my saying anything else! Why -didn't his lordship let her have Master David? He was the one for her; -she's never liked anyone so well till just now.' - -Then the speaker turned and nervously struck a match, lighting one of -two tall candles standing on the chest of drawers behind her. - -Lady Wantley's face looked very grey and drawn in the yellow light, but -it was set in stern lines. 'Hush!' she said: 'you forget yourself, -Motey,' and you are making a great mistake. If you refer to Sir George -Downing'--she brought out the name with a certain effort--'you cannot be -aware of what is known quite well to your mistress, for she herself told -me that he is married. His wife, who is an American lady, once came to -see your master.' - -There was a long silence. Lady Wantley was waiting for the other to make -some sign of submission, but the old servant only gave the woman who had -been for so many years her own mistress a quick, furtive look, full of -mingled pity and contempt, of fierce personal distress and impatience. - -'Were they together then?' she said at last, and with apparent -inconsequence she added; 'Does your ladyship remember Mrs. Winfrith, and -what happened to her?' - -Lady Wantley deigned no answer to Motey's questions. 'I know that you -love my daughter,' she said slowly, almost reluctantly; but the servant, -with a quick movement, shrank back, and her look, her gesture, forbade -the other--the more fortunate woman who had borne the child Motey loved -so well--to intrude on the nurse's relation to that child. - -'Love her!' Motey was repeating to herself, though no words passed her -lips, 'why, I'd give my body and soul for her, which is more than you -would do!' But Mrs. Mote mis-estimated the mother-instinct in the woman -who was now standing opposite to her. - -Then, quickly, vehemently, the old nurse told of what she knew and what -she feared with so great a dread, and the story which Lady Wantley -heard, still standing, in dead silence, though it might have seemed -very unconvincing to a lawyer, brought absolute conviction to Penelope's -mother. - -She was told in Motey's rough, expressive words of that first meeting in -the great Paris station, when Mrs. Robinson, as if hypnotized by this -singular-looking man, then a complete stranger, had accepted from him a -real service, thus opening the door to an acquaintance which, with -scarce any interval, had ripened into an absorbing passion. The maid -recalled her own dawning suspicions, her powerlessness to stay the -feeling which had seemed suddenly to overpower her mistress, her vain -attempts to persuade Penelope to leave Pol les Thermes. Then the silent -listener heard of the journey back, with Downing in close attendance, of -Mrs. Mote's hope that this was the end of the affair, finally of the -nurse's dismay when she discovered that he was actually coming to Monk's -Eype. - -The story the more impressed Lady Wantley because it was the first time -she had received such confidences. She did not know, and Mrs. Mote saw -no reason to enlighten her, that Penelope had always been fond of -passing adventure, and she would have been astonished indeed had she -known that, just at first, her daughter's vigilant companion had -troubled but little about her mistress and Sir George Downing. Mrs. Mote -had so often seen Penelope come forth, apparently unscathed, from -romantic encounters, from long sentimental duels, in which the woman had -always been an easy victor. - -At last the nurse had said all there was to say. She had even shown Lady -Wantley the letter which she regarded as such absolute evidence of what -she feared, when again the door suddenly opened, and the two within the -room started, or so it seemed to themselves, guiltily apart, as Mrs. -Robinson, travel-stained and weary, and yet scarcely dishevelled, and -with a bright colour in her cheeks, stood before them. - -'I had an accident,' she said, rather breathlessly. 'The left wheel came -off the pony-cart. That made me late, the more so that I was caught in -the great storm which you do not seem to have had here.' - -As she spoke she was glancing sharply from her mother to her maid. 'Were -you afraid? I fear you have both been very anxious.' She added, 'I -should have wired from Burcombe, but as I drove through I saw that the -post-office was shut.' Again, as she spoke, she looked from the one to -the other, and said rather coldly, 'But it's not so very late, after -all.' Then she passed through into her own room, and Motey silently -followed her. - - -That same night Wantley was sitting up, fully an hour after every one -else had gone up to bed, smoking and reading, when Lady Wantley came -into the room, which, as far as he knew, had never been entered by her -since it had been set apart for his own use. - -The young man rose, and tried to keep the surprise he felt out of his -face. For a moment--a very disagreeable moment--he wondered if she had -come to speak to him about Cecily Wake. - -The great Lord Wantley had had a strong prejudice against Roman -Catholics, and it was, of course, quite possible that his widow might -consider herself bound to protest against the idea of a marriage between -his successor and a Catholic girl. But he soon felt reassured on this -point. - -In a few moments he learnt that Lady Wantley had sought him out for a -very different reason. 'I have to see Mr. Gumberg on urgent private -business,' she said, 'and I have come to ask you if you will accompany -me to London to-morrow morning. It is all-important that we should go -quite early.' - -'Certainly,' he said quickly; 'I will arrange everything.' - -'Everything is arranged,' observed Lady Wantley very quietly. 'I have -ordered the carriage for seven, and I have written a note to Penelope -explaining my absence, but I have not mentioned the name of the person I -am going to see. To do so was not necessary, and I beg that you also -will keep it secret.' - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - 'When Man and Woman are agreed, what can the Kazi do?' - - _Indian Proverb._ - - -I - -Lady Wantley, as she journeyed up to town, tended very kindly by her -companion, who possessed the power the normal man often lacks of making -any woman in his charge feel comfortable and at ease, thought intensely -of her coming interview with Mr. Julius Gumberg. She had a sincere -belief in his worldly wisdom, and a vague conviction--not the less real -in that she could not have given any reason for her feeling--that the -power of his guile, combined with that of her prayers, would succeed -where either alone might fail. Thus had she persuaded herself in the -long watches of the night, while debating whether she should go to town -and entreat her old friend's help. - -In spite of what the censorious may say and believe, there is no chasm, -among the many which yawn round our poor humanity, on the brink of which -there is so much hesitation, and drawing back at the last moment, as on -that where the leap involves a loss of moral reputation. - -Even in the course of what had been a very sheltered life, Lady Wantley -had become aware of many such averted tragedies, of more than one -arrested flight, of more than one successful conflict against tremendous -odds--tremendous because the victory had remained with one whose own -heart had been traitor to the cause. - -But her intuitive knowledge of her daughter's character warred with any -hope that Penelope, having once made up her mind, would draw back. The -mother was dimly aware that the barrier must be raised from the outside, -and that the appeal must be made in this case to the man, and not to the -woman. - -So little like her father in most things, Mrs. Robinson had inherited -from him a quality which his critics had called 'obstinacy,' and his -admirers 'exceptional steadfastness of character.' Opposition had always -strengthened Lord Wantley's power of performance, and, as his wife -remembered only too clearly, in Penelope's early love affair it had been -David Winfrith, and not the impulsive, headstrong girl, who had given -way before the father's stern and inexorable command. - -Lady Wantley was one of those fortunate people--more often to be found -in a former generation than in our own--to whom their human possessions -appear to be well-nigh perfect. In her eyes Mrs. Robinson was the most -beautiful, the most gifted, the most generous-hearted, of God's -creatures; and though she reluctantly admitted to herself that her -daughter lacked spiritual perfection, the mother believed that in time -this also would be added to her beloved child. Even now it did not occur -to Lady Wantley that Penelope might be, in this matter, herself to -blame. Instead, she reserved the whole strength of her condemnation for -Sir George Downing, and she was on the way to persuade herself--as, -indeed, she did in time come to do--that, in order to accomplish his -fell purpose, this strange man had used unholy Eastern arts to snare -Penelope, the fair guerdon for whom such a fighter as Persian Downing -might well be willing to risk body and soul. - -Wantley, as he lay back in the railway-carriage, his eyes half closed, -holding a French novel open in his left hand, looked at the figure -sitting opposite to him with a good deal of sympathy and curiosity. He -knew a little, and guessed much more, concerning that which had brought -about this hurried journey. But he wondered how Lady Wantley's eyes had -been opened to a state of things none seemed to have suspected save Miss -Wake. Indeed, as regarded himself, his cousin's odd, altered manner had -been so far the only confirmation of Theresa Wake's suspicion. - -Perhaps, after all, Lady Wantley had reason to fear something tangible, -definite. If so, if Penelope was contemplating any act of open folly, -then, so said Wantley to himself, her mother was well advised to seek -the help of such a man as was Mr. Julius Gumberg. - -This curious journey, taken at such short notice and so secretly, -reminded Wantley of other and very different journeys taken by him as a -boy and youth in Lady Wantley's company--Progresses (he recalled with a -smile his mother's satirical word) during which Lord and Lady Wantley -had headed a retinue consisting, not only of courier, secretary, maids, -valets, and nurses, but also of humble friends in need of rest and -change, while he, Ludovic Wantley, had been the only 'odd man out' of -the party. - -Those days had not been happy days, but his heart involuntarily softened -as he looked at his companion and saw the worn face, the sunken eyes. -They made him realize how greatly Lady Wantley had aged and altered -during her years of widowhood. - -In her husband's lifetime she had been a singularly lovely and gracious -figure, of curiously still demeanour and abstracted manner, treated with -an almost idolatrous devotion by those about her. In those far-away days -his aunt--for so he had been taught to call her--had always worn, even -when on long, dusty Continental journeys, pale lavenders, soft greys, -and ivory whites, each of her garments being fashioned in a way which, -while scrupulously simple, yet heightened the quality of her physical -beauty, and set her apart as on a pinnacle of exquisite and spotless -womanliness. - -Wantley remembered the kind of sensation which the great English milord -and his lady naturally created in the little-frequented French and -German towns selected by them for sometimes prolonged halts. - -To-day, as he sat opposite to her, there came over him with -extraordinary vividness the recollection of one such sojourn in a -Bavarian village overhung by an historic castle, the owner of which had -invited Lord Wantley and his whole party to spend a day there. The young -man recalled with whimsical clearness each incident of what had been an -enchanting episode--the hours spent in the green alleys of a park of -which the still canals, stone terraces, and formal statuary recalled, as -they were meant to do, Versailles, for the place had been designed in -those far-off days when France and the French ideal of life still ruled -the German imagination. - -He remembered the fair-haired German girl whose gentle presence had for -him dominated the scene, her shy kindliness, the contrast between her -good English and his own and his cousin's indifferent German; and then -the feeling with which he had heard some passing words--a brief question -and a briefer answer--exchanged between the hospitable Prince and the -noble philanthropist: 'A charming lad--doubtless your eldest son?' And -the quick answer, 'No, no! quite a distant kinsman.' The words had -rankled, and over years. - - -Lady Wantley had never been to London in August, and so she had thought -to find a town deserted, save for the consoling oasis of St. James's -Place. - -She looked through the windows of the four-wheeled cab, also an utterly -unfamiliar form of conveyance, with a feeling of alarm and discomfort. -'How many people there seem to be left in London!' she said at last, -rather nervously. - -'You need not fear that you will see any one that you know,' Wantley -answered dryly. 'Still Mr. Gumberg is not the only Londoner who stays in -London through the summer. The difference between himself and his -fellow-townsmen is that he chooses to remain, and that they must do so.' - -No other word was said during the long, slow drive, spent by Wantley in -wondering whether he would find his club open, and how, if not, he -should dispose of himself during Lady Wantley's interview with Mr. -Gumberg. But for the parting for a whole day from Cecily Wake, he would -have enjoyed rather than otherwise this strange expedition, for he had -been flattered and touched by the confidence reposed in him. - -As the cab finally turned down St. James's Street, he took the hand, -still soft and of perfect shape, which lay nearest to his on Lady -Wantley's knee. 'We are nearly there,' he said. 'I will see you into the -hall, and then go off for an hour.' - - -II - -Mr. Gumberg was one of those who early school themselves to wait on -life. Sitting in the pretty, gay morning-room, which opened upon a -stately little garden--designed in the days when Italy was to the -cultivated Englishman what the England of to-day is to the travelled -American--he was rarely disappointed, even in August, as to what the day -would bring forth. - -Few afternoons went by but some acquaintance journeyed westward from the -City to ask his advice concerning matters of business moment. In the -hottest summer weather foreigners of distinction would find their way to -St. James's Place, bearing letters of courteous introduction, couched -in well-turned phrases, of which the diction, even in France and -Austria, will soon be a lost art. And then, again, friends passing -through town would remember the old man, and hasten to spend with him an -idle hour, bearing with them a budget of the news he loved to hear. - -But it was the day bringing forth the utterly unexpected that renewed -Mr. Julius Gumberg's grip on life. It was then that he felt he was still -taking part in the world's affairs, for the unexpected, in his case, -almost always meant an appeal connected with one of those byways of -human life in which he still took so vivid and so practical an interest. - -To the old worldling a call from Lady Wantley had always been something -of an event, and this over fifty years of their two lives. He respected -her reserve, he admired her reticence, and, while himself so deeply -interested in those about him, he yet delighted in the company of the -one woman of his acquaintance whom he knew to have ever regarded the -soul and the future life as of such infinitely more moment than the body -and the pleasant world about her. - -She was herself quite unaware of the peculiar feeling with which her old -friend regarded her, and ignorant that on the rare occasions of her -visits to St. James's Place no other visitor was welcome, or, indeed, -tolerated. Still, at this painful, anguished moment of her life some -subtle instinct caused her to turn to one with whom, in many ways, she -had so little in common. She felt secure of his sympathy, and had -implicit trust in his discretion; indeed, her belief in him extended to -the hope that he would suggest a way by which Penelope should surely be -saved from what the mother, full of pain and shrinking terror, could not -but regard as a most awful fate. - -The interview began badly. The gay little garden room, which still kept -something of the insouciant, roguish charm of the famous -eighteenth-century beauty from whose executors Mr. Julius Gumberg had -originally purchased the house, formed an incongruous background to the -shrunken figure, the parchment-coloured face, the hairless head, always, -however, covered with a skull-cap, of Lady Wantley's old friend. - -Gilt-rimmed, tarnished mirrors destroyed the sense of solitude, and -seemed to Mr. Gumberg's visitor to reflect shadowy witnesses and mocking -eavesdroppers of her shame and distress. - -So strong was this impression that Lady Wantley doubted whether she had -been well advised in coming. She felt inclined to get up and go away; -and something of what was passing in her mind was divined by her host. - -When the first long pause between them became oppressive, the old man, -lifting himself somewhat painfully from his chair, rang the bell which -always stood at his elbow. 'We shall be more at ease, and less likely to -be disturbed upstairs,' he said briefly. - -He was extremely curious to know what had brought Lady Wantley to town, -what could be the matter concerning which she had evidently come to -consult him; but he was too experienced a confessor to hasten -confidences by a word. - -The comfort of no human being, save that of his present visitor, could -have made Mr. Julius Gumberg show himself, as he was about to do, and -for no tangible reason, at a disadvantage--that is, so weighted with -physical infirmity as to be compelled, when walking upstairs, to seek -the assistance of his manservant's arm and guiding hand. His acute, -well-trained intellect had remained so keen, and his powers of -transacting business had diminished so little, that he felt, with a -bitterness none the less intense because so gallantly concealed, the -humiliations attendant on advancing age. - -Accordingly, when quiet, careful Jackson came in answer to his master's -summons, her host impatiently motioned Lady Wantley to precede him up -the narrow stairs which connected the garden room with the octagon -library, where Mr. Gumberg always received his friends in winter and in -spring, and which appeared better suited to the receiving of confidences -and the giving of advice than did the room below. - -Once there--once, as it were, settled against his own familiar -background, leaning back in his leather armchair, his man dismissed, his -visitor seated opposite him in the pretty, comfortable chair always -drawn forward when the old man was honoured by the visit of a fair -friend--Mr. Gumberg felt rewarded for the late stripping of himself of -personal dignity, for he perceived, by certain infallible signs, that -now she would tell him all that was in her mind. - -With scarce any preamble, Lady Wantley plunged into the middle of her -story. In disconnected, but clearly worded, phrases, she told of her -more than suspicion, of her certainty, of the coming peril. But, whereas -she spoke of Downing by name, describing his action with a Biblical -plainness of language which startled her old friend, she concealed the -name of the woman in the case, beseeching Mr. Gumberg's intervention and -advice on behalf 'of one known to you, but whose name I beg you not to -inquire or try to discover.' - -It was with eager, painful interest and growing excitement that the old -man, his hand held shell-like to his ear, heard in silence the story she -had come to tell. She had not spoken many words, and had used but little -of the innocent craft to which she was so unaccustomed, before Mr. -Julius Gumberg knew only too well the name of the woman for whom Lady -Wantley was entreating his advice and help. - -At last, when she had said all there was to say, she looked at her old -friend dumbly, appealingly; and it was rather in answer to that look -than to any word uttered by her that he said: - -'Were you anyone else, I would respect your wish to conceal this lady's -name. Nay, more: were she other than who she is, you should leave me -to-day believing that you had been successful in hiding from me the name -of your friend. But, Lady Wantley, I care for you.' He paused, then -feelingly added: 'I have cared for you all, too well, during nearly the -whole of my life, to tolerate this fiction. What you have come to tell -me is indeed news, and painful news, to me, but Sir George Downing -himself told me, during the few days he was here, that he was acquainted -with Penelope, and that he had met her abroad this spring.' - -And having thus cleared the decks for action, he remained silent for a -few moments, his domed head sunk on his breast, thinking deeply. - -George Downing and Penelope Wantley? Amazing, incredible, and most -sinister conjunction! Why, the affair must have been going on--nay, the -coming catastrophe, this mad scheme of going away together to form a -permanent alliance, 'offensive and defensive' (the old man would have -chuckled but for the poignant wretchedness of the face now hidden in -Lady Wantley's hands) must have been hatching--when Downing was with him -here, in St. James's Place! - -He cast his mind back; he tried to remember a conversation held in this -very room only two or three weeks ago. But Mr. Gumberg had come to a -time of life when it is more easy to recall conversations of half a -century old than words uttered yesterday. - -He had indeed been blind, 'amazing blind, and stoopid, stoopid, -stoopid!' so he exclaimed to himself, vexed that no suspicion of the -truth should have crossed his mind while Downing had been asking him -those eager, insistent questions concerning Mrs. Robinson and the -Wantley family. - -And now? Well, now that the house was well alight they came and asked -him, Mr. Gumberg, how to extinguish the flames. This was not the first -time--no, not by many--that the old man had been required to lend his -aid in such a case, and, as a rule, he always advised that the fire be -left to burn itself out. The counsellor's long experience had taught him -that such flames always did burn out if left severely alone--if no fuel, -in the shape of lamentations and good advice, were added by the -incautious. - -But this matter of Downing and Mrs. Robinson was more complicated than -most. Pursuing his favourite metaphor, the old man said to himself that -here was no flimsy thatch of straw which, when the embers were cold, -could be restored, patched up again, on the old walls. Rather was -Penelope like to one of those old-world frigates, proudly riding the -sea, all afire and aglow, a wonderful sight to those safe on shore, but -of whose splendour there would remain nothing but a shapeless, -indescribable hulk, when all she bore had been burnt to the water's -edge. - -Sitting there, turning about in his still agile mind the story, as just -told him in bare outline, he reminded himself that Mrs. Robinson, though -a powerful, wilful creature, was not the stuff out of which have been -fashioned the great, steadfast lovers of the world. - -'Why, if all were well--if she became the man's wife ten times over--she -would never be content to spend her whole life in Teheran!' he muttered; -and then more loudly: 'No, no; we must find a way out!' - -One question he longed to ask of Lady Wantley, for he felt that on the -true answer much depended that would modify his judgment, and guide his -opinion, as to what the immediate future must bring. But Mr. Gumberg was -old-fashioned; his code as to what could, or rather what could not, be -said to a lady was strict and meagre. Accordingly, he felt it -impossible to put to this revered and trustful friend the question he -longed to utter. Still, there might be a way round. He asked abruptly: -'How much of the six months--I don't think it was more--did Penelope -actually spend at the Settlement? I mean, of course, between her -wedding-day and poor young Robinson's death?' - -Lady Wantley hesitated. She cast her mind back, then answered -reluctantly: 'She was often away during the four months--it was only -four months. But, then, that was utterly different.' A faint colour came -into the mother's pale cheeks. 'Penelope did not care for poor -Melancthon as she seems to care, now----' - -'I know! I know!' The four words were snarled out rather than spoken. -'Nun and monk, that was the notion! No doubt you're right: there was -nothing to keep her there, after all!' - -He was so concerned with the problem filling both their minds for the -moment he forgot his usual punctiliousness of speech, but to Lady -Wantley there came a certain fierce comfort from his amazing frankness. -She felt that he knew, that he understood, the unusual difficulty of the -case, and in answer to his next words, 'I had actually forgotten all -that for the moment, but of course it complicates matters devilishly!' -she nodded her head twice in assent. - -'You see them together,' he went on abruptly. 'Does she seem'--sought -for a word, weighed one or two, rejected them, and finally chose -'bewitched?' - -And then--but this time so much to himself that his listener heard no -word of it--he added: 'Lucky George! Eh? Lucky George!' - -Lady Wantley bent forward. Her grey eyes shone with excitement and -anger. 'Yes, bewitched--that's the right word! Sir George Downing has -bewitched my poor unhappy child. One who was there, our old nurse--you -remember Mrs. Mote?--declares that she altered completely from the -moment they first met. Why, she hasn't known him three months, and yet -he's persuaded her to contemplate this thing--this going with him----' - -She stopped speaking abruptly, choked with the horror of the thought, -and then slowly added: 'I know--at least, I think I know--that you do -not believe, as I believe, in the active, all-devouring power of the -Evil One.' Her voice sank, but Mr. Gumberg caught the muttered words, -'Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring -lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.' - -Mr. Gumberg smiled a queer little enigmatical smile. 'The old nurse was -there, you say? She never left her mistress, eh?' He waited, and looked -hard at Lady Wantley. But no gleam of comprehension of his meaning came -into her worn eyes. 'What does she think? what does the old nurse say to -it all?' - -Again Lady Wantley covered her face with her hands. 'She's known it all -longer than I have. She's in agony--agony, for she feels surer every day -that the child means to go away with him--soon--at once--if we cannot -devise some means of stopping them.' - -'I take it that you have said nothing to your daughter--to Penelope--as -yet?' - -Lady Wantley raised her head, and he saw for a moment her convulsed, -disfigured features. 'No, I have said nothing. I cannot speak to her on -such a matter as this. Besides, she would not tolerate it. But you, dear -friend----' - -She suddenly rose from her chair, a tall, imposing figure, then moved -closer to him, and looked imploringly down into the wrinkled, impassive -face. 'I have thought that you, perhaps, would consent to speak to Sir -George Downing? I know it is asking much of your old friendship for us.' - -Mr. Gumberg coughed. He moved uneasily in his chair. 'In such a -matter,' he began, 'one man can scarcely interfere with another man's -business. Supposing I do as you wish, can we expect Downing to draw back -now, if she--Penelope--has made up her mind to go on? Would you have him -put on her so mortal an affront?' - -Lady Wantley only looked at him bewildered. Such sophistry was not for -her. - -'But from the point of view of Sir George Downing's own life and -career,' she said falteringly, 'I understand--indeed, Penelope herself -has told me--that the one object of his life for many years past has -been to rehabilitate himself. Could you not point out to him how greatly -this would injure him with those whose good opinion he wishes to retain? -Think of what all my husband's old friends and colleagues will feel;' -and he saw that her hands were trembling. - -Mr. Gumberg looked at Lady Wantley consideringly. He was surprised that -she had brought herself to think over the matter from so practical a -point of view. She had again sat down, and was gazing at him in a -collected, earnest manner. - -'He has weighed all that, depend upon it,' he said shortly. 'No, no! -with such a man as George Downing one must appeal to something higher -than self-interest. We must realize--it's no use blinking the fact--that -we are now dealing, or attempting to deal, with a feeling none the less -strong because you and I happen to have no sympathy with it--or perhaps -I should say, as regards myself, have outlived it.' - -He waited a moment, then concluded deliberately: - -'In your place, Lady Wantley, I should make a personal appeal to -Downing. Choose a time when Penelope is out of the way, and tell him the -truth--that he does not know her as you know her, and that, even putting -aside other and more obvious reasons which should make him pause, you -are sure that she would not be happy in the life he has to offer her. -Lastly, and most urgently, appeal to him for time. Time,' repeated the -old man, with a certain solemnity--'time smooths out many crooked -things. But why should I try and prompt you? You will know what to say -better than I could tell you. And Downing, take my word for it, is not -the man to seize an unfair advantage. Ask him to go away, alone, to give -her more time for consideration. Such a serious business as they -apparently both regard it--and most creditable it is to both of them -that they should do so,' he added in a half-aside--'should not be -settled in a hurry. Why, a few weeks ago each didn't know the other -lived, and now nothing short will content them but the spending of their -whole lives together! Though I have but little belief in its being of -any use, I will comply with your request that I should write to him. As -to what I say when I do write, you must leave that to me; but be sure -that I will do my best.' - -'You will write to him? Oh, how can I thank you adequately, my -friend--my good friend!' - -Lady Wantley's eyes filled with grateful tears, and a stifling weight -seemed lifted from her heart. She felt that she had accomplished that -which she had come to do, and she paid no heed to the admonition, 'Don't -count too much on my influence with Downing.' - -They both stood up, Mr. Gumberg leaning his left hand on his stick, -while the other clasped hers in kindly, mute farewell. - -'Do you remember,' she asked, rather shyly, 'your first visit to -Oglethorpe, when I was a little girl? My mother, my dear, dear mother, -was so interested in you. I remember she said you were such a -well-behaved and intelligent youth. Of course, I know you came again -when we were both older, but when I see you I always think of our first -meeting. I saw no young folk at all in those years.' - -'No,' said Mr. Gumberg, a little stiffly, 'I have forgotten nothing. -Your parents, both then and later, were very kind to me, and I have -always felt grateful for my reception at Oglethorpe.' He hesitated a -moment, and then added, with an odd little old-fashioned bow over the -hand he still held: 'And also for that in later days, at Monk's Eype and -at Marston Lydiate.' - -'Ah yes,' she said, 'I know how sincere a friendship my husband felt for -you. But, as I said just now, I myself prefer to associate you in my own -mind with my own home--with my dear father and mother.' - - -When Lady Wantley had left him, and after the house had settled down -again into its usual summer stillness and silence, Mr. Gumberg, acting -on a sudden impulse, did that which he lived to regret--though only, it -must be admitted, when in a cynical mood--to the end of his life. Slowly -he made his way to the mahogany cupboard where he kept some of his -choicest treasures, including the rarer of his unframed prints. From -there he extracted a small portfolio, and returning to his armchair, he -propped it up on the sloping desk at his elbow. For a few moments his -fingers fumbled with the green silk strings, and he turned over the -contents with eager hands. - -'The Lady and her Pack.' Mr. Gumberg peered musingly at the curious -rudely-coloured design. He wondered half suspiciously whether it was -only his fancy that detected a certain similarity between the -horsewoman, sitting so squarely and so gallantly on her huge roan, and -the lady who had just left him. Both figures--that of Rosina Bellamont -and that of Lady Wantley--had about them a certain dauntlessness, a look -of high courage. - -Mr. Gumberg hastily turned the little print about. He took up a -magnifying-glass, and carefully read through the notes with which the -reverse side was covered, and which, in addition to names and dates, -gave a number of more intimate particulars concerning the various -human-faced hounds composing the pack. - -Then, with a certain deliberateness, he lighted the little red taper -with the help of which he always sealed his letters, and, holding what -had been the most valued of his minor treasures over the flame, Mr. -Gumberg watched it vanish into the flickering air above the taper. But -during the rest of that afternoon and evening his eyes often turned -towards the little tear-bottle, brought to him by a friend from Rome, -where he had carefully placed the pinch of brown ash which was all that -now remained of 'The Lady and her Pack.' - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - 'Ah, dear, but come them back to me! - Whatever change the days have wrought, - I find not yet one lonely thought - That cries against my wish for thee.' - - -I - -There are moments in the life of almost every human being when the sands -seem to be running out, when even the most careless, the least -scrupulous, feels a pang at the thought of all that has been left -undone, and, even more, of all that must be left unfinished and -incomplete. If the knowledge comes in the shape of a positive warning -that death is at hand, and will have to be faced in three months, in six -months, in a year, then the wise man sets his house in order as best he -can, and leaves the rest to God, or to that ordered chance in which so -many now believe as a substitute for Divine Providence. But when, as -perhaps more often happens in this strange, complicated world, a human -being has deliberately so set the hour-glass of his life that the sands -run out far more quickly than they were ever meant to do, and when the -last grain will bring, not death, but some astounding change in life, -dividing the what has been from the what will be more painfully than -would death itself; then the sense of responsibility, maybe the simple -fear of what may befall, is apt to make even the strongest nature quake. - -Penelope had come to such a moment. She had so set her hour-glass that -now the sands were running out with what appeared to be relentless -haste, while the time left to her was beginning to seem so short, and -the things to be done in that same short time so many. She did not -waver, or rather she was not aware that, had it been possible, she would -perhaps have wavered. Instead, she was only conscious of a desire to -hasten on--to see everything cleared out of her way. One matter which -had never before troubled her now gave her much anxious thought--she -longed to retain, as far as might be possible, the good opinion of the -few people who really loved her. - -And so it was with a mind deeply troubled that she stood waiting for -Winfrith, not in the studio, where every time she entered it everything -reminded her more and more of the life she was leaving, but in the high, -narrow room which corresponded on the ground-floor to Mrs. Mote's -bedroom above, and where still remained traces of the time when it had -been the study of Penelope's father--in a very real sense a workroom, -for there a great worker had spent many solitary hours. - -On the ugly, substantial writing-table, so placed that the writer -commanded the whole of the wonderful view of the terraced gardens, the -irregular cliff-line, and the broad seas spread out below, Mrs. Robinson -had placed a number of documents tied up with red tape, also two small -black despatch-boxes, each stamped with the initials M. W. R. These -preparations for what she intended should be a short business interview -gave her courage. As she waited, nervously conscious that Winfrith was -now, what he so rarely was, a few minutes late, she turned and walked up -and down the narrow room, longing for the door to open and let him in, -longing even more for the moment when it should open and let him out. - - -At last the man she waited for came in smiling. One of those instincts -which tell only a half-truth made him aware that the news he brought -would greatly gratify her. 'Sir George Downing has won all along the -line,' he said boyishly, while shaking hands. 'We are going to send him -the man he wants. He ought to be very much obliged to you.' He added, -with the touch of condescension which--from him to her--always teased -and yet always touched Penelope, 'The great man owes you far more than -he knows. How odd that he should have met you, and so have come across -me! He is even more worth meeting than I had expected,' he concluded -hesitatingly. 'I wonder why there is still so strong a prejudice against -him.' - -'Give a dog a bad name,' she said indifferently, and then turned the key -in the lock of the door. Penelope had inherited from her methodical -father an impatience of interruption. 'Sit down here at the table,' she -commanded, 'and now let us put aside Sir George Downing and his affairs, -for just now I am more interested in my own. Do you remember the exact -terms of the deed--I know you have seen it--in which were arranged all -the money matters connected with the Settlement?' - -'Yes,' he answered at once, 'I remember the terms quite well. The -buildings are left in trust, and my father is one of the trustees; but -the income remains entirely in your hands. You could withdraw all -supplies to-morrow, or, to put it in another way, you could spend all -your income, and so have to pay the claims of the Settlement out of -capital. I always thought it a very bad arrangement.' He spoke with a -certain sharpness, as if the discussion were distasteful to him. - -Penelope looked up with some anger, and 'My husband trusted me -absolutely,' she said rather proudly. - -The man sitting opposite to her reddened darkly. He always disliked to -hear Penelope mention Melancthon Robinson; the slightest allusion to the -founder of the Settlement, when made by her, roused a violent primeval -instinct, which insisted on recognition of his own original claim to the -beautiful, elusive creature with whom his relations had now been for so -long lacking in sincerity. 'That's nonsense,' he said harshly. 'He had -no right to do such a thing with a girl of two-and-twenty.' - -'One-and-twenty,' she corrected quickly. - -He went on, avoiding her eyes, but his voice lowering, losing its -harshness, in spite of himself. 'It was a most unfair responsibility to -put upon you. However intelligent and businesslike,' he added, 'however -trusted and worthy of trust----' - -It was Penelope's turn to redden. 'I do not say I was, or am, worthy of -such a trust,' she said rather coldly. 'You know, or perhaps you have -forgotten, that I thought my cousin would help me. He refused, and it -was because you, David, were so good to me then'--Penelope leant -forward; she put her hand, her slender, ringless left hand, on his -sleeve for a moment, and the blue eyes which met his in quick appeal -seemed darker, softer than usual--'because you have always been good to -me, that I now ask your advice. It is for the last time----' - -Winfrith suddenly focussed his mind into close attention. Very slowly, -hardly conscious of what he was doing, he moved the chair on which he -was sitting further away from hers, and set a guard on his face. - -There had been a time, shortly after the renewal of their intimacy, when -David Winfrith had schooled himself, with what he thought was easy -philosophy, to hear the announcement of Penelope's remarriage. But -curiously soon, and Mrs. Robinson had watched with mischievous interest -the different workings of his mind, the young man had seen reason to -assure himself that his new-found friend would do wisely to remain free -as himself from all sentimental entanglements, while yet always able to -benefit by his superior masculine sense and knowledge, both of the world -and of affairs. - -Soon also he had come to fear for her, and this quite honestly, the -fortune-hunters with whom he felt rather than knew her to be, in those -early days, encompassed. A word denying any intention of remarriage--and -it was a word which Penelope, at that time of her life and even for long -after, could have uttered with all sincerity--would have made Winfrith -easy in his mind; but the word was never uttered. Mrs. Robinson had had -no desire to let the nearest, in a sense the dearest, and in any case -the most faithful and trustworthy of her mentors, feel too great a sense -of security. - -And so their strange relationship had remained, and that over years, a -source of pleasant confidence and sentimental amusement to the woman, of -subtle charm and ever-recurring interest to the man. - -When he turned restive, as sometimes though rarely happened, Penelope -dealt out the rope with no niggard hand, or, better still, provoked -something tantamount to a quarrel, followed in due course by the -inevitable healing reconciliation. - -But not even his interest in Mrs. Robinson's affairs--for so he -described, even to himself, the feeling which dominated him--had ever -caused Winfrith to neglect his own work, or the public business with -which he was concerned; and this divided allegiance, as he sometimes -suspected, caused her more real annoyance than his frequent and frank -criticisms of her actions, and his tacit refusal to join in the pretty -flatteries of her other friends. As Penelope had learnt with anger, -there were times and seasons when even the most imperious note, the most -urgent appeal, could not bring him to her side. But while this state of -things had irked her greatly, especially in the early days of the -renewal of their friendship, she had always been aware that any ordinary -pleasure or personal concern was always flung aside, counted as nothing -to the delight of being with her and of acting as her confidential -adviser and friend. - -To-day, while looking into his plain face, aware of the sternness of the -strong jaw, the ugly peculiarity of an exceptionally long upper lip, -Penelope's heart contracted with sudden tenderness as she evoked the -memory of the long years during which they had known one another with so -deep, so wordless, an intimacy. - -For a moment there was silence between them. Then he said, rather -sharply: 'Well, what is it you want me to do? Of course I will give you -the best advice in my power, and not, I hope, for the last time.' - -As he spoke he stood up and placed himself with his back to the window, -and for a moment Penelope saw the heavy, broad-shouldered figure -outlined against the sea and sky, his face--and this vaguely relieved -her--being in complete shadow. But she turned away, looked straight -before her as she said quickly, her voice full of defiant decision: -'Yes, I want to ask your advice, and more, to beg you to help me about a -certain matter.' She paused, and added: 'I have made some notes on a -piece of paper. I think I laid it down before you came in.' - -Winfrith wheeled round, and looked at the table against which he had -been leaning. On coming into the room he had paid no attention to -Penelope's preparations for their interview, but now, as he became aware -of the odd little bundles of lawyer's letters, each tied together with -tape, and of the despatch-boxes, inscribed with the initials M. W. R., -he felt amused, and even a little touched. 'These look quite old -papers,' he said kindly. 'Perhaps you forgot to bring your notes in here -with you, or--wait a moment--what is that you are holding in your hand?' - -She frowned with annoyance. 'How stupid I am!' But the little episode -relieved the tension between them; and, as a child might have done to a -play-fellow, she suddenly put out her hand, and, taking his, pulled him -down beside her on the long, low, leather-covered couch. 'I want to -speak to you about a really serious business, and I know--at least, I am -afraid--that you will disapprove of what I want to do, and that you may -try and make me alter my mind.' - -She spoke nervously, with a new, a gentler, note in her voice. A blessed -peace stole into Winfrith's heart; he chased the dread which had for the -moment possessed him, and it was in his usual tone, with his usual -half-bantering manner, that he asked the reproachful question, 'Why did -you say that--I mean, as to this being the last time? Surely I have not -deserved that you should say such things to me!' - -'No, indeed--indeed you have not!' And the hurried humility with which -she spoke might well have re-awakened his premonition of coming pain and -parting. 'But you will soon understand what I meant, when I have -explained everything.' - -Again there was silence between them; but Winfrith, her last words -sounding in his ears, feeling her dear nearness, though he had moved -somewhat away from where she had placed him, was in no haste to hear her -confidences. Secretly he pledged himself not to scold her--indeed, to -listen patiently, and to help her, however unpractical and foolish the -scheme for which she sought his help. - -At last Penelope, paler than her wont, her voice tremulous, lacking its -usual hard, bell-like quality of tone, spoke, and to some purpose: 'I -have made up my mind to do what you have always wished--that is, to -endow the Settlement. Though what you said just now about my husband and -his arrangements made me angry, I know it was true. He ought not to have -left me such power.' - -Winfrith felt relieved but bewildered, and straightway he blundered. -'Certainly something of the kind ought to have been done long ago, but -you always opposed it. You----' - -'I suppose I have the right to change my mind, to be guided by -circumstances? Besides, I am tired, utterly tired, of the responsibility -as well as of the Settlement.' She looked at him fixedly for a moment. -'I know what you would like to say; that I have had nothing to do with -it, in a real sense, for many years past. But that is false; no day goes -by without my receiving some tiresome letter or letters. Whenever any of -the "Settlers"'--Winfrith had never before heard her use the -contemptuous term--'fall out, and they are always falling out----' - -'That at least is untrue,' he interrupted. - -'Yes, they do--they do! And when they do, then they write to me to patch -up the quarrel!' - -She paused, then went on in a more measured voice: 'And there are other -things! How would you like it if, when acting the part of a traitor to -your party, you were always being praised for your loyalty? _I_ am a -traitor to all that the Settlement represents. I hate--no, I do not -hate, I despise--the wretched human beings to whom poor Melancthon gave -up his life. I don't think they are worth the trouble expended on them. -When I come into personal contact with them, of course I am sorry, so I -am for the ants when Brown Bess puts her foot on an ant-hill! And to -you, David, I have never pretended otherwise. Of course I recognise that -in so feeling I am almost alone. Some of the people I have most cared -for, my father'--she hesitated and added more gently--'you yourself, -feel quite otherwise.' - -Then breaking off short, she glanced down at the paper she held in her -hand, and Winfrith saw with some surprise that it was covered with -neatly pencilled notes. 'But, after all, I own no apology for what I -feel to any human being, and so now let us consider the practical side -of the matter. Apart from the question of the endowment, I wish -arrangements to be made by which Cecily Wake can carry out her -experiment--I mean her co-operative cheap food idea.' - -Winfrith bit his lip. This, then, was the new scheme? He had never liked -Cecily Wake; perhaps--but of this, of course, he was totally unaware--he -was irritated by the girl's enthusiastic affection for Penelope, so much -more unobtrusive and sincere than that of some of those whom he also -unconsciously regarded as his rivals. Then, again, Cecily, like himself, -had the power, in spite of her youth, in spite even of a certain -childishness of which the bloom had not been rubbed off in the two years -spent by her in working at the Settlement, of obtaining her own way, and -of imposing her own point of view on others. Finally, he had the average -Englishman's distrust of Roman Catholicism, and naturally suspected the -motives of a convent-bred girl. - -As to the proposed scheme, it was in some ways childish, in others -revolutionary. In her dreams Cecily Wake had seen the squalid -neighbourhoods about the Settlement each rejoicing in its own huge cheap -and pure food emporium. To Winfrith the idea was little less than -absurd, and to be, from every point of view, deprecated and discouraged; -so he now nerved himself, without any great difficulty, to opposition. - -'Miss Wake's scheme, from what I can make of it,' he said coldly, 'would -not only require the outlay of a considerable amount of capital, but, -what is more serious, could not but disorganize local trade.' - -Penelope frowned. 'I know, I know! You've said all that to me before. As -to the money required, of course there will be plenty of money. You have -never liked Cecily; but still, even you must admit that she has done -very well, and, after all, both Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret agree -that something of the kind she suggests is badly needed. I remember that -I myself, in old days, always considered that we thought far too much of -our protégés' minds and morals, and far too little of their bodies; and -I know I heartily sympathized with the poor wretches who, when they -discovered that there were to be no more doles, broke all the windows of -good Mr. B.' - -Winfrith vehemently disagreed, but it was an old quarrel between them, -and he refused to be drawn. - -'To return to the main question,' he said quietly, 'it seems to me to be -entirely one of money. If you endow the Settlement, as I understand you -mean to do--that is, adequately--your own income will be greatly -lowered, and even so large, so immense a fortune as that left you by -your husband'--he brought out the word with a gulp--'will be seriously -affected. You know sometimes, as it is, you have not found matters very -easy.' - -He hesitated, for here he felt on delicate ground. The way in which -this, to him, dearest of women, dowered with apparently such simple -personal tastes, so over-spent her large income as to find it difficult -sometimes to meet the claims of the Settlement, had been to him for -years a matter of profound astonishment. - -'Well, I shall have to manage better in future.' She sighed a little -wearily. 'As you said just now the money was really left to me in -trust;' and, when Winfrith made a gesture of negation, she said, 'Well, -most of it was.' And then, with complete change of tone, she said -slowly, 'And now I intend to be shut of it all.' - -As he looked at her, perplexed, she added: 'You don't know the -expression? Ah well, if you had ever lived at the Settlement, even for a -short time, you would be quite familiar with it, for there women are -always longing to be "shut" of things--principally, of course, of their -husbands and babies. But seriously, David, what I want you to tell me -and to help me to do concerns the practical side of this great -renouncement.' - -There had come again into her voice, during the last few moments, the -satirical ring he dreaded and disliked. 'We will take all your -remonstrances and reproaches as said'--she softened the discourtesy of -her words by the touch for a moment of her hand on his arm. 'And I want -it all done at once--within the next few weeks.' - -Winfrith smiled, not unkindly. 'So I should suppose,' he said quietly; -'but of course that will be quite impossible.' - -'But you have often helped me to get things done quickly,' she cried -urgently, 'and it really is most important that these changes and new -arrangements should be made now, as soon as possible.' - -Winfrith laughed outright. He wondered for a moment, with a certain -complacency, whether any man, however foolish and lacking in knowledge -of business, could be found to propose so absurd a thing as this clever, -and sometimes so shrewd, woman had done. - -'Why all this haste?' he asked good-humouredly. 'I'll tell you what we -had better do; I will draft a letter, for you to copy, to your lawyers. -In this letter we will explain that you wish the arrangements -concerning the Settlement, embodied, I believe, in your will, to be -carried out now, in your lifetime; further, you will tell them prettily, -in your own words, that you wish the whole thing settled as soon as -possible. They will then go into the whole matter, and let you know what -can be done, and how long it will take to do it.' - -He waited a moment, then continued: 'Now about Miss Wake's scheme. I -should suggest its being tried at first on a small scale. I understand -she has reduced her demands'--he could not keep his prejudice against -Penelope's young friend out of his voice--'to what she calls "a pure -milk depôt." Some time ago I did consult a doctor I know on that point, -and I admit he thought it a good idea. This portion of her scheme need -not cost a great deal of money, and though, of course, it will put all -the milkmen against you, as you personally won't be there when their -boys come and break the windows of the Settlement, I don't know that -that much matters!' - -He waited for her answer. These discussions, which had at intervals -taken place for many years past between Mrs. Robinson and himself always -amused him and bored her, the more so that, after a spirited struggle on -her part, he generally got his own way. - -But to-day Penelope was not in fighting trim. 'You don't understand,' -she said at length, and in a voice so low that he had to bend forward to -hear her words. 'This is only a part of what I want you to do for me. -You referred just now to my will. Supposing that I died suddenly--that I -was killed out riding, for instance; you, as my executor, would have to -see to almost everything, to undertake almost all the arrangements I -want you to get done for me now, during the next few weeks.' - -Winfrith turned and looked at her keenly. She met his gaze -unflinchingly; but the colour had gone from her face, the proud mouth, -which he had once kissed so often, and which he had once refused to -kiss (did Penelope ever remember, too? he wondered; he never forgot) was -trembling, and her eyes met his in questioning, shrinking distress at -the pain she felt herself about to inflict. - -And then suddenly he realized, with a feeling of sharp revolt and -anguish, that that which he had sometimes thought of as being possible, -but which during recent years had gone into the background of his -mind--for he was a much-occupied as well as an unimaginative man--had -come upon him. He saw that he was going to lose her, that their old -relationship was even now severed, and that this was in very truth her -last and supreme call on him for help. - -But there was no perceptible change in his voice, as he said very -quietly: 'Please read me your notes: then I shall understand more -clearly what you want done; and once I understand, I will do all in my -power to see that your wishes are carried out.' - -She bowed her head, and Winfrith listened with dismay and increasing -astonishment as Mrs. Robinson explained the scheme, evidently well and -carefully thought out, by which she proposed to renounce and distribute -the whole of the immense fortune which had been left to her by -Melancthon Robinson. - -As she spoke, as she read on from her notes, her voice regained -something of its sureness of accent; and glancing frequently at the -paper she held in her hand, she elaborated the various points, showing -more real knowledge of the problems which confront the modern -philanthropist than Winfrith would have thought possible. - -Then came the sudden, the agonizing, conviction that in this matter -Penelope had been helped by some other and more practical mind than her -own; and, as this fact became clear, he set his teeth, and forced -himself to remember that the man, whoever he might be, who had inspired -this great renunciation could be no fortune-hunter. - -'Of course, you can guess,' she said at last--for his silence made her -uneasy--'why I am doing all this. I have as yet told nobody; but my life -henceforth will be spent abroad, and'--again she hesitated -painfully--'the person whose wishes I am now bound to consult absolutely -agrees with me, and approves of what I am going to do about Melancthon's -money.' - -He brushed aside her last words, and brought himself to consider her -material interests, and so, 'You realize what all this means?' he said -at length. 'If these arrangements are carried out, your income, in the -sense you now understand the word, will be wholly absorbed--gone.' - -'I am retaining everything my father left to me, with the exception of -this place,' she said quickly. - -'With the exception of this place?' he repeated with dismay. 'Do you, -then, mean to sell Monk's Eype?' - -'No, no! how could you think of such a thing?' A tone of profound -dejection crept into her voice. 'What I mean is that, before going away, -I intend to hand Monk's Eype over to Ludovic. He was not fairly treated -by my father; but, even as it is with him, he could afford to keep up -the villa and the gardens as they should be kept up, and I am sure he -will always make my mother welcome, should she care to come here from -time to time.' - -The accent of pain in her voice again stung Winfrith into protest. 'Are -you sure that you are acting wisely? Of course, I know that it is none -of my business.' And as she made a quick dissenting gesture: 'If it -is--if you will allow it to be my business, then let me say that in this -matter of your fortune you are about to take a great risk, and one which -you might bitterly regret later on,' he added deliberately, 'and for -which you might in time be reproached.' - -But as he uttered these last words a sudden change came over Penelope's -face. Winfrith had evoked another, a more intimate--ay, and a more -eloquent--presence, and as she answered, 'Ah no! I need never be afraid -of that,' a strange radiance came over her face, softening the severity -of the lines, veiling the brightness of her blue eyes. - -Winfrith rose quickly from where he was sitting; he felt an impulse to -wound, to strike, and then to flee. 'Men alter,' he said--'men and -women, too. You and I----' Then he drove out the jealous devil which had -possessed him for a moment, and asked: 'Well, I suppose that is all you -wanted to see me about for the present? If you will give me your notes I -will go into the matter; and if, as I understand, your marriage is to -take place very soon abroad'--he waited for a moment, but there came no -word of assent--'that will, of course, be a sufficient reason for -pushing on everything as quickly as possible.' - -He added, with an air of studied indifference: 'May I ask how long you -wish your engagement to be kept secret? Do you, for instance, object to -my father being told?' - -Then he looked down at her, and what he saw roused every generous -instinct, banished unworthy jealousy, and even dulled his bitterness. -When had he last seen Penelope weeping? Years and years before, on the -day of their parting, when they were still boy and girl lovers. But then -her tears had come freely, like those of a child distressed; now no -sound came from the bowed figure save long, shuddering sobs. Again he -sat down by her. 'My dear,' he said, deeply troubled, 'what is it? What -can I do for you?' - -'You were so unkind,' she whispered, and he saw that she was trembling, -'you were going away--so coldly.' Then, almost inaudibly, she added: 'I -did not think you would care so much.' - -She unclasped the hands in which her face had been hidden, and held them -out to him. For a moment he took them in his, crushed the fingers wet -with tears, and then let them go. 'Of course I care,' he said at length. -'You would not have me not care. We have been friends so long, you and -I.' He stopped abruptly; the memory of many meetings, of many partings, -became vivid and intolerable. - -They both stood up, and again he made an effort over himself. Once more -he took her hands in his, and held them tightly, as he said: 'But you -must not distress yourself about me; men have worse things to bear. -Think of what happened to my father.' And his voice shook for the first -time. Never before, not even as a boy, had Penelope heard him allude to -his parents' tragic story. And now this word, meant to comfort her, and -perhaps himself, cut her to the heart. Soon he would learn, only too -surely, the ironic parity which was to lie between his own and his -father's fate. - -For a moment she shrank back, then moved swiftly nearer to him; and it -was with her arms about his neck, her face looking up into his, that he -heard the eager tremulous words: 'David, before you go I want to say -something--to tell you, so that you may remember afterwards when I am -gone, that till now there has never been anyone else--never, -never--anyone but you!' Her head sank on his breast as she added slowly, -almost reluctantly: 'Things were not as you, perhaps, think they were -between poor Melancthon and myself. We agreed before our marriage that -it was only to be a partnership.' As she felt his arms tighten round -her, she again lifted her face, and asked: 'Are you shocked? Do you -think it was wrong? Motey (no one else ever guessed) thought it very -wicked.' - -'Then you were--you have always been mine!' he cried; and, as she shrank -back, he holding her fast to him, 'Tell me,' he asked, 'should I have -had a chance, another chance, during all those years?' He added, perhaps -guided by some subtle instinct of which he was ashamed, for as he spoke -Penelope felt him relaxing the strong grip of the arms which had held -her so closely, 'Is there any chance--now?' - -She shook her head. Through a blistering veil she saw the set grey face -of the man who had loved her so well and long, and for whom she also had -cared, if less well, quite as long. 'You had your chance, such as it -was, at first,' she said, 'when we were both so young, when I was -foolish and you were so wise.' His face contracted at the sad irony in -her voice. 'I know now, I even knew then, that my father forced you to -act as you did; but I was angered, disappointed, with you and in you. I -had thought--I think even Motey expected--that you would have wanted to -run away with me. Gretna Green seemed a very real place in those days.' -She smiled dolorously. 'If you had been a little stronger or a little -weaker, perhaps even a little less reasonable, I should have run away -with you, for at that time--ah, David, I was in love with Love, and you -were Love.' - -'Then I only once forfeited my chance?' he again asked urgently. 'During -all these past years it never came again?' - -For a moment Penelope hesitated; then, as she lied, she again pressed -closer to him, and again the tears ran down her cheeks. 'It never came -again,' she repeated. 'But you know, you will always remember when I am -gone, that you were the only one, the only one.' - -'Is that quite true?' he asked slowly. - -'Absolutely true.' She spoke eagerly, defending the truth as she had not -been called upon to defend the lie. 'We have had our happy years, -David--your years, my dear. You always seemed quite content----' - -'Did I?' he said bitterly. 'Ah well, now comes the turn of the other -man!' - -Penelope started back, wounded and ashamed. She put her hand over her -eyes. For a moment they both felt an intangible, but none the less -reproachful, presence between them. - -'I beg your pardon,' he said hurriedly. 'I should not have said that. -Forgive me.' - -'It was my fault,' she answered coldly. 'I brought it on myself--I know -you had great provocation.' - -There was a painful moment of silence. 'I think I must leave you now,' -she said at length, 'I will write to you to-morrow. I do not think our -meeting again would be of any use. We should both say'--her voice -quivered--'and perhaps do, things we should regret later.' She held out -her hand, her head still averted, wishing her anger, her disappointment, -with Winfrith to endure. - -But suddenly he drew her again, this time resisting, into his arms. 'We -can't part like this,' he whispered urgently. 'Forgive the brutish thing -I said! I promise I will never so offend again--I swear I will respect -him--the man you love, I mean.' To keep her another moment in his arms -he abased himself yet further. 'You must not be afraid that I shall -quarrel with your choice. Surely we can remain friends--he shall have no -reason to be jealous of me.' - -But punishment came swift and sure. Again he felt her shrink from him, -again he felt another presence between them, and the jealous devil, so -lately laid, once more took possession of his soul. - -He thrust her away. 'I had better go now,' he said hoarsely. 'It's no -use. You were right: we had better not meet again.' - -And as Penelope, swept with infinite distress, compelled, mastered, by -impulses the source of which was wholly hidden from herself, came once -more near to him, again took his hand in hers, looked up mutely into -his face, he said roughly, 'No, no! keep your kisses for the other man; -I will not rob him any more!' and, fumbling for a moment with the key in -the lock, was gone. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - 'For a pinte of honey thou shalt here likely find a gallon of gaul, - for a dram of pleasure a pound of pain, for an inch of mirth an ell - of mone: as Ivie doth an oke, these miseries encompass our life.' - - -I - -After her return from Kingpole Farm that night of stress and storm, -Penelope felt strangely, terribly forlorn. Those about her seemed -changed. She gradually became aware that she was being watched, -considered anxiously, by her mother, by Wantley, even by Miss Wake. -Cecily alone among them seemed as she had always been, but even she, or -so Mrs. Robinson suspected, had gone through some experience which she -was keeping secret from the woman who knew herself so well and loyally -loved by her. - -As the time grew near when Miss Wake and her niece were to go back to -town, leaving Penelope alone with her mother and with her cousin, there -came over Mrs. Robinson an overmastering desire to recall Downing to -Monk's Eype; she longed for the protection which would be afforded her -by his presence. She also wished him to confirm her in the conviction -that the time had come when Lady Wantley should be told of what they -were about to do. - -For the first time the gravity, the irrevocable nature, of the step she -was taking came home to Penelope's mind, to her heart--especially after -her agonizing interview with Winfrith--and even to her conscience, for -she acknowledged a duty to her mother. - -During these days of suspense Mrs. Robinson became 'gey ill to live -with,' and the two who suffered most from her moods were Mrs. Mote and -Cecily Wake. Penelope half suspected her old nurse of treachery, and -sometimes she would give her a peculiar, and Motey felt it to be also a -terrible, look. The old servant was a brave woman, but during that time -of silent, fearful waiting her spirit often quailed, and she sometimes -bitterly regretted having spoken to Lady Wantley. - -To Cecily her friend's capricious moods were a source of pained -bewilderment. Penelope no longer drew, no longer painted, no longer, -indeed, did anything but walk and drive. She seemed to have a fear of -solitude, and yet the girl was the only companion whom she tolerated. - -Sometimes the two would drive in the broad, low pony-cart for hours, -with scarce a word said on either side. At other times Mrs. Robinson -would talk with her wonted impetuosity and sharp decision of many things -and people of moment to Cecily. She would refer to her brief married -life at the Settlement, even to her childhood and David Winfrith. Then -would come bitter, slighting words concerning those whom the speaker -knew to be dear to her listener, sarcastic references to enthusiastic -Philip Hammond and large-minded, kindly Mrs. Pomfret; even--then Cecily -Wake's heart would whisper that this was surely cruel--her cousin -Wantley would be ruthlessly dissected, and his foibles held up to scorn. - -There would come moments when Penelope again was kind, when she would -say a word implying that Cecily Wake was her best, her most intimate, -friend; but this was now often followed by a sentence which seemed to -tell of an approaching break in their friendship, of coming separation. - - -Soon the two, the woman and the girl, were at utter variance the one -with the other, and Cecily suffered almost as keenly as did Penelope. It -seemed to her only too clear that Mrs. Robinson grudged her, and -disapproved of, Wantley's love. What else could mean her strange, -obliquely stabbing phrases? - -Cecily's mind often reverted to that most moving, sacred hour when -Wantley had given her his mother's pearls, when he had told her, dryly -and yet tenderly, of how truly he loved her. He had said--she remembered -the words, and, so remembering, often let her eyes fall before those of -her friend--'Unless you particularly wish to do so, I should prefer that -you say nothing--just now, at once--to Penelope. Wait till I have spoken -to your aunt, till we are both in London, till we are ready to tell all -the world.' And, of course, she had assented, while yet feeling sure of -Mrs. Robinson's real sympathy. - -But now Cecily felt sure no longer, and over her heart there came -something very like despair. How could she, Cecily Wake, who owed so -much--nay, her very acquaintance with Wantley--to Penelope, go against -her in so serious a matter? Cecily had retained the clear conscience, -free of all casuistry, of a child. She knew that she loved Wantley with -all her heart, that her feeling for him was no longer under her own -control; but she also knew that she could never marry him in direct -opposition to the wishes of the one human being to whom she regarded -herself as indebted for all which made life worth living. - -And so her happiness became quite overshadowed with misgivings and -hesitations, of which she said nothing to her lover. - -This reticence was made easy by Wantley's own conduct. With a -punctiliousness which did him honour, he scorned to take any advantage -of their hidden understanding. For many reasons he had preferred that -their formal engagement should take place, and be publicly announced, -in London. Meanwhile, he felt infinitely content, and in no haste to -provoke the elder Miss Wake's tremulous, incredulous satisfaction, or to -receive his cousin's ironical congratulations. - -There are moments in almost every life when a man feels himself lifted -far above his usual plane of thought and feeling, when he knows he is -happily adrift from familiar moorings. - -Such a moment had now come to Wantley. He would ask himself, with a -certain exultation of heart, whether it were possible that a time could -come when he would feel any nearer, ever more intimately linked, to his -beloved, to this young and still mysterious creature, the tips of whose -fingers he had not even kissed, and who, as he well knew, and was glad -to know, lived in a spiritual sense in a world so far removed from that -in which he had always dwelt. - -He trembled at his own good fortune, and would fain have propitiated -that sportive Fate which lies in wait for those to whom Providence has -been too kind. So feeling, he told himself that he should not grudge -Penelope the present companionship of Cecily. He divined something of -his cousin's unhappiness and unrest, though far from suspecting their -intensity, and so the gradual shadowing of Cecily's face was attributed -by him to her hourly contact with one who was obviously ill at ease and -sick at heart. - - -On the last day of Theresa Wake's stay at Monk's Eype, Mrs. Robinson -quite unexpectedly and most capriciously, or so it seemed to the older -lady, expressed a sudden wish that the aunt and niece should stay on for -another two or three days. - -So eager was Penelope to compass the matter that she actually sought out -Miss Wake in the early morning before she was up and dressed. 'Pray, -Cousin Theresa, stay on a little longer! Do not go to-morrow. This is -the sixth--stay on till the ninth. We are all leaving on Saturday.' She -added, after a scarcely perceptible pause: 'Sir George Downing is coming -back to-day.' - -But Miss Wake's answer was very decided, and not very gracious in -expression. Was it fancy that made Mrs. Robinson feel that the few words -were uttered very coldly? 'No; we cannot alter our plans at this late -hour, Mrs. Pomfret is expecting Cecily back to-morrow evening. We must -certainly leave in the morning, and you will be able to spare us very -well.' - - -II - -There came a time when Wantley often debated painfully as to why he had -lent himself to the bringing back of Downing to Monk's Eype, and when he -was glad to remember that he had said a word of protest to his cousin. -Penelope had chosen him to be her messenger; his had been the task of -taking her invitation to Kingpole Farm. - -Mrs. Robinson had tried to treat the matter with Wantley as of no -moment. He had listened in silence, and then reluctantly had said: 'I -will go if you really wish it, but I think you are not acting wisely;' -only to be disarmed by the look of suffering, almost of despair, which -had met his measured words. - -And so he had taken the letter which had summoned Downing to her side. -'I beg you to come back for two or three days,' she wrote. 'Things have -not been going well with me. I need your help. I feel that before -leaving here I ought to inform my mother of my--of our--intentions.' - -In later life Wantley sometimes recalled that last visit to Kingpole -Farm. - -During the long solitary drive he had wondered uneasily if he was -expected--if this little episode had been arranged between Mrs. -Robinson and the man with whom he was beginning to believe his cousin -was indeed more closely connected than he liked to think possible. But -at once he had seen that Downing knew nothing--that he, Wantley, had not -been expected, indeed, was not welcome. Downing struck him as aged, -sombre, perhaps even defiant, as he held out his lean brown hand for -Penelope's note. While reading it he had turned away, treating his -visitor with scant ceremony, then had said briefly, 'I understand I am -to come back with you--now--to-day?' And Wantley had as shortly -assented. - -Perforce--this also he later remembered time and again--Wantley was -present at the meeting of Penelope and Downing. - -The two men found her standing by the open door, her tall figure -outlined against the hall, the sunny terrace, the belt of blue sea -beyond. She was looking out landward, shading her eyes--sunken, -grey-lidded with much sleeplessness, perhaps with tears--from the bright -light. - -Without waiting for the high phaeton to stop, Downing had sprung out, -and striding forward had taken her two hands in his. For a moment they -seemed unaware of Wantley's presence; they exchanged no conventional -word of greeting. Then, slowly, and with a deep sigh, Penelope withdrew -her hands from the other's grasp, and observed, quite collectedly, that -the Beach Room had been arranged, as before, to serve as study for her -guest. - -A moment later she had turned and gone, out through the hall, on to the -terrace, leaving her cousin to play once more the part of host--but this -time of reluctant host--to Persian Downing. - - -It was night. Wantley's light alone burnt brightly on the lower floor of -the villa. The group of five people--for Lady Wantley had not come down -to dinner--had broken up curiously early, Downing retreating to the -Beach Room, Miss Wake upstairs, while Penelope, Cecily, and Wantley -himself, after a short walk through the dark pine-wood, had also -separated. - -For awhile he tried to read and smoke, but soon he put down his book, -and lay back in the large, deep chair, and thought of what he should do -if---- - -Wantley had a great dislike to interfering in other people's -business--in fact, he prided himself on never offering unasked advice, -on never spoiling a game in which he was not taking a hand. - -Well, what he was now doing savoured of interference. Still, it was his -business, and his only, if he chose to outstay from bed his -fellow-guests. After all, he had a perfect right to sit up on this, the -last night of Cecily Wake's stay at Monk's Eype--the young man's face -softened; on this, the first night of Downing's return--his face grew -stern, his eyes alert. - -If Downing, coming up from the Beach Room at one or two in the morning, -met Penelope--well, scarcely by appointment, but by accident--in the -studio, would it not be better for them both to be aware that he, -Wantley, was there sitting up, almost next door? To make them aware of -it might be a certain difficulty, but that could be managed if he now -got up and left the door of the smoking-room ajar. He did so, treading -softly across the matted floor. - -A sudden sound made him start, but it was only a shutter, not, as he had -thought, a door opening and closing. - -Again he took up his book--a much annotated French edition of the -Confessions of Saint Augustine--and he lighted another cigarette. It was -now only eleven. There were hours to be got through, and if--as he -believed had sometimes occurred before--Sir George Downing elected to -stay in the Beach Room all night, then he, poor Wantley, must yet keep -his bargain with himself, and sit doggedly on. - -There was always one most disagreeable possibility--that which, to tell -the truth, he really feared--namely, that Penelope might be seized with -the idea of going down to the Beach Room, of seeking out Downing there. -If he heard her coming down the silent house; if he heard her opening -the door which led from the hall on to the terrace, then certainly he -would, and must, break his cherished rule of non-interference. But the -thought that this ordeal perhaps lay before him did not add to the -pleasure of his vigil. - - -III - -At half-past eleven Wantley heard that which he had feared to hear, the -sound of steps coming down the marble staircase. He got up from his -chair, very slowly, very reluctantly. There came the murmur of low -voices, and the listener's ear caught Cecily's low, even tones answering -Penelope's eager, whispering voice. - -'What a relief,' the voice was saying--'what a relief to get away from -upstairs--from Motey next door! Here we shall be quite alone----' Then, -with surprise, but no annoyance: 'Why, there's a light in Ludovic's -smoking-room! But he's very discreet. He would never intrude on a -dressing-gown conference.' - -And the voices swept on, past the door ajar, on into the short passage -which led to the studio. - -Wantley sat down again with a very altered feeling. He was ashamed of -his former fears, and at that moment begged his cousin's pardon for -suspicions which he trusted she would never know he had entertained. - -Cecily asleep, dreaming sad dreams, had suddenly wakened to see -Penelope standing by the side of her bed. - -The tall, ghostlike figure, clad in a long pale-grey dressing-gown, held -a small lamp in her hand; and, as the girl opened her eyes, bent down -and whispered, 'I could not sleep, and so I thought we might have one -last talk. Not here--for we might wake Cousin Theresa; not in my -room--for there Motey can hear every word--but downstairs in the studio, -if you are not afraid of the cold.' - -And so they had made their way through the unlighted house, Cecily's -smaller figure wrapped in pale blue and white, her fair hair spread over -her shoulders, looking, so her companion in tender mood assured her, -like one of Fra Angelico's heavenly visitants. - -When in the studio, Penelope put the lamp down on her painting-table and -drew the girl over to the broad couch where Cecily had sat down and -waited for her, just a month ago, on the afternoon of her first day at -Monk's Eype. The knowledge of how happy she had then been, of how -beautiful she had thought this room, now full of dim, mysterious -sadness, came back to the girl with a pang of pain. She looked round -with troubled eyes, but Mrs. Robinson, an elbow on her knee, her chin -resting in her left hand, caught nothing of this look, for she was -staring out through the dark uncurtained window, absorbed in her own -thoughts. - -At last she slowly turned her head. - -'Cecily,' she said, and her voice sounded curiously strained, 'you must -have thought me odd of late, and even sometimes not kind. And yet, my -dear, I love you very well.' - -'I know,' said Cecily, speaking with difficulty; 'I have understood.' - -'You have understood?' Mrs. Robinson looked at her with quick suspicion, -and her face hardened. 'Do you mean that my affairs have been -discussed? What have you heard? What have you understood?' - -'Your feeling as to Lord Wantley--and myself.' Cecily's voice sank, but -she spoke very steadily, a little coldly. Surely Penelope might have -spared her this utterance. - -But the other had heard the slow, reluctant words with a feeling of -remorse and relief. - -'Why, Cecily!' she cried, and as she spoke she put her arm round the -girl's shoulders, 'did you think--did you believe, that I could feel -anything but glad? Why, when I first saw how things were going, I could -hardly believe in Ludovic's good fortune.' She added, half to herself, -'in his good taste! You are a thousand times too good for him; but he -knows that well enough. Of course, I knew he had spoken to you; but as -you did not tell me----' There was a note of reproach in Penelope's -voice. 'How strange, how amazing, that you should have understood me so -little! For the last few days,' she sighed a sharp, short sigh, 'my only -really happy, comfortable moments have been spent in thinking of you and -of Ludovic.' - -She stopped speaking abruptly, but kept her arm round the girl's -shoulder. Cecily had time to wonder why she herself felt so far from -content; surely the kind words just uttered should have filled her with -joy and peace? - -'Tell me,' she said, and as she spoke she fixed her eyes imploringly on -her companion's face, taking unconscious note of Penelope's rigid mouth -and stern, contracted brows--'do tell me why you are so unhappy! I would -not ask you if I did not care for you so much.' - -'Am I unhappy? Do I seem unhappy?' Mrs. Robinson looked fixedly at the -questioner as if really seeking an answer. She got up suddenly, walked -to the end of the long room and back, then came and stood before Cecily. - - -'Well, Cecily, I will tell you, for you deserve to know the truth. I am -unhappy, if indeed I am so, because I am about to do a thing of which -almost everyone who knows me--in fact, I might say everyone who knows -me--will disapprove. Also, it is a thing which will separate me from all -those I love and esteem, both in a material sense--for I am going very -far away--and in a spiritual sense.' - -Penelope sank down on her knees, and placed her hands so that they -clasped and covered those of Cecily Wake. 'In your heaven, my dear, -there may be found a place for me--after a long stay, I imagine, in -purgatory; but there will be no room in mamma's heaven, especially not -in that where she believes my father to be. David Winfrith also will -consign me to outer darkness, and that of a very horrible kind. Still I -would give up willingly all hope of future heaven, Cecily, if only I -could conciliate them here--if only they would sympathize with what I am -about to do.' - -Cecily looked down on the lovely face turned up to hers with a feeling -of pity and terror. 'What do you mean?' she said. 'I am sure you would -never do anything which would make your mother love you less.' - -'I believe there are people'--Penelope was speaking quietly, as if to -herself--'to whom what I am going to do would appear to be perfectly -right, and, indeed, commendable. But then, you see, I do not know those -people, so the thought of them brings no comfort.' - -She waited a moment, rose from her knees, and again sat down on the -couch. She felt ashamed of her emotion, and forced herself into -calmness, her voice into measured tones: 'I am going away with Sir -George Downing, back with him to Persia, to Teheran. We hope to be -always together, never apart till death takes one of us. I have even -promised him that I will not return to England, excepting, of course, -with him.' - -'But I thought, I understood----' Cecily looked anxiously at her friend. - -'You think rightly, you have understood the truth. Sir George Downing -has a wife. They have been married many years, and separated almost as -many.' - -'But if he is married,' said Cecily slowly, 'how can you go away with -him like that?' - -Mrs. Robinson thought Cecily strangely dull of understanding. 'Surely -you have heard of such occurrences?' she said impatiently. - -'Oh, yes,' answered the girl, and her eyes filled with tears, which ran -down her cheeks unheeded. 'You mean St. Mary Magdalen, Penelope? And -others, later----' - -Mrs. Robinson again got up. 'Surely,' she cried, 'you can understand how -it is with me? You love Ludovic--supposing that you suddenly heard, now, -that he was married--what would you do?--how would you feel?' - -But Cecily, looking at her in dumb, agonized distress, made no answer. - -'You are too kind to say so, but I know quite well what you would do. -You would go away, and never see him again. It might kill you, but you -would never do what you believed to be wrong.' - -'Wrong for him, too,' the girl said, with difficulty. - -'Well, I am not good, like you. If I had hesitated--and Cecily, believe -me, I never did so, not for a moment--it would have been owing to mean, -worldly considerations----' - -'Do you, then, love him so very much?' - -'Ah, my dear! Listen, Cecily, and I will tell you of our first meeting. -It was in the Gare de Lyon, when we--Motey and I--were on our way to Pol -les Thermes. I lost my purse, and he came forward, offered to lend me -what I needed. Should I'--Penelope's voice altered, became curiously -introspective, questioning--'should I have taken money from a stranger?' -And then as Cecily looked at her, amazed, 'I tell you that from the -moment our eyes met we _knew_ one another in a more real sense than many -lovers do after years of communion. My unhappiness the last few days has -come from his absence, from the knowledge, too, that we are both to be -tormented, as I am now being tormented--by you.' And, as Cecily made a -gesture of protest, 'Yes, my dear, by you! Why, he has also been -attacked by old Mr. Gumberg, of all people in the world!' - -Penelope laughed nervously. She took the girl by the arm, and silently -they retraced their footsteps through the quiet house--the silence -broken at intervals by Cecily's long sighing sobs. - - -Some moments later, Wantley, going up to bed with uneasy mind, for he -had heard the sound of Cecily's distress, met his cousin face to face. A -white cloak concealed her figure, and a black silk hood her resplendent -hair. - -They looked at one another for a moment. Then very deliberately he -spread out his arms, barring the way. 'You cannot, shall not go down to -the Beach Room!' he whispered. - -'I must, and shall!' she said. 'You do not understand, I must see -him--you can come and wait for me if you like.' - -But Wantley was merciless. He looked at her till her eyes fell before -his--till she turned and slowly went up before him, back into her room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - 'O mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps, levons l'ancre. - Le pays nous ennuie, O mort, apparaillons.' - - BAUDELAIRE. - - 'J'ai vécu: c'est à dire j'ai travaillé, j'ai aimé, j'ai souffert.' - - _Old French Epitaph._ - - -I - -The next morning Cecily Wake and her aunt left Monk's Eype. Strange, -unhappy morning! during which Mrs. Robinson alone preserved her usual -indifferent, haughty serenity of manner, though she also, when her face -was in repose, looked weary and sad. - -Wantley had found Penelope and her two guests, all three cloaked and -hatted, sitting at the pretty breakfast-table laden with early September -fruit and flowers. His half-suggestion that he should drive the -travellers to the distant junction where they were to catch the fast -train to town was at once negatived by Penelope. 'I am going with them,' -she said shortly, 'and I shall have business at Burcombe which will keep -me till the afternoon.' - -Wantley bit his lip. What sort of day would he, Lady Wantley, and -Downing, spend together? He felt angry with his cousin for having -exposed them to such an ordeal. Then the elder Miss Wake asked him some -insignificant question concerning the journey which lay before her, and -he began speaking, going on, as it seemed to himself, aimlessly and -endlessly, hardly waiting for the old lady's vague, nervous answers, -while intensely, agonizingly, conscious of Cecily's quiet figure -opposite, of her pale face and stricken eyes. - -At last the meal which had seemed to him so interminably long came to -an end, and they all went into the hall, where Lady Wantley was walking -slowly up and down, waiting to bid farewell to her kinswomen, and -looking, as the young man saw with a certain resentment, quite -unconscious of the storms which had passed over the little company of -people now gathered about her. - -As Mrs. Robinson placed herself in the carriage, by the side of her old -cousin, she turned to Wantley, and said deliberately, as if giving -challenge: 'Sir George Downing will lunch in the Beach Room. He leaves -to-night, and of course I shall be back before he starts.' - -Wantley made no answer. He was engaged in drawing the rug across -Cecily's knees; as he did so he felt her hand quiver a moment under his, -and there came over him an eager impulse to go with her, to comfort -her--above all, to shut himself off with her from all this tragic -business, which apparently neither he nor she could affect or modify. - -Penelope again spoke. 'You, Ludovic, will of course lunch with mamma?' -He answered: 'Yes, of course, of course!' Looking straight at his -cousin, he could not help adding: 'No one shall disturb Sir George -Downing till your return.' And then--not till then--a wave of colour -reddened Penelope's oval face from brow to chin. - - -II - -And so they had gone, and Wantley, turning away, back into the hall, -felt a great depression--a feeling of utter weariness--come upon him. It -was with an unreasonable and unreasoning irritation that he saw Lady -Wantley walking slowly, with her peculiar leisurely grace of movement, -into the great Picture Room, there to take up her accustomed position by -the ivory inlaid table on which lay her books and blotting-pad. - -'People when they reach that age,' he said to himself, 'have their -emotions, their feelings of love and pride, mercifully deadened.' But, -all the same, fearing what she might say to him, he did not follow her, -but instead, slipping his hands into his pockets, and pushing his straw -hat down over his eyes, made his way out of doors. - -But there, in the clear September sunshine, cooled by the keen sea-wind, -he felt, if anything, even more ill at ease. Every flagstone of the -terrace, every bend of the path leading down to the pine-wood and to the -ilex-grove, reminded him of delicious moments spent with Cecily. He felt -a pang of sharp self-pity, blaming Penelope, even more blaming -Providence, for the spoiling of his idyl. 'After last night,' he said to -himself, 'Cecily will never again be quite the same, bless her!' And so, -walking very slowly, his eyes bent on the ground, he gave himself up -actively to dislike and condemnation of his cousin. - -Wantley was an intensely proud man. Perhaps because he had nothing -personally to be proud of, he took the more intense, if not very -justifiable, pride in his unsullied name, in his respectable lineage, -even in the fine traditions left by his predecessor. From boyhood he had -acted according to the theory, 'If I do nothing good or worthy, I will -yet avoid what is evil and unworthy.' And to this not very exalted ideal -of conduct he had remained faithful. - -True, Penelope, whatever his griefs against her, would give him and the -world no right to despise her. Condemn her wrong-headedness, her -selfishness, he was free to do; but he knew well enough how far heavier -would have been his condemnation had he discovered that his cousin had -become in secret Downing's mistress. But the knowledge that this would -never have been possible, brought to-day but scant consolation; indeed, -Wantley found it in his heart to wish that Penelope had been more akin -to some of the women whom he and she had known, and to whose frailties -she had always extended a haughty tolerance. - -Yet he told himself that he understood her point of view. After all, she -was her own mistress, in the matter of herself owing none but that same -self a duty. But this was not so--ah no, indeed!--in the matter of her -name and of her good repute: those belonged not only to her own self, -but also to others, some dead, some living, and some--so Wantley now -reminded himself--to come. - -In happier, more careless days, when he had been so discontented and -dissatisfied with the way his life had shaped itself, the young man had -lamented his small circle of friends and acquaintances, and he had -envied his contemporaries their school and college friends; but now, -to-day, it seemed to him that he knew and was known to all the -world--that is, to the world whose good opinion he naturally valued. - -He looked into the future, and realized with shame and anger what would -be said by the kind and by the unkind, by the evil-mind and by the -prudish, in the boudoirs and in the smoking-rooms, when it became known -that Mrs. Robinson, Penelope Wantley--the Perdita of a younger, idler -hour--had 'gone off' with Persian Downing! - -Then he thought, with bitter amusement, of how this same news would be -received by the good people--and, on the whole, he had to admit that -they were good people--who had circled round his uncle and aunt in the -days when he himself was a moody, neglected youth, and Penelope a lovely -and engaging, if wayward, child. - -The motley crowd of pietists, some few eccentric, the majority intensely -commonplace, who had attended year after year the religious conferences -which had made the name of Marston Lydiate known to the whole religious -world, would doubtless think it their duty to address letters of -sympathy and of condolence to Penelope's mother, even--hateful -thought!--to himself. - -Then his mind turned once more to his cousin. What sort of life would be -Penelope's after she had cut herself adrift from her own world? How -would this proud, spoilt woman, who had always kept herself singularly -apart from all that was unsavoury, endure the slights which would -inevitably be put on one who, however much the fact might be cloaked and -disguised, could never be the wife of her companion? - -Penelope was not a child, to adapt herself to new conditions. Would -strange, self-centred Persian Downing compensate her for all she was -about to lose? Would this maker of great schemes, this seer of visions, -forget himself, in order to be everything to her? For a few moments -Wantley, leaning on the low wall which separated the ilex-grove from the -cliff overhanging the sea, thought only of Penelope, and of what her -life would be if this tragic affair shaped itself in the way that he -believed to be now inevitable. - -The day he had accompanied her to town, during the long railway journey -back to Dorset, Lady Wantley had spoken to him mysteriously as to advice -proffered by Mr. Gumberg. She had seemed to think that if all else -failed he, Wantley, should speak to Sir George Downing, but to this he -had in no way assented. - - -He turned, and slowly made his way through the pine-trees. The day--nay, -even the morning--had to be lived through, and his thoughts were -intolerable company--so much so, indeed, that he felt he would prefer to -go and find Lady Wantley, and stay with her a while, although he was -aware that she would in all probability urge him to interfere. The -knowledge that he would have to tell her he could not and would not do -so smote him painfully. - -Downing and Penelope were not children whose wayward steps could be -stayed, with whom at last force could replace argument. A braver than he -might well hesitate to face the contemptuous indignation of the -eccentric, powerful man, for whom Wantley even now felt kindliness and -respect, reserving, unjustly enough, his greatest blame for the woman. - -No, no! If Lady Wantley besought his intervention, he must tell her that -in this matter he could not hope to succeed where Mr. Gumberg had -apparently failed. - - -III - -As Wantley walked along the terrace in front of the villa, past the -opened windows of the Picture Room, he saw Lady Wantley sitting in her -usual place. But there was about her figure, especially about her hands, -which clasped and unclasped themselves across her knee, an unusual look -of tension and emotion. - -Wantley turned, and drew nearer to the window which seemed to frame the -still graceful figure. But she remained quite unconscious that she was -being watched. He saw that her lips were moving; he heard her speaking, -as she so often did, to herself; and there came to him the conviction -that she had been down to the Beach Room, that she had seen Downing, -that she had made to him an appeal foredoomed to failure. - -A keen desire to know whether he guessed truly, and, if so, to know what -had actually taken place, warred for a moment with the young man's -horror of a scene, and especially of a scene with Lady Wantley in one of -her strange moods. - -Suddenly she raised her voice, and he heard clearly the words, uttered -in low, intense tones, and as if in answer to an invisible questioner: -'But if a man come presumptuously upon his neighbour to slay him with -guile, thou shalt take him from My altar, that he may die.' - -'It must have been horribly painful,' said the listener to himself. He -began to pity Downing. - -Familiarity had bred in Wantley, not contempt, but a certain indulgent -pity not far removed from contempt, for what he and Mrs. Robinson, -seeing eye to eye in this one matter, regarded as Lady Wantley's -peculiar and slightly absurd religious vagaries. Dimly aware of this -attitude, of this lack of respect for what were to herself vital truths, -Lady Wantley, when in their presence, exercised greater self-control -than either of them ever guessed. - -But now, for the moment, she was in no condition to restrain herself; -and though, as he opened the door of the Picture Room, she looked round -for a moment, she still continued talking aloud in apparently eager -argument with some unseen presence. 'Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath -triumphed gloriously. The horse and his rider hath He thrown into the -sea.' - -She spoke with increasing excitement, and with what seemed to the hearer -a strange exultation. - -He stopped short, and, retracing his footsteps, closed the door. It had -always been tacitly agreed between himself and his cousin that -Penelope's household should hear as little as was possible of Lady -Wantley in these, her wilder moods. - -Again he went towards her. As he did so, she stood up and advanced to -meet him. Her pale face was on a level with his own; her grey eyes were -dilated. Something had stirred her far more deeply than she was wont to -be stirred by material things. She looked, Wantley thought, inspired, -exhilarated, as one might look on emerging triumphantly from some awful -ordeal. - -As he gazed at her there came to him the hope, the almost incredulous -hope, that she--the mother--had prevailed; that her words, even if -winged with what seemed madness, had been so eloquent as to convince -Downing that what he was about to do was an evil thing, one out of -which no good could come to the woman he loved. - -'Then you have seen him?' he asked in a low voice, and, as he spoke, he -took Lady Wantley's hand in his own. - -She made a scarcely perceptible movement of assent. 'Thy right hand, O -Lord, has become righteous in power. Thy right hand, O Lord, has dashed -in pieces the enemy.' - -Her voice faltered, and her tall figure swayed forward. - -'Sit down,' he said quickly, 'and tell me what happened. Were you able -to make any impression on his mind?' - -But as she sank back into her chair she answered vaguely, and her head -fell forward on her breast. 'You ask me what happened?' She waited a -moment, and then added, with what seemed a cry: 'He said, "The woman -tempts me, and I shall eat!"' - -'I do not think that he can have said that to you,' said Wantley gently. -'Think again. Try and remember exactly what he did say.' - -'It was tantamount to that,' she answered, lifting her head and looking -at him fixedly. 'He--he admitted I spoke the truth, yet declared he owed -himself to her.' She hesitated, then whispered: 'I warned him of his -way, he took no heed, he died in his iniquity, and his blood will not be -required of mine hand.' - -Even before she had uttered these last words an awful suspicion, a sick -dread, had forced itself on Wantley's mind. He passed his hand over his -face, afraid lest she should see written there his fear--indeed, his all -but knowledge--of what she had done. - -There was but a moment to make up his mind what he should say and what -he should do. On his present action much might depend. In any case, he -must soothe her, restore her to calmness. And so, 'We must now think,' -he said authoritatively, 'of Penelope.' He waited a moment, and then -repeated again the one word, 'Penelope.' - -Lady Wantley's mouth quivered for the first time, and her eyes -contracted with a look of suffering. - -But he did not give her time to speak. 'No one knows--no one must know, -for the sake of Penelope.' - -Slowly she bent her head in assent, and he went on, in a low, warning -voice. 'If you say a word--I mean of what has just taken place--the -truth concerning Penelope and Sir George Downing will become known to -all men.' Half unconsciously Wantley adapted the phraseology likely to -reach most bindingly the over-excited, distraught brain of the woman -over whose figure he was bending, into whose face he was gazing so -searchingly. - -He felt every moment to be precious, to be big with hideous -possibilities, but he feared to leave her--feared to go before he felt -quite sure he had made her understand that her daughter's reputation was -bound to suffer, if she--Lady Wantley--in any way imperilled or -incriminated herself. - -'You will wait here, will you not, till I come to you?' he said -anxiously. 'And if you see anyone, you will not speak? you will remain -absolutely silent, for the sake of your daughter, of poor Penelope?' - -He waited until she had again bent her head in assent, and then turned -and left her, passing through the window on to the terrace, and so -swiftly on, down through the wood, to the rough track leading to the -shore. - - -As he jumped down on to the beach, both feet sinking deeply through the -soft dry sand above the water-line, he paused a moment, and, looking -round him, felt suddenly reassured, ashamed of the unreasoning dread -which had come over him when listening to Lady Wantley's strange, -wildly-uttered words. - -The tide was only just beginning to turn, and the sea, in gentle mood, -came and went to within a few feet of the Beach Room, of which the blank -wall jutted out on to his right. - -The absolute peace and quietude which lay about him soothed Wantley's -nerves, and he walked round, below the wide-open window, of which the -sill was just on a level with his head, with steady feet. - -Then, taking up a stone, he knocked on the heavy wooden door, half -expecting, wholly hoping, to hear in immediate response a deep-toned -'Come in.' But there came no such answer, and once more he knocked more -loudly; he waited a few moments while vague fear again assailed him, and -then, turning the handle, he walked into the Beach Room. - -At first he only saw that the chair, set before the broad table covered -with papers, was without an occupant. But gradually, and not quite at -once--or so it seemed to him looking back--he became aware that in the -shadow of the table, stretched angularly across the floor, lay Sir -George Downing, dead. - -Standing there, with the horror of what he saw growing on him, Wantley -had not a moment of real doubt, of wild hope that this might not be -death. Still, as he knelt down and brought himself to touch, to move, -that which lay there, he suddenly became aware of a fact which would -have laid any such doubt, for above Downing's right ear was a wound---- - -With a quick sigh Wantley, trembling, rose from his knees. In spite of -himself, his mind vividly reconstituted the scene which must have taken -place. First, the sudden appearance of the unexpected, unwelcome -visitor; then the vision of Downing, with his old-fashioned courtesy, -giving up the more comfortable chair, while he himself took that in -which he, Wantley, had sat a short week ago; finally--the corner of the -wide table only separating the two adversaries--after the exchange of a -very few words, slow, decisive, on either side--the fatal shot. - -The revolver which Wantley remembered having seen pinning the map of -Persia to the table, now lay as it had doubtless fallen from the -delicate, steady hand which had believed itself divinely guided to -accomplish its work of death. - -Even now he found time to realize with poignant pain, and yet with a -certain relief, that such a man as had once been he now lying stretched -out at his feet could certainly, had he cared to do so, have stayed, or -at least deviated, the course of the weapon, and later on this knowledge -brought Wantley comfort. - -But he had no leisure now to give to such reasoning and, slipping the -bolt in the door, he again stooped over the dead man. - -What he was about to do was intolerably repugnant to him, and as, after -a moment's pause, he thrust his hand into the old-fashioned pockets, -turned back the coat, sought eagerly for what it was so essential he -should find, he felt the sweat break out all over his body. But, to his -dismay, there seemed to be no keys, either loose in the various pockets, -or attached to the heavy gold chain, which terminated with a bunch of -old seals and a repeater watch. - -Wantley was turning away, half relieved to be spared the task he had set -himself, when something strange and enigmatical struck him in the ashen, -lined face, the wide-open, sightless eyes, from which he had till now -averted his glance. - -During the performance of what had been to him a hateful task, and after -having so turned the head as to conceal the wound above the right ear, -he had been at some pains to leave the body exactly as it had fallen. -But in the course of his search he had been compelled to shift the -position of the dead man's arms, and he now saw that Downing's right -hand, lying across his breast, seemed to be pointing--to what was it -pointing? Again the seeker stooped--nay, this time he knelt down; and at -once he found what he had sought for so fruitlessly, for under the palm -of the dead hand, in an inner waistcoat pocket, which had before escaped -him, lay a small key. - -For the first time Wantley bared his head, and a curious impulse came -over him. 'You will forgive me,' he said, not loudly, but in a whisper, -'you will pardon, for her sake, for your poor Penelope's sake, what I -have been compelled to do?' - -And then heavy-hearted, full of fear and foreboding, he made his way -back, up the rough track, so through the pine-wood, to the villa, -mercifully spared on the way the ordeal of meeting, and having perchance -to speak with, another human being. - -Quickly he passed by the window where Lady Wantley was still sitting, up -the shallow staircase leading from the hall to the upper stories of -Monk's Eype, and so on to the room, close to his own, where, with -pleasant anticipation of an agreeable friendship with his cousin's -famous guest, he had ushered Downing the first night of his stay, just a -month ago. - -It was, as he now reminded himself, a month to a day, for that first -meeting had been on the seventh of August, the eve of his, Wantley's own -birthday, and this now was the seventh of September. - -Wantley singled out at once a large red despatch-box as probably -containing what he sought. The key he held in his hand clicked in the -lock, and he saw, almost filling up the top compartment, a plain, -old-fashioned leather jewel-case which contained more than he expected -to find of moment to himself. There, smiling up at him, lay the baby -face of Penelope, a miniature which he recognized as one that had been -painted to be a surprise gift from Lady Wantley to her husband on their -child's second birthday, and which had always stood on Lord Wantley's -table. 'She should not have given him that!' was the young man's -involuntary thought. - -Instinctively he averted his eyes from the slender bundle of letters on -which the miniature had lain. But, as he lifted them out, together with -his cousin's portrait, he saw that they had served to conceal a sheet of -note-paper--a piece of old-fashioned, highly-glazed note-paper, deeply -edged with black--lying open across the bottom of the jewel-case. As he -glanced at the first few words, 'The Queen commands me to request that -you----' ah, poor Downing! For a moment Wantley hesitated; he had meant -only to withdraw what concerned Penelope, but finally he laid -everything--the summons to Balmoral, the letters written in the bold, -pointed handwriting Wantley knew so well, the little miniature--back in -the jewel-case, which he then locked away in his own room next door. - - -IV - -The hours that followed he remembered in later life as a man may do a -period of delirium, or as a bad dream which he has dreamed innumerable -times. - -He became horribly familiar with the tale he had to tell. - -Each person interested had to be informed of how he had gone down into -the hall, whence, finding two letters for Sir George Downing, he had -made his way across the terrace, down the steps leading to the shore, -noticing as he went a little pleasure boat which had drifted fast out of -sight. - -Then had to follow the recital of his fruitless knocking at the Beach -Room door, followed by his dreadful discovery--the sight of one who had -been his honoured guest lying dead, the death-wound above the right ear -having been obviously caused by a revolver which had been left on the -table, close to where the body had fallen. - -Wantley also had to describe his return to the villa, the breaking of -the awful news to Lady Wantley, the sending for the doctor and for the -police from Wyke Regis, followed by a time of long waiting--for, of -course, he had allowed no one to touch the body--first for the police -(his letter remained for a while unopened at the station), and then for -his cousin, Mrs. Robinson, who was fortunately away when the first awful -discovery was made. - -Such had been the story Wantley had to tell innumerable times--first, to -the various people who had a right to know all that could be known; -secondly, to the numerous folk, whose interest, if idle, was eager and -real, and whom he felt a nervous desire to conciliate, and to make -believe his version of an affair which became more than a nine days' -wonder. - - -After the bearing of the great mental strain, especially after the -accomplishment of a prolonged mental task, the mind--ay, and even the -body--refuse to be stilled, and call imperatively for something else to -do, to go on doing. When at last the doctor had come and gone, when the -first discussion with the local police had come to an end--in a word, -when Wantley had repeated some five or six times the grim, simple facts -to all those whom it concerned--there came to him the most painful -ordeal of all, the hours spent by him in waiting for Penelope's return. - -After he had taken Lady Wantley up to her room, and left her there in -what he trusted would remain a strange state of bewildered coma, he had -come down to wander restlessly through the large rooms on the -ground-floor of the villa. - -His mind was clouded with grotesque and sinister images, and he welcomed -such interruptions as were caused by the futile, scared questions of -those among the upper servants who from time to time summoned up courage -to come and speak to him. - -While trying to occupy himself by writing letters, which he almost -invariably at once destroyed after he had written them, Wantley was ever -asking himself with sick anxiety, if he had done all that was in his -power to protect and safeguard the two women to whom he had never felt -so closely linked as now. He was haunted by the fear that he himself -might unwittingly reveal what he believed to be the truth, but he would -have been comforted indeed had he known how his mere outward appearance, -his imperturbable face, his sleepy eyes, even his well-trimmed beard, -now served his purpose. Outwardly Wantley appeared to be that day the -calmest man at Monk's Eype, only so far discreetly perturbed as would -naturally be any kindly and good-hearted host, whose guest had met, -while under his roof, with so awful and mysterious a fate. - -A curious interlude in his long waiting was the sudden irruption of -Penelope's old nurse. Motey found him sitting at the writing-table of -what had been his predecessor's study, attempting, for the tenth time, -to compose the letter which he knew must be written that night to Mr. -Julius Gumberg. - -As the old woman came in, carefully closing the door behind her, he -looked up and saw that the streaky apple-red had faded from the firm -round cheeks, and yet--and yet her look was one of only half-concealed -triumph, not of distress or fear. For a moment they gazed at one another -fixedly, then 'Is it true,' she asked briefly; 'is it really true, Mr. -Ludovic? I was minded to go down and see for myself, but I'm told -there's the police people down there, and I thought maybe I'd better not -meddle.' - -'Yes,' he said rather sternly, 'it is quite true. An awful thing, Motey, -to have happened here, in your mistress's house!' He felt impelled to -add these words, revolted by the look of relief, almost of joy, in the -woman's pale face. - -Then into his mind there shot a sudden gleam of light, of escape. 'I -suppose,' he said, 'that you don't feel _you_ could tell her, Motey?' A -note of appeal, almost of anguish, thrilled in the young man's voice. - -'No,' she answered decidedly. 'The telling of such things is men's work. -I couldn't bring myself to do it; you don't care for her as I do, and -she'll forgive you a sight quicker than she would me. I'll have to do -the best I can for her afterwards.' - -The furtive joy died out of Mrs. Mote's old face, and, as she turned and -left the room, her dull eyes filled with reluctant tears. - - -V - -At last the sound of wheels for which he had been listening so long fell -on his ear, and hurriedly he went to fetch that which he felt should be -given to his cousin without loss of time. He hoped, with a cowardly -hope, that bad news, which ever travels quickly, had already met Mrs. -Robinson on her way home. - -Having given a brief order that they were not to be disturbed, Wantley -made his way to the studio with the jewel-case in his hand. For a moment -he waited just inside the door. Penelope was standing at the further end -of the long room, leaning over the marble top of the high mantelpiece, -writing out a telegram. She still wore a large straw hat, of which the -sides, flattened down over her ears by broad black ribbons tied under -the chin, framed her face, and gave a softened, old-fashioned grace to -her tall, rounded figure. - -As Wantley finally advanced towards her, she looked up, and her glance, -her suspended writing--above all, her blue eyes full of questioning -anger at the intrusion of his presence--showed him that she knew -nothing, that the task he had so greatly dreaded lay before him. - -Taking his stand by the other side of the mantelpiece, he put down the -case containing her letters, and pushed it towards her. Twice he opened -his lips but closed them again without speaking. - -'Well,' she said shortly, as her eyes rested indifferently on the little -jewel-box, 'I suppose this is something else left by Theresa Wake. It -can be sent on to-morrow with the other thing, but I'll mention it in -the telegram.' And she paused, as if expecting him to leave her. Indeed, -her eyes, her mouth, set in stern lines, seemed to say: 'Cannot you go -away, and leave me in peace? Your very presence here, unasked, in my own -room, is an outrage after the way you behaved to me last night.' But she -remained silent, content to wait, pencil in hand, for him to be gone, -before concluding her slight task. - -'Penelope,' he said at last, stung into courage by her manner and by her -contemptuous glance, 'this box was not left by Miss Wake--it once -belonged to Sir George Downing, and its contents are, I believe, yours.' - -Again he touched the case, pushed it away from himself towards her. It -slid across the polished surface of the marble to within an inch of her -elbow; but, though he became aware that she stiffened into close -attention, his cousin still said no word. - -Her silence became to him unbearable. He walked round, and, standing -close beside her, deliberately pressed the spring, and revealed what lay -within. - -As if she had been physically struck, Penelope suddenly drew back. 'Ah!' -she said, and that was all. But in a moment her hand had closed on the -little case, and she held it clasped to her, shutting out the smiling -childish face which lay above the packet of her letters to Downing. So -quietly, so quickly had she done this that he wondered for a moment if -she had really seen and realized all that was lying there. 'She knows -the truth,' he said to himself. 'Thank God I was mistaken--someone else -has told her!' - -He waited for a question, even for a cry. But none such came from the -rigid figure. - -'Penelope,' he said at last, and there was a note of tenderness in -Wantley's voice she had never before heard in it, 'forgive me the pain I -have to inflict on you. I thought that--that these things ought to be -given you now, at once. I am sure you will destroy them immediately.' - -At last, roughly interrupting him, she turned on him and spoke, while he -listened silently, filled with increasing amazement and distress. - -'Listen!' she cried, and there was no horror, no anguish, only infinite -scorn and anger, in her voice. 'You ask me to forgive you. But -understand that I will never forgive you! You have done an utterly -unwarrantable thing. Is it possible that you really believed that any -interference or effort on your part could separate two such people as -Sir George Downing and myself? How little you know me! how little you -can understand what the effect of such conduct as yours must be! -Listen!' - -She feared he was about to speak, and held up her hand. He was looking -fixedly at her, still full of concern and pity, but feeling more -collected and cooler before her growing excitement. - -'No, listen! I am quite calm, quite reasonable; but I want you to -realize what you have done--what your interference will bring about.' -She paused, then continued, speaking in low, quick tones: 'I confess -there was a moment last night when I wavered, when I wondered whether, -after all, I was justified in only considering myself and--and--him. But -now? Shall I tell you what I have made up my mind to do during the last -few minutes? No--don't speak to me yet--I will listen with what -patience I can after you have heard what I have to say. I mean to go to -town to-night with Sir George Downing--I know he has not left; I know -you have not yet driven him away. If necessary, I shall thrust my -company upon him! Do you suppose it will be hard for me to undo with him -any evil you have done?' - -Again she paused, again she held up her hand to stay his words. 'If he -is going to Mr. Gumberg I shall ask the old man to allow me to come -there, in the character of George's'--her voice dropped, but she did not -spare Wantley the word--'mistress.' - -She added, with a bitter smile: 'Mr. Gumberg is a bachelor; the -situation will amuse him, and give him plenty to talk about all the -winter! I had meant to leave England as secretly, as quietly, as -possible, out of consideration for mamma, and even for you; though I am -not ashamed of what I am doing. But now, after this, I shall write and -tell certain people of my intention, or, rather, of what I shall have -done by the time I write; you will be sorry, you will repent then of -what you have done to-day!' - -He saw that she was trembling violently, and a look that crossed his -face stung her afresh. 'Pray do not feel any concern for me. You will -need all your pity for mamma, even a little for yourself, after to-day. -But, oh!'--as her hand again closed convulsively over the case which -contained her letters, her portrait--'he should not have entrusted these -to you! But doubtless he could not help it--how do I know what you said -to him?' - -'Penelope,' he said desperately, 'you must, and you shall, listen to me! -You wrong Sir George Downing, and most cruelly. How could you believe -that he, alive, would have let your letters to him go out of his -possession? Surely you knew him better than that!' - -'I don't understand,' she said, bewildered. But even as she spoke he -saw the mortal fear, the beginning of knowledge, coming into her face. -He held out his hand, and she took it, groping her way close to him, as -a blind woman might have done. 'Tell me what you mean,' she said, 'tell -me quickly what you mean.' - -But before he could answer there came he sound of tramping feet, of -subdued voices. 'Don't look!' he cried hoarsely. 'Penelope, I beg you -not to look!' But she pushed him aside, and, holding her head high, with -swift, steady feet, passed out through the window to meet the little -procession which was advancing slowly, painfully, across the terrace. - -The burden which had just been carried up the steep steps leading from -the shore was almost beyond the bearers' strength, for the broad door of -the Beach Room had been taken off its hinges, and large stones from the -shore held down the sheet which covered that which lay on it. - -An elderly man, well known both to Penelope and to Wantley as John -Purcell, the head constable of Wyke Regis, came forward to meet Mrs. -Robinson. 'A terrible affair, my lady,' he observed, subdued but eager, -for such an event, so interesting from his professional point of view, -had never before come his way. 'I wouldn't have anything moved till I'd -telegraphed for instructions; but, of course, I didn't stop thinking, -and we've sent word all down the coast about that boatload his lordship -saw. It's a valuable clue, I should say.' - -He addressed his words to Penelope, and both he and Wantley believed her -to be listening attentively to what was being said. But, after the first -moment of recognition of the old constable, she no longer saw him at -all, and not to save the life she then held so cheap could she have -repeated what he had just said; for she was saying to herself again and -again, so possessed by the misery of the thought that it left room for -nothing else: 'Why did I go away to-day and leave him? If I had been -here, if I had stayed within call of him, he would not have done this -thing--he would now have been with me!' - -But when Purcell dropped his voice she began to hear what he was saying. -'Is there any place downstairs where your lordship could arrange for us -to put the body? We had a hard job over those steps, and up to the poor -gentleman's room I've a notion they're much worse. I've had to be there -two or three times, sealing up everything.' He said it in almost a -whisper, but for the first time Mrs. Robinson, hearing, spoke: - -'You may take him to the Picture Room,' she said brusquely, 'and then -you will not have to go through the hall, for the windows are very -wide.' - -When the signal was given for the men to move on, she first made as if -she would have followed them; then, at a touch on her arm from her -cousin's hand, she turned away slowly, walking past the studio windows -into the garden paths beyond. Wantley followed her, amazed, relieved, -bewildered by her self-command, fearing the explanation which must now -follow, and yet nervously anxious to get it behind him, while, above -all, conscious of a great physical lassitude which made him long to go -away and forget everything in sleep. - -At last, when they were some way from the villa, close to the open down, -Penelope turned to him. 'Now tell me,' she said, 'tell me as quickly as -you can, what I must know.' And she waited, oppressed, while Wantley -once more told the tale he had taught himself to tell, and which had -been made perfect by such frequent, such frightful repetition. - -For a moment she remained silent. Then, slowly and searchingly, she -asked what the other felt to be a singular question: 'Would it be better -for him--I mean as to what people will say of him in the future--for it -to be thought, as that foolish old man evidently thinks, that he was -murdered, or for the truth to be known?' - -'The truth?' said Wantley, looking at her, 'and what is the truth? Do -you know it?' - -'Yes; you and I know the truth.' Penelope's cheeks were burning; she -spoke impatiently, as if angered by his dulness. 'When all that trouble -came to him thirty years ago, he nearly did it; and later, another time, -he thought it the only way out.' - -Then Wantley understood her meaning, and the knowledge that she believed -this simple, obvious explanation brought the one touch of comfort, of -relief, which he had felt for many hours. - -'I think,' he said at length, 'that such a thing as suicide always goes -against a man's memory. Personally, I hope it will be put down to an -accident. In any case, you must remember that there were many people -interested in bringing about his death. I myself can testify that only -recently he told me that he knew himself to be in perpetual danger.' - -But Penelope was not listening. 'Now that you have told me what I wanted -to know, I must ask you to do something for me.' And as he looked at -her, startled, she added: 'Nothing of any great consequence. All I ask -is, that you to-day, before I go back to the house, will tell Motey and -my mother that I cannot, and that I will not, see them for a while. -Mamma will not mind--she will understand. I know well enough that Motey -betrayed me to her--I knew it the day it happened, and I felt very -angry. But now nothing matters. You are to tell Motey from me that if -she forces herself on me now it will be the end--I will never have her -about me again!' - -Penelope spoke angrily, excitedly. As she spoke she clutched her -cousin's arm as if to emphasise her words. And Wantley, marvelling, -turned to carry out her wish. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - CHRISTIAN. But what have you seen? - - MEN. Seen! Why, the Valley itself, which is as dark as pitch; we - also saw there the Hobgoblins, Satyrs and Dragons of the Pit; we - heard also in that Valley a continuous Howling and Yelling, as of a - people under unutterable misery, who sat there bound in Affliction - and Irons; and over that Valley hung the discouraging clouds of - Confusion; Death also doth always spread his wings over it; in a - word, it is in every whit dreadful, being utterly without - Order.--BUNYAN. - - -I - -The last occasion on which Wantley had come to Marston Lydiate had been -in order that he might be present at a great audit dinner, and he had -felt acutely the unreality, the solemn absurdity, of it all. Those -present, his tenants, all knew, and knew that he knew also, that he -could never hope to come and live among them. - -Lady Wantley, keeping up full state at the Hall, was still, as she had -long been, their real overlord and Providence, and the young man had -felt that it was to her that should have been addressed the heavy -expressions of good will to which he had had to listen, and then to make -a suitable reply. - -But now, on Christmas Eve, more than a year after the death of Sir -George Downing, as Wantley drove in the winter sunshine along lanes cut -through land which after all belonged to him, and which must in time -belong to those, yet unborn, whom he left after him, he felt something -of the pride of possession stir within him, and he bethought himself -that he was a link in a long human chain of worthy Wantleys, past and to -come. - -Sitting silent by his young wife's side, he felt well pleased with -life, awed into thankfulness at the thought of how much better things -had turned out with him than he had ever thought possible. Then a -whimsical notion presented itself to his mind: - -'Why are you smiling? Do tell me!' Cecily turned to him, rubbed her soft -cheek against the pointed beard she had once--it seemed so long -ago--despised as the appanage of age. - -To her to-day was a great day, one to be remembered very tenderly the -whole of her life through. She had read everything that could be read -about this place, and, indeed, she knew far more of the history of the -house to which they were going than did Wantley himself. Here also, in -the substantial ivy-draped rectory, which her husband had pointed out as -they had driven quickly through the village, he had been born, and spent -his childhood. Oh yes, this was indeed to Cecily a day of days, and she -felt pleased and moved to think that their first Christmas together -should be spent at Marston Lydiate. - -'Why was I smiling? Well, when I was a child, my nurse used to say to -me, "If 'ifs' were horses, beggars would ride!" and I was thinking just -then that _if_ we have a son, and _if_ our son marries an American -heiress, and _if_ he and she care to do so, they will be able to come -and live here, a thing you and I, my darling, can never do!' - -The brougham swung in through the lodge gates, each flanked by a curious -and, Cecily feared, a most uncomfortable little house, suggestive of a -miniature Greek temple; and a turn in the wide park road, lined with -snow-laden evergreen bushes, brought suddenly into view the great -plateau along which stretched the long regular frontage of the huge -mansion for which they were bound. - -The size of the building amazed and rather excited her. 'It must be an -immense place,' she said. 'I had no idea that it was like this!' - -'Yes, the young lady will require to have a great many dollars--eh, my -dear?' - -'You never told me it was such a--a----' - -'Magnificent pile?' he suggested dryly. 'That is what some of my uncle's -guests used to call it. My mother's name for it was the "White -Elephant." Even Uncle Wantley could hardly have lived here if his wife -had not been a very wealthy woman. Of course, to Penelope the essential -ugliness of the place has always been very distasteful; and this perhaps -is fortunate, as Marston Lydiate was the only thing my uncle possessed -which he could not leave to her away from me.' - -Still, he felt a thrill of pleasurable excitement when the carriage -stopped beneath the large Corinthian portico; and he was touched as well -as amused by the rather pompous welcome tendered by the crowd of -servants, the majority of whom he had known all his life, either in -their present situations or as his own village contemporaries. He was -moved by the heartiness with which they greeted him and his young wife, -and pleased at the discretion with which they finally vanished, leaving -him and Cecily alone with the housekeeper, Mrs. Moss. - -We are often assured that a servant's life is cast in pleasant places, -and each member of such a household as that of Marston Lydiate doubtless -enjoys a sense of security denied to many a free man and free woman. But -human nature craves for the unusual, and what can exceed the utter -dulness of life below stairs when the master or mistress of such an -establishment becomes old or broken in health? - -Cecily would have been amused had she known of the long discussions -which had taken place between Mrs. Moss, the housekeeper, and Mr. -Jenkins, the butler, as to whether she or he should have the supreme -pleasure and excitement of leading the couple, who were still regarded, -in that house at least, as a bridal pair, through the ornate -state-rooms to that which had been set apart and prepared for their use -as the most 'cosy' of them all. - -The privilege had been finally conceded to Mrs. Moss, it being admitted -that, with regard to a new Lady Wantley, such was her undoubted right; -and the worthy woman would have been shocked indeed had she realized -that Cecily, while being conducted through the splendid rooms, each -lighted up with a huge fire--the English servant's ideal of welcome--was -feeling very glad that fate had not made her mistress of Marston -Lydiate. - -'Mr. Jenkins thought your ladyship would like tea in the Cedar -Drawing-room.' - -Their long progress had come to an end, and Wantley was pleased that the -room chosen had always been his own favourite apartment, among many -which, though not lacking in the curious pompous charm of the grand -period when Marston Lydiate had been built and furnished, were yet, to -his fastidious taste, overdecorated and overladen with silk and gilding. - -In old days he had often wondered that Lord and Lady Wantley, themselves -with so fine and austere a taste, had been content to leave, at any -rate, the state-rooms of Marston Lydiate exactly as they had found them. -But now, during the last few months, the young man had come face to face -with facts; above all, he had been compelled to see and witness much -which had made him at last understand why his predecessor had chosen -other uses for his wealth than that of putting a more costly simplicity -in the place of the splendour which he had inherited. - -After she had ushered them with much circumstance into the pretty -circular room, even now full of the distinct faint fragrance thrown out -by the cedar panelling from which it took its name, Mrs. Moss still -lingered. - -'Your lordship will find her ladyship very poorly,' she said nervously.' -I know you've heard from Dr. Knox; he said he was writing to you. I do -wish our young lady would come home. She writes to her mamma very -regularly, that I will say; but it's my belief that her ladyship's just -pining to death for her.' - -'You've been having trouble with the nurses?' Wantley spoke with a -certain effort. He had not shown his wife the country doctor's letter to -himself. - -Mrs. Moss tossed her head. 'That we have indeed! They don't like chronic -cases. That's what they all say. I don't know what young women are -coming to! Wait till they're chronic cases themselves! The night nurse -left this morning. I don't know, I'm sure, what we shall do about -to-night.' - -Wantley checked the torrent of words. 'We will arrange about that, you -and I, later. Do you think my aunt would like to see me now, at once?' - -Mrs. Moss shook her head. 'One time's the same to her as another,' she -said, sighing, and left the room. - - -II - -During the last year, crowded as it had been to himself with events of -great moment, Wantley had yet thought much of Penelope's mother. The -knowledge of what she had done, though hidden away in the most secret -recess of his mind and memory had yet inspired him, as time went on, -with an increasing feeling of fear and repulsion. - -His recollection of all that had happened at Monk's Eype remained so -vivid that sometimes he would seem to go again through some of the worst -moments of the dreadful day, which, as he remembered it, had begun with -his strange interview with Lady Wantley. - -For many weeks--ay, and even months--he had lived in acute apprehension -of what each hour might bring forth; and even when the passage of time -had gradually brought a sense of security, when great happiness and, -for the first time in his life, daily work of a real and strenuous -nature had come together to fill his thoughts and chase forth morbid -terror of an untoward revelation, he had heard with actual relief that -Lady Wantley was very ill, and likely to die. - -Very unwillingly he had brought Cecily with him to Marston Lydiate. But -he had found it impossible to give any adequate reason why she should be -left to spend a lonely Christmas in London; further, she had expressed, -with more strength than was usual with her, a desire to accompany him, -and he had been surprised at the warm affection with which she had -spoken of Penelope's mother. - -He was quite determined that his own first meeting with Lady Wantley -should take place alone; and so at last, when he felt the moment he -dreaded could no longer be postponed, Cecily had to submit to being -placed on a sofa, and left, wondering, perplexed, even a little hurt, -while Wantley, guided by Mrs. Moss, went to face an ordeal which his -wife actually envied him. - - -So little really intimate had been the Hall with the Rectory in the days -of Wantley's childhood and boyhood, that there were many rooms of the -vast eighteenth-century mansion which now belonged to him into which he -had never been led as child and boy. And it was with a certain surprise -that he became aware, when standing on its threshold, that Lady -Wantley's bedroom was situated over the round Cedar Drawing-room, and so -was of exactly the same proportions, though the general impression -produced by the colouring and furnishing was amazingly other. - -Long before they became the fashion, Lady Wantley had realized the -beauty and the value of white backgrounds, and no touch of colour, save -that provided by the fine old furniture, marred the delicate purity and -severity of an apartment where, even as a young woman, she had spent -much of her time when at Marston Lydiate. - -In this moment of profound emotion and of fear, Wantley's mind and eyes -yet took delight in the restful whiteness which from the very threshold -seemed to envelop him. - -The small bed, shrouded tent-wise with white curtains, concealed from -him, but only for an instant, the sole occupant of the circular room; -for suddenly he saw, sitting in a large armchair placed close to the -fire, a strange shrunken figure, wrapped and swathed in black from head -to foot. Even the white coif which had always formed part of Lady -Wantley's costume since her widowhood had been put aside for a scarf of -black silk, so arranged as to hide the upper part of the broad forehead, -while accentuating the attenuation of the hollow cheeks, the sunken -eyes, and the still delicately modelled nose and chin. - -As he gazed, horror-struck, at the sinister-looking figure, by whose -side, heaped up in confusion on a small table, lay numberless packets of -letters, some yellow with the passage of time, others evidently written -very lately, Wantley's repugnance became merged in great concern and -pity. - -'If your lordship will excuse me, I don't think I'll go up close to -her,' Mrs. Moss whispered. 'Her ladyship don't seem to care to see me -ever now,' and she slipped away, shutting the door softly behind her, -and so leaving him alone with this strange and, it seemed to him, almost -unreal presence. - -Slowly he went up and stood before her, and as he murmured words of -greeting, and regret that he found her so ailing, he took hold of the -thin, fleshless right hand, to feel startled surprise at the strength of -its burning grasp. - -Looking down into the wan face, meeting the still penetrating grey eyes, -Wantley saw with relief that, at this moment at any rate, she had full -possession of her mind; for the despair he saw there was a sane despair, -and one that told of sentient endurance. - -'I see you have come alone,' she said at last in a low, clear, collected -tone. 'You have not brought your wife? But I could not have expected you -to do otherwise, knowing what you know.' - -'Cecily is here. Of course she came with me,' he answered quickly. 'She -is now lying down, the long journey tired her, and I felt sure you would -like her to rest before seeing you.' - -'Does she _know_?' asked Lady Wantley slowly, searchingly. - -'Oh no!' he said, in almost a whisper, and glancing apprehensively round -the room as he did so, but only to be made aware that they were indeed -alone. - -Then, very deliberately, the young man drew up a chair close to hers. -'Has not the time now come when you should try and forget? Surely you -should try and put the past out of your mind, if only for Penelope's -sake?' - -'Ah,' she said very plaintively, 'but I cannot forget! I am not allowed -to do so. When I lie down I say, "When shall I arise and the night be -gone?" And I am full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of the -day.' - -'Yet you felt justified in your action--above all, you did save -Penelope,' he urged in a low tone. - -But Lady Wantley turned on him a look of anguish and perplexity. - -'Surely,' he added earnestly, 'surely you do not allow yourself to doubt -that Penelope was saved--and saved, I am convinced, from what would have -been a frightful fate, by your action?' - -'I do not know,' she said feebly. 'Part of my punishment has been the -doubt, the awful doubt, as to whether we were justified in our fears. If -I gave my soul for hers, I am more than content to be marked with the -mark of the Beast. For, Ludovic, they that dwell in mine house and my -maids count me for a stranger; I am an alien in their sight.' - -Her words, their hopelessness, moved him to great pity. 'Why did you not -ask us to come before?' he asked. 'We would have done so willingly, and -then you would not have felt so sadly lonely.' - -Lady Wantley looked at him fixedly. 'If they, my father and my husband, -have forsaken me,' she said slowly,'I am not fit for other company. In -my great distress, in my extreme abasement, only my mother has remained -faithful; she alone has had the courage to descend with me into the Pit. -My kinsfolk have failed and my familiar friends have forgotten me. You -know--you remember, Ludovic, that he--my husband, I mean--never left me. -For nearly fifty years we were together, inseparable--forty years in the -flesh, ten years in the spirit; where he went I followed; where I chose -to go he accompanied me, and guarded me from trouble. But now,' she -said--and, oh! so woefully--'I have not felt his presence, or heard his -voice, for upwards of a year.' - -Wantley got up: he turned away, and, walking to the great bay-window, -looked out on the darkening, snow-bound landscape. - -This stretching out, this appeal of her soul, as it were, to his, moved -him as might have done the intolerable sight of some poor creature -enduring the extremity of physical torment. - -Again he came to her, again took her thin, burning hand in his, and -then, murmuring something of his wife, abruptly left her. - - -III - -Cecily was still lying on the sofa where he had placed her. The fire -alone lighted up the fine old luxurious room, softening the bright green -of the damask curtains, bathing the low gilt couch and the figure lying -on it in rosy light. - -With a gesture most unusual with him, Wantley flung himself on his knees -by his wife: he gathered her head and shoulders in his arms, pressed the -soft hair off her forehead, and kissed her with an almost painful -emotion. 'You will find her very altered,' he said hoarsely; 'I wonder -if I ought to let you see her. I'm afraid you will be distressed, and I -cannot let you be distressed just now!' - -'Has she been too much left alone? Oh, Ludovic, I wish we had come -before! Perhaps the nurse--the woman who has just left--was not kind to -her.' - -Cecily was starting up, but he held her back, exceedingly perplexed as -to what to do and what to say. 'No,' he said at last; and then, -carefully choosing his words, 'She did not speak of the nurse, and I do -not suppose that any one has been outwardly disrespectful or unkind to -her. But, dearest, before you go up to her, I think you should be -prepared to find her in a very pitiful state. I dare say you've -forgotten once speaking to me at Monk's Eype concerning her belief that -she was in close communication with the dead whom she loved? Well, now -she unhappily believes that her husband has forsaken her, that his -spirit no longer holds communication with hers.' Wantley's voice broke. -'To hear her talk of it, of her agony and loneliness, is horribly sad; -and although I do not actually believe that my uncle was, as she says, -always with her, I could not help thinking of ourselves--of how I should -feel, my darling, if you were to turn from me.' - -'But,' said Cecily, clinging to him, 'I could never, never turn from -you!' - -'Ah! but so Uncle Wantley would once have said to her. You never saw -him; you do not know, as I do, in what an atmosphere of devotion--it -might almost be said of adoration--he always surrounded her. I don't -wonder,' he added, 'that she felt it endure even after his death.' - -'But why does she think he has turned from her?' asked Cecily, -perplexed. - -Wantley hesitated. 'She believes,' he answered reluctantly, 'that she -has done something which has utterly alienated him. But we must try and -keep her from the whole subject, and perhaps--indeed, I hope--she will -not speak to you as freely as she did to me.' - -Hand in hand they went through the great ground-floor rooms, up the -broad staircase, and down vast corridors. - -At the door of Lady Wantley's room he turned to Cecily. 'Promise me,' he -said rather sternly, 'that if I make you a sign--if I say "Go"--you will -leave us. It is not right that you should be made ill, or that you -should be overdistressed.' And as he spoke there was in his voice a note -new to her--a tone which said very clearly that he meant to be obeyed. - -Wantley hung back as Cecily, treading softly, walked forward into the -room of which the white dimness had been accentuated by two candles -which had been lighted close to where Lady Wantley was sitting. - -Suddenly, as the older woman stood up, uttering a curious, yearning cry -of welcome which thrilled through the passive spectator, the younger -woman ran forward, and took the shrunken, shrouded figure in her -arms--soft arms, which were at once so maternal and so childish in -contour. - -Then the one standing aside felt a curious feeling come over him. -Sometimes it seemed as if he shared his wife with the whole of the -suffering half of the world. - -Silently he watched Cecily place Lady Wantley back in her chair, and -then, kneeling down by her, first kiss, and then take between her warm -young palms, the other's trembling hands. He heard his wife's words: -'We are ashamed of not having come before, of having left you to be -lonely here; but now we will stay as long as you will have us, and I am -sure you will be better, perhaps quite well again, by the time Penelope -comes home!' - -'Is Ludovic here?' Lady Wantley asked suddenly. And as he came forward, -'Are there not candles,' she asked him--'candles which should be lit?' - -'Yes,' he answered, looking round with some surprise. 'There are a great -number of candles about your room--all unlit, of course.' - -'Unlit?' she repeated; 'unlit as yet, for till now I feared the light. -When I said "My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint," -then I was scared by dreams and terrified through visions.' - -'But now,' whispered Cecily earnestly, 'you will no longer be so sadly -lonely; we will see that you are not left alone.' - -'I am no longer lonely or alone,' said Lady Wantley mysteriously. 'That -is why,' she added, looking at the young man standing before her--'that -is why I must ask you, Ludovic, to go round my room and give light; for -the bridegroom cometh, and must not find me in the dark.' - -Wondering at her words, he obeyed, and a few moments later they left -her, the centre of a circle of glimmering lights. - - -IV - -It was night. In the dimly-lighted corridor Wantley stood holding a -short colloquy with the maid who tended Lady Wantley throughout the day. -'There's nothing to do but sit by quietly,' the woman spoke wearily. -'Her ladyship never speaks all night; but she won't be left alone a -minute.' - -Entering the room, he hoped to find her asleep, for he still felt -strangely unfamiliar with the thin, worn face and strange, -distraught-looking eyes. There had always been something ample about -Lady Wantley's presence, especially a great dignity of demeanour; but -the long months of mental agony had betrayed her, and he wondered that -those about her had not divined her fear, and asked themselves of what -she was afraid. - -Wantley had been terribly moved by the tragic melancholy of their first -meeting, infinitely touched by her cry of welcome to his young wife; but -he felt oppressed at the thought of his lonely vigil, and as he sat down -by the fire with a book, he hoped most fervently that she would sleep, -or remain, as he was told she always had done with the nurse whose place -he was now filling, mutinously silent. - -But he had scarcely read the first words of the story to whose familiar -charm he trusted to make him for the moment forget, when Lady Wantley's -voice came clearly across the room. 'Cecily,' he said to himself, 'has -indeed worked wonders;' for the words were uttered naturally, almost as -the speaker might have spoken them in the old days when all was well -with her. - -'I want to know'--and the words seemed to float towards him--'about you -and Cecily. I cannot tell you, Ludovic, how happy it makes me to think -that this dear child shares my name with me! I learnt to love her during -those days--before----' Her voice faltered. - -Wantley quickly laid down 'Persuasion.' He rose and went over to the -bed, drew up a chair, and very tenderly and quietly took one of the thin -hands lying across the counterpane in his. 'Yes, let me tell you all -about ourselves,' he said quickly, forcing a light note into his voice. -'After our marriage--such a queer, quiet wedding----' - -'Was Penelope there? I can't remember.' - -'No, no! Penelope had already started on her travels. Just then I think -she was in Japan.' He went on, speaking quickly, hardly knowing what he -was saying. 'Well, Cecily had had a hard time at the Settlement--in -fact, she was really quite tired out--so, to the great horror of Miss -Wake, who had never heard of such a thing being done before, I took her -the day we were married down to Brighton, although several people, -including a brother of Miss Theresa's, offered us country-houses. In a -sense we spent our honeymoon at Cecily's old convent, for we went out -there almost every day. I got on splendidly with the nuns, especially -with the one whom I suppose one would call the Mother Abbess. Such a -woman, such a type! One of Napoleon's field-marshals in -petticoats--knowing exactly what she wanted, and making the people round -her do it.' - -Wantley paused a moment, then went on: 'After three weeks of Brighton, -this determined old lady made me take my wife to France, to Versailles. -"Là vous l'aimerez bien, et vous la distrairez beaucoup!" she commanded; -and of course I obeyed.' - -There was a pause. 'And then you went on to Monk's Eype?' Lady Wantley -raised herself on her pillows; she looked at him searchingly, but he -avoided meeting her eyes. 'I felt surprised to hear of your going -there,' she said, and the hand he was still holding trembled in his -grasp. - -'I was surprised to find myself going there'--Wantley spoke very slowly, -very reluctantly--'but Cecily loves the place, and you would not have -had me sell it, just after Penelope had so very generously given it over -to us?' - -'Oh no!' she said. And then again, 'Oh no! I did not mean that, -Ludovic.' - -'I have had the Beach Room taken away,' he said, almost in a whisper. -'It is entirely obliterated'; and then, trying again to speak more -naturally: 'We had Philip Hammond with us part of the time; and also -others of Cecily's Stratford friends, including one poor fellow who had -never had more than two days' holiday in his life since he first began -working! And then I want to tell you'--he was eager to get away from -Monk's Eype--'about our life in town, and the sort of existence we had -made for ourselves.' - -Lady Wantley, for the first time, smiled. 'I know,' she said; -'people--acquaintances, and old fellow-workers of your uncle--have -written to me full of joy.' - -Wantley made a slight grimace. 'Well,' he observed rather shamefacedly, -'I have had to take to it all, if only in self-defence; otherwise I -should never see anything of my own wife. Even as it is, I have offended -a good many people, especially lately, by my determination that she -shall not join any more committees or undertake any new work. Cecily is -quite bewildered to find what a number of admirable folk there are in -the world!' - -Lady Wantley again smiled. 'But I do not suppose,' she said, 'that -Cecily finds among them many like herself. I have sometimes thought of -how well your uncle would have liked her.' - -'Pope and all?' Wantley smiled. For the first time he allowed his eyes -frankly to meet hers. - -'Yes, yes!' she cried with something of her old eagerness; 'he always -knew and recognized goodness when he saw it. And, Ludovic, you know what -I told you to-day--of my awful loneliness, of my desolation of body and -spirit?' Wantley looked at her uneasily. 'Even as I spoke to you,' she -said, 'my punishment was being remitted, my solitude blessedly -invaded--for he, the husband of my youth, my companion and helper, was -returning, to help me across the passage.' - -A feeling, not so much of astonishment, as of awe and fear came over -Wantley. His eyes sought the dim grey shadows, out of which he half -expected to see force itself the figure of the man he had never wholly -liked, or even wholly respected, but whom he had always greatly feared. - -'He came back with Cecily,' Lady Wantley added, after a long pause. 'Her -purity has blotted out my iniquity.' - -'And do you actually see him now? Are you aware of his presence?' - -Wantley in a sense felt that on her answer would depend what he himself -would see, and as he waited he felt increasingly afraid; but, 'To know -that he is there is all I ask,' she said slowly; 'to be able to tell him -everything is the sum of my desire, and this I can now do;' and, lying -back on her high pillows, she sank into silence and sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - 'On childing women that are forlorn, - And men that sweat in nothing but scorn-- - That is, on all that ever were born-- - Miserere, Domine.' - - H. B. - - -I - -The next morning poor Cecily felt strangely forlorn. Somehow, this did -not seem like Christmas Day. Wantley, haggard, but smiling, after his -long night's vigil, had declared that the state of the roads made it out -of the question that they should drive the six miles to the nearest -Catholic church, and she had submitted without a word, only insisting -that he should have some hours of sleep. - -And then, after having knelt down by the fire in the spacious room which -had been prepared for her, when she had read the service of the Mass and -said her rosary, she sent a message to Lady Wantley asking if she could -come to her. - -The mistress of Marston Lydiate was still in bed, and in the wintry -morning light Cecily saw with a pang how aged and how ailing her old -friend had become, but the look of intolerable distress and terror had -gone from the pale, delicate face. - -'Do you know, my dear, what day this is--I mean, what day this is to -me?' - -'Yes,' said Cecily, smiling: 'I know that it is Penelope's birthday, as -well as Christmas Day.' - -Lady Wantley raised herself in bed. She put her arms round the younger -woman and kissed her. 'I know how it is with you,' she whispered, 'and, -oh, I am so glad! Do you know how long I myself had to wait?' And then, -receiving no answer, she added: 'Nineteen years! That was the only -shadow on my singularly happy, blessed life; but it was a shadow which -sometimes darkened everything. I only once spoke to him--to my husband, -I mean--on the matter, for in those days we women seldom spoke of our -feelings. I had been ill, some trifling ailment, and he came and sat by -me in this room, just where you are sitting now, and suddenly I told him -of my longing for a child. I was foolish and repining, alas! for you -must know, my dear, that I grieved for his sake as well as for my own. I -have often thought, this last year, lying here, of what he answered. He -looked at me so kindly. "Am I not more to thee than ten sons?" he asked; -and I felt infinitely comforted. - -'And then'--Cecily spoke softly--'Penelope was born?' - -'Ah no, not then!' said Lady Wantley, with the literalness which -sometimes suddenly came to her. 'Many years had to go by first. But when -she came it was on Christmas morning.' She shaded her eyes with her left -hand. 'Not a day like this,' she whispered. 'It was a warm, sunny, -green Christmas that year; I remember it all so well. Ludovic's mother -came up to see me after church. You know we were never really intimate; -I fear she did not like me. But she was very kind that day. All women -feel in sympathy with one another on such days, and Mrs. Wantley's love -for her own son made her know what my daughter would be to me.' Lady -Wantley hesitated, and then, as if speaking to herself, added: 'How -often I have looked at my beloved child--my beautiful gifted -Penelope--and prayed God to comfort childless women.' Then suddenly the -speaker's face contracted, and she looked at Cecily as if wishing to -compel her to speak truly. 'Is it well with my child?' she asked. 'Tell -me what you think, what you know of her? I know you love her dearly.' - -'I know nothing, and cannot tell what to think.' The answer was slow, -reluctant, and truthful. - -Lady Wantley turned and searched under her pillow. Silently she handed -Cecily a letter, wistfully watched her read it. 'Doubtless she writes -more fully to you, her friend, than to me, her mother,' she said at -last; but Cecily remained silent while glancing perplexed, over the -short, dry, though not unaffectionate note. 'There is a postscript on -the other side of the sheet. Perhaps you knew already that David -Winfrith was with her?' - -On the last sheet of foreign note-paper were written in Mrs. Robinson's -clear, pointed handwriting the words: 'David Winfrith is in Bombay. He -is coming up to see me in a few days.' - -'We acted very wrongly,' said Lady Wantley, in a low tone. 'He--my -husband--now knows that we were not rightly guided in the matter. We -were swayed by considerations of no real moment. She loved David then; -she was very steadfast. It was he who gave way. Lord Wantley sent for -him and made him withdraw his offer. Do you think that now---- Ah, -Cecily, if I could only hope to leave Penelope in so safe a haven!' - -Cecily's lips quivered. Not even to comfort her old friend could she, or -would she, say what she believed to be false. To her simple heart such -love as that once avowed to herself by Penelope for Downing could not -change or die away. It might be thrust back out of sight at the call of -conscience, but the void could never be filled by another man. - -David Winfrith? Why, Penelope had often laughed at him in the old happy -days when she, Cecily, was first at the Settlement. Oh no! David -Winfrith might follow Mrs. Robinson all over the world, but Penelope -would ever keep outside the haven offered by him, if, indeed--and again -a flash of remembrance crossed her mind--such haven was still open to -her. - -She could say nothing comfortable, and so kept silent, but her troubled -look answered for her. Lady Wantley drew a long, sharp breath. 'I cannot -hope,' she muttered, 'to be wholly forgiven.' - - -II - -There are certain days and festivals when every association of the heart -confirms the truth of the old saying that any company is better than -none. So felt Wantley and Cecily sitting down to their lonely Christmas -dinner--or lunch, as Mr. Jenkins more genteelly put it--in the vast -dining-room, where, as the same authority assured Cecily, 'fifty could -sit down easy.' - -Had these two not been at Marston Lydiate, they would now have been at -the Settlement, Wantley doubtless grumbling, man-like, to himself -because he was not spending Christmas Day alone, by his own fireside, -with his own wife. But to-day even he felt the silence of the great -house oppressive, and early in the afternoon he assented with eagerness -to Cecily's proposal that they should walk down to the village and see -the church where, as she reminded him, he had been baptized. - -Mrs. Moss, the housekeeper, and Mr. Jenkins, the butler, standing -together by the window in the butler's pantry--which was from their -point of view most agreeably situated, for it commanded the entrance to -the house--watched the young couple set off from under the portico. - -They were talking together rather eagerly, Cecily flushed and smiling. -'It's easy to see they have not long been married,' said the housekeeper -with a soft sigh. 'Still plenty to say, I expect.' - -But young Lady Wantley was shaking her head, and as she and her husband -passed on their way, within but a few feet of the window behind which -stood the couple who were looking at them with such affectionate -interest, she exclaimed rather loudly: 'Oh, Ludovic, how can you say -such a thing! I don't agree with you at all!' - -'Ho, ho, a tiff!' whispered Mr. Jenkins with gloomy satisfaction; but -Mrs. Moss turned on him very sharply. - -'Stuff and nonsense!' she said; 'that's only to show she's not his -slave. Why, that girl Charlotte Pidder--her ladyship's lady's-maid I -suppose she fancies herself to be, though, from what I can make out, she -can't neither do hairdressing nor dressmaking--was telling me this -morning that they fairly dote on one another. There now, look at them! -There's a pretty sight for you!' - -The walkers had come to a standstill, and Wantley taking his wife's -hand, was trying to put it through his arm. 'I will not touch your -sacred idol!' the eavesdroppers heard him say, 'In future I will always -keep my real thoughts to myself.' - -'Well, of all things! If the old lord could only hear them!' whispered -Mrs. Moss, now really scandalized. 'It do seem a pity that such a nice -young lady should be a Papist, and should try and make him a worshipper -of idols, too.' And she turned away, for the two outside had quickened -their steps, and were no longer within earshot. - -Cecily was still indignant. 'I only wish,' she said, her voice trembling -a little, 'that you were right and I wrong. If only Penelope would marry -Mr. Winfrith, and live happy ever after----' - -'I did not promise you that,' said Wantley mildly, 'though, mind you, I -think she would have a better chance with him than with anyone else.' - -'But why should she marry at all?' cried Cecily. 'I quite understand why -her mother would like her to do so, but surely, after all that -happened----' - -Wantley shot a keen glance at his companion. 'Wonderful,' he murmured, -'the effect of even one night's good country air! You look much better, -and even prettier, that you did yesterday.' - -Cecily smiled. Praise from him always sounded very sweetly in her ear, -but, 'No, no!' she said, 'I won't let you off! Tell me why Penelope is -not to remain as she is if she wishes to do so?' - -'There are a hundred reasons, with most of which I certainly shall not -trouble you; but the best of them all is that, however much she wishes -it, she will not be able to do so.' - -'And pray, why not?' asked Cecily. - -'If Winfrith doesn't succeed in carrying her off, someone infinitely -less worthy certainly will, and then all our troubles will begin again. -Don't you see--or is it, as I sometimes suspect, that you won't -see?'--his voice suddenly grew grave--'that Penelope is never content, -never even approximately happy, unless she is'--he hesitated, then went -on, avoiding as he spoke the candid eyes lifted up to his in such eager, -perplexed inquiry--'well, unless she has some man, or, better still, -several men, in play? Now, that sort of game--oh! but I mean it: with -her it has always been a game, and a game only becomes absorbing and -exciting when there is present the element of danger--generally ends in -disaster.' - -Cecily walked on in silence. 'I admit there is some truth in what you -say,' she said at last; 'but I am sure, _sure_, Ludovic, that you are -wrong about Mr. Winfrith.' - -Wantley looked at her thoughtfully. 'A bet, a little bet, my dearest, is -a very good way of proving the faith that is in you. Here and now I -propose that, if I prove right and you prove wrong after, let us say, -two years----' - -'Please--please,' she said, 'do not make a joke of this matter; it hurts -me.' - -'Forgive me,' he cried repentantly. 'I am rather light-headed to-day, -and you know I always feel rather jealous of Penelope. After all that's -come and gone, it's rather hard that she should take also my wife from -me!' - - -III - -Of the many ill things done in the name of beauty during the last -hundred years, none, surely, can compare in sheer wantonness with the -restorations of our old village churches. In this matter pious -iconoclasts have wrought more mischief than Cromwell and his Ironsides -ever succeeded in doing, and the lover of rural England, in the course -of his pilgrimage, has perpetually thrust on his notice the loveliness -without, wedded to the plaintive ugliness within, of buildings raised to -the glory of God in a more creative as well as in a holier age than -ours. - -Here and there, becoming, however, pitifully few as time goes on, the -seeker may even now find a village church to the interior of which no -desecration has as yet been offered. But such survivals owe their -temporary lease of life either to the happy indifference of a wise -neighbourhood, or to the determined eccentricity and obstinate -conservatism of an incumbent happening to be on intimate terms of -friendship--or enmity will serve as well--with the patron of the living. - -Such had been the fortunate case of the parish church of Marston -Lydiate, and Wantley felt a thrill of pleasure when he saw how -completely untouched everything had been left since the distant days of -his childhood. - -Together he and his wife made their way among the square old-fashioned -pews, first to one and then to another of the holly-decked tombs and -monuments of long-dead Wantleys. At last the young man led Cecily up to -the most ancient, as also to the most ornate, of these, one taking up -the greater part of one aisle. - -The monument represented Sir George Wantley, of Marston Lydiate, Knight, -who in the year 1609 had rebuilt the church. His effigy in armour, -bare-headed and kneeling, was under a pillared canopy, and at some -little distance was the statue of his wife under a similar canopy. The -inscription set forth that their married life, if brief, had been -unclouded by dissension, and that 'His lady, left alone, lived alone,' -till, having attained her eightieth year, 'she was again joined unto her -husband in this place.' - -'So,' said Wantley, very soberly, 'would you wish our poor Penelope to -be. She has been left alone, and now you would condemn her to live -alone.' - -But Cecily made no answer. She only looked very kindly at the stiff -figure of the steadfast dame whose name she now herself bore, and whose -conduct she so thoroughly understood and approved. - -As they walked through the church gate, a boy came running up -breathless. He held a telegram in his hand, and began, in the native -dialect, an involved explanation as to why it had not been delivered -before. - -'Oh, it's addressed to you,' said Wantley, handing it to his wife. - -Cecily opened it. 'I don't understand,' she began, but he saw her cheeks -turn bright pink. 'I don't think it can be meant for me at all.' - -Wantley looked over her shoulder. 'It certainly is not meant for you,' -he said dryly. - -The message, which had been sent from Simla, consisted in the words: - - 'Penelope and I were married to-day by Archdeacon of Lahore. Please - have proper announcement put in _Times_.--Your affectionate son, - DAVID WINFRITH.' - -Wantley and Cecily looked at one another in silence. Then, fumbling -about in his pocket, the young man finally handed the astonished and -gratified boy half a sovereign. 'It's fair that someone should win the -bet,' he said, with a queer whimsical smile, and then, after the -recipient of his bounty had gone off, he added: 'Well, Cecily?' - -'You are always right, and I am always wrong,' she cried, half laughing, -and yet her eyes filling with tears. 'But, oh! do let us hurry back and -give this to Lady Wantley. I shall have to explain to her how stupid it -was of me to open it.' - -They walked along in almost complete silence, till suddenly Wantley said -musingly: 'I wonder how much David Winfrith knows--I wonder if she has -told him----' - -But Cecily looked up at him very reproachfully, and as if she herself -were being accused--of what? 'There was very little to know,' she said -vehemently, 'and very, very little to tell.' - -'If you make half as good a wife as you are friend,' exclaimed Wantley, -'I shall be more than content.' - - -THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF PENELOPE*** - - -******* This file should be named 52055-8.txt or 52055-8.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/2/0/5/52055 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: The Heart of Penelope</p> -<p>Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes</p> -<p>Release Date: May 13, 2016 [eBook #52055]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF PENELOPE***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4>E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Martin Pettit,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org/details/toronto">https://archive.org/details/toronto</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/heartofpenelope00lownuoft"> - https://archive.org/details/heartofpenelope00lownuoft</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="center"><a name="cover.jpg" id="cover.jpg"></a><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="They looked at one another for a moment" /></div> - -<p class="bold">They looked at one another for a moment.<span class="s3"> </span>Chapter XVI</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="title page" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="bold">THE WAYFARER'S LIBRARY</p> - -<h1>The<br />HEART OF PENELOPE</h1> - -<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/dec2.jpg" alt="decoration" /></div> - -<p class="bold">Mrs Belloc Lowndes</p> - -<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/dec3.jpg" alt="decoration" /></div> - -<p class="bold space-above">J. M. DENT & SONS. Ltd.<br />LONDON</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2><span>CONTENTS</span></h2> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER I</td> - <td><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER II</td> - <td><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER III</td> - <td><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER IV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER V</td> - <td><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER IX</td> - <td><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER X</td> - <td><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_196">196</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XIV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_275">275</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_297">297</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XIX</td> - <td><a href="#Page_312">312</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/dec1.jpg" alt="decoration" /></div> - -<p class="bold2">THE HEART OF PENELOPE</p> - -<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'London my home is; though by hard fate sent</div> -<div>Into a long and irksome banishment;</div> -<div>Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be,</div> -<div>O native country, repossess'd by thee!'</div> -<div class="right"><span class="smcap">Herrick.</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Sir George Downing was back in London after an absence of twenty years -from England. The circumstances which had led to his leaving his native -country had been such that he could not refer to them, even in his own -mind, and even after so long an interval, without an inward wincing more -poignant than that which could have been brought about by the touching -of any material wound.</p> - -<p>Born to the good fortune which usually attends the young Englishman of -old lineage, a fair competence and a traditional career—in his case the -pleasant one of diplomacy—Downing had himself brought all his chances -to utter shipwreck. Even now, looking back with the dispassionate -judgment automatically produced by the long lapse of time, and -greater—ah, how much greater!—knowledge of the world, he decided that -fate had used him hardly.</p> - -<p>What had really occurred was known to very few people, and these few had -kept their own and his counsel to an unusual degree. The world, or -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>rather that kindly and indulgent section of the world where young -Downing had been regarded with liking, and even the affection, so easily -bestowed on a good-looking and good-natured youngster, said to stand -well with his chiefs, took a lenient view of a case of which it knew -little. The fact that a lady was closely involved—further, that she was -one of those fair strangers who in those days played a far greater part -in diplomacy than would now be possible—lent the required touch of -romance to the story. 'A Delilah brought to judgment' had been the -comment of one grim old woman, mindful that she had been compelled to -meet, if not to receive, the stormy petrel whose departure from London -had been too hurried to admit of the leaving of P.P.C. cards on the -large circle which had entertained, and, in a less material sense, been -entertained by, her. As to her victim—only the very unkind ventured to -use the word 'tool'—his obliteration had been almost as sudden, almost -as complete.</p> - -<p>Other men, more blamed, if not more stricken, than he had been, had -elected to spend their lives amid the ruins of their broken careers. -More than one of his contemporaries had triumphantly lived down the -memory of a more shameful record. Perhaps owing to his youth, he had -followed his instinct—the natural instinct of a wounded creature which -crawls away out of sight of its fellows—and now he had come back, -having achieved, not only rehabilitation, but something more—the -gratitude, the substantially expressed gratitude, of the most important -section of his countrymen, those to whom are confided the destinies of -an ever-increasing Empire.</p> - -<p>Even in these prosaic days an Englishman living in forced or voluntary -exile sometimes achieves greater things for his country than can be so -much as contemplated by the men who, though backed by the power and -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>prestige of the Foreign Office, are also tied by its official -limitations. His efforts thus being unofficial, the failure of them can -be so regarded, and diplomacy can shrug its shoulders. But if they -should be successful, as Downing's had been, diplomacy, while pocketing -the proceeds, is not so mean as to grudge a due reward.</p> - -<p>Happy are those to whom substantial recognition comes ere it is too -late. 'Persian' Downing, as he had, <i>pour cause</i>, come to be called, -could now count himself among these fortunate few. Fate had offered him -a great opportunity, which he had had the power and the intelligence to -seize.</p> - -<p>Those at home who still remembered him kindly had been eager to point -out that, far from adopting American nationality, as had once been -rumoured, he had known how to prove himself an Englishman of the old -powerful stock, jealous of his country's honour and capable of making it -respected. What was more to the purpose, from a practical point of view, -was the fact that he had known how to win the confidence of a potentate -little apt to be on confidential terms with the half-feared, -half-despised Western.</p> - -<p>That Downing had succeeded in maintaining his supremacy at a -semi-barbaric Court, where he had first appeared in the not altogether -dignified rôle of representative of an Anglo-American financial house, -was chiefly due to a side of his nature, unsuspected by those who most -benefited by it, which responded to the strange practical idealism of -the Oriental. The terrible ordeal through which he had passed had long -loosened his hold on life, bestowing upon him that calm fatalism and -indifference to merely physical consequence which is ordinarily the most -valuable asset of Orientals in their dealings with Western minds.</p> - -<p>When he had accepted, or rather suggested, a Persian mission to his -partner, an American banker, to whose firm an influential English friend -had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> introduced him when he first turned his thoughts towards an -American haven of refuge, he had done so in order to escape, if only for -a few months, from a state of things brought about by what he was wont -to consider the second great misfortune of his life. Downing was one of -those men who seemed fated to make mistakes, and then to amaze those -about them by the fashion in which they face and overcome the -consequences.</p> - -<p>Owing, perhaps, to sheer good luck, after having endured a kind of -disgrace only comparable to that which may be felt by a soldier who has -been proved a traitor to his cause and country, Downing had so acted -that in twenty years—a few moments in a nation's diplomatic life—he -had received, not only the formal rehabilitation and recognition implied -by his G.C.B., but what, to tell truth, he had valued at the moment far -more highly: a touching letter from the venerable statesman who had -rejected his boyish appeal for mercy.</p> - -<p>The old man had asked that he might himself convey to Downing the news -of the honour bestowed on him, and he had done so in a letter full of -honourable amend, of which one passage ran: 'As I grow older I have -become aware of having done many things which I should have left undone; -the principal of these, the one I have long most regretted, was my -action concerning your case.'</p> - -<p>Only one human being, and that a woman whose sympathy was none the less -valued because she had scarcely understood all it had meant to her -friend, was ever shown the letter which had so moved and softened him. -But from the day he received it the thought of going home, back to -England, never left him, and he would have accomplished his purpose long -before, had it not been that the consequence of his second great mistake -still pursued him.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Attracted by a prim modesty of demeanour and apparent lack of emotion, -new to him in women of his own class, and doubtless feeling acutely the -terrible loneliness and strangeness attendant on his new life in such a -city as was the New York of that time, George Downing had married, -within a year of his arrival in America, a girl of good Puritan-Dutch -stock and considerable fortune. Prudence Merryquick—her very name had -first attracted him—had offered him that agreeable emotional pastime, a -platonic friendship. Soon the strange relationship between them piqued -and irritated him, and, manlike, he longed to stir, if not to plumb, the -seemingly untroubled depths of her still nature. At first she resisted -with apparent ease, and this incited him to serious skilful pursuit. -Poor Prudence had no chance against a man who, in despite and in a -measure because of his youth, had often played a conquering part in the -mimic love warfare of an older and more subtle civilization. She -surrendered, not ungracefully, and for a while it seemed as if the -ex-Foreign Office clerk was like to make a successful American banker.</p> - -<p>Their honeymoon lasted a year; then an accident, or, rather, some -exigencies of business, caused them to spend a winter in Washington. -There Downing's story was of course known; indeed, the newly-appointed -British Minister had been a friend of his father, and one of those who -had tried ineffectually to save him. This renewal of old ties brought on -a terrible nostalgia. To Prudence a longing for England was -incomprehensible—England had cast her husband out—indeed, she desired, -with a fierceness of feeling which surprised Downing, to see him become -a naturalized American, but to this he steadily refused to consent.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> - -<p>As winter gave way to spring they moved even further apart from one -another, and, as might have been expected, the first serious difference -of opinion, too grave to call a quarrel, concerned their future home.</p> - -<p>Downing, on the best terms with his partners, had arranged to return -permanently to Washington. To his wife, a world composed of European -diplomatists and cosmopolitan Americans was utterly odious and -incomprehensible. She showed herself passionately intolerant of her -husband's friends, especially of those who were his own countrymen and -countrywomen, and she looked back with increasing longing to her early -married life in New York, and to the days when George Downing had -apparently desired no companionship but her own.</p> - -<p>Both husband and wife were equally determined, equally convinced as to -what was the right course to pursue, and no compromise seemed possible. -But one day, quite early in the winter following that which had seen -them first installed in Washington, Downing received an urgent recall to -New York. With the easy philosophy which had been one of his early -charms, he went unsuspectingly, but a few days after he and Prudence had -once more settled down in the Dutch homestead inherited by her from -Knickerbocker forebears, he came back rather sooner than had been his -wont. Prudence met him at the door, for she had returned to this early -habit of their married life.</p> - -<p>'Tell me,' he said quietly and while in the act of putting down his hat, -'did you ask Mr. Fetter to arrange for my return here?'</p> - -<p>She answered unflinchingly: 'Yes; I knew it would be best.'</p> - -<p>He made no comment, but within a month he had gone, leaving her alone in -the old house where she had spent her dreary childhood, and where she -had experienced the one passionate episode of her life.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> - -<p>Twice he came back—the first time with the honest intention of asking -Prudence to return with him to the distant land where he had at last -found a life that seemed to promise in time rehabilitation, and in any -case a closer tie with his own country. Prudence hesitated, then -communed with herself and with one or two trusted friends, and finally -refused to accompany her husband back to Teheran. Already in her -loneliness she had become interested in one of the great religious -movements which swept over America at that period of its social history.</p> - -<p>The second time that Downing returned to New York it was to make final -arrangements for something tantamount to a separation. Of divorce his -wife would not hear; her religious principles and theories made such a -solution impossible. To his surprise and relief, she accepted the -allowance he eagerly offered. 'Not in the spirit it is meant,' he said, -half smiling, as they stood opposite to one another in the office of -their old and much-distressed friend, Mr. Fetter; 'rather, eh, Prudence, -as an offering to the Almighty on my behalf?' And she had answered quite -seriously, but with the flicker of an answering smile: 'Yes, George, -that is so;' and for years the two had not been so near to one another -as at that moment. The arrangement was duly carried out, and in time -Downing learnt that the offering foreseen by him had taken the very -sensible shape of a young immigrants' home, the upkeep of which absorbed -that portion of Mrs. Downing's income contributed by her husband.</p> - -<p>Years wore themselves away, communications between the two became more -and more rare, and his brief married life grew fainter and fainter in -Downing's memory. Indeed, he far more often thought of and remembered -trifling episodes which had taken place much earlier, even in his -childhood. But the time came when this far-distant, half-forgotten woman -hurt him unconsciously in his only vulnerable part.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> He learnt with a -feeling of indescribable anger and annoyance that, having become closely -connected with a number of English Dissenters, whose tenets she shared, -she had made for some time past a yearly sojourn among them. To him the -idea that his American wife should live, even for a short space of time -each year, among his own countrymen and countrywomen, while he himself -lingered on in outer banishment appeared monstrous, and it was one of -the reasons why, even after he had already done much to effect his -rehabilitation, he preferred to remain away from his own country.</p> - -<p>At last he was urgently pressed to return home, and it was pointed out -to him that his further absence was injurious to those financial -interests which concerned others as well as himself. This is how it came -to pass that he found himself once more in London, after an absence of -twenty years. At first Downing had planned to be in England early in -June, and those of his friends whose congratulations on the honour -bestowed on him had been most sincere and most welcome had urged him to -make a triumphal reappearance at the moment when they would all be in -town. Moreover, they had promised him—and some of them were in a -position to make their promises come true—such a welcome home from old -and new friends as is rarely awarded to those whose victories are won on -bloodless fields.</p> - -<p>Accordingly, he had started early in May from the distant country where -his exile had proved of such signal service to England. Then, to the -astonishment and concern of those who considered his early return -desirable, he lingered through June and half July on the Continent, ever -writing, 'I am coming, I am coming,' to the few to whom he owed a real -apology for thus disappointing them. To the larger number of business -connections who felt aggrieved he vouchsafed no word, and left them to -suppose that their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> great man, frightened by some Parisian specialist, -had retired to a French spa for a cure.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>In one minor, as in so many a major, matter Downing had been -exceptionally fortunate. For many returning to their native country -after long years there are none to welcome them. Those among their old -friends who have not gone where no living man can hope to reach them are -scattered here and there, and only affection, faithful in a sense rarely -found, troubles to think of how the actual arrival of the wanderer can -be made, if not pleasant, at least tolerable. But Downing found a -sincere and, what was more precious, a familiar welcome, from the -friend, Mr. Julius Gumberg, who had twenty years before sped him on his -way with those valuable business introductions with which he had been -able to build up a new career, first in America, and later in Persia.</p> - -<p>There had been no regular correspondence between them, but now and -again, sometimes after an interval of years, a short note, pregnant with -shrewd counsel, and written in the tiny and only apparently clear hand -which was the epistolary mode of fifty years since, would form the most -welcome portion of Downing's home mail. It was characteristic of Mr. -Gumberg that he sent no word of congratulation, when the man whom he -still regarded as a youthful protégé received his G.C.B., the great -outward mark of rehabilitation. But when he learnt that Downing had -actually started for England he wrote him a line, adding by way of -postscript, 'Of course you will come to me,' and of course Downing had -come to him.</p> - -<p>Mr. Julius Gumberg was one of those happy Londoners whose dwellings lie -between the Green Park and that group of tranquil short streets which -still remain, havens of stately peace, within a moment's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> walk of St. -James's and Piccadilly. The portion of the house which looked on St. -James's Place had that peculiar air of solid respectability which, in -houses belonging to a certain period, seems to apologize for the rakish -air of their garden-front. By its bow-windows Mr. Gumberg's house was -distinguished on the park side from its more stately neighbours, and his -pink blinds were so far historic that they had been noted in a -guide-book some forty years before.</p> - -<p>Small wonder that, as Mr. Gumberg's guest passed through the door into -the broad low corridor which led into his old friend's library, he felt -for a moment as if he were walking from the present into the past, an -impression heightened by his finding everything, and almost everybody, -in the house unchanged, from his host, sitting in a pleasant book-lined -room where they had last parted, to the man-servant who had met him with -a decorous word of welcome at the door. To be sure, both master and man -looked older, but Downing felt that, while in their case the interval of -time had left scarce any perceptible mark of its passage, he himself had -in the same period lived, and showed that he had lived, a time -incalculable.</p> - -<p>And how did the traveller returning strike Mr. Julius Gumberg? Alas! as -being in every sense quite other than the man, young, impulsive, and -with a sufficient, not excessive, measure of originality, whom he had -sped on his way to fairer fortunes twenty years before. Now, looking at -the tall figure, the broad, slightly-bent shoulders, he saw that youth -had wholly gone, that impulse had been so long curbed as to leave no -trace on the rugged secretive face, to which had come, indeed, lines of -concentration and purpose which had been lacking in that of the young -George Downing. Originality now veered perilously near that eccentricity -of outward appearance which is apt to overtake those to whom the cut of -clothes, the shearing of the hair, have become of no moment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> Mr. -Gumberg's shrewd eyes had at once perceived that this no longer familiar -friend looked Somebody, indeed, many would say a very great and puissant -body; but the old man would have been better pleased to have welcomed -home a more commonplace hero.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg's sharp ears had heard, just outside his door, quick, low -interchange of words between his own faithful man-servant and the -newly-arrived guest. 'Valet? No, Jackson, I have brought no man. I gave -up such pleasant luxuries twenty years ago!' And Jackson had retreated, -disappointed of the company of the travelled gentleman's gentleman with -whom he had hoped to spend many pleasant moments.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Partly in deference to his old friend's advice, Downing gave up his -first morning in London to seeing those, almost to a man unknown to him, -to whom he surely owed some apology for his delay. His own old world, -including those faithful few friends of his youth who had wished him to -return in time to add to the triumphs of the season, were already -scattered, and though he had been warmly asked, even after his -defection, to follow them to the downs, the moors, and the sea, he was -as yet uncertain what to do. 'Waiting orders,' he had said to himself -with a curious thrill of exultation as he sat in his bedroom, table and -chair drawn close to the windows from which could be seen the twinkling -lights of Piccadilly, and where he had been answering briefly the pile -of letters he had found waiting for him.</p> - -<p>The next morning he devoted himself to the work he had in hand, and -early drove to the City in his host's old-fashioned roomy brougham. As -he drove he leant back, his hat jammed down over his eyes, unwilling to -see the changes which the town's aspect<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> had undergone during his long -absence. But there was one pang which was not spared him.</p> - -<p>He had been among the last of those Londoners to whom the lion upon the -gateway of Northumberland House had been as a Familiar, and in the long -low rooms and spacious galleries to which that gateway had given access -he had spent many happy hours, a youth on whom all smiled. Of course, he -knew the stately palace had gone, but the sight of all that now stood in -its place made him realize as nothing else had yet done how long he had -been away.</p> - -<p>But when once he found himself in the City office whither he was bound, -he pushed all thoughts and recollections of the past far back into his -mind, and set himself to exercise all his powers of conciliation on the -men, for the most part unknown to him personally, who had the right to -be annoyed with him for delaying his arrival in London so long. Long, -lean, and brown, he stood before them, grimly smiling, and after the -first words, 'I fear my delay has caused some of you inconvenience, -gentlemen,' he plunged into the multiple complex details of the great -financial interests in which he and they were bound, answering questions -dealing with delicate points, and impressing them, as even the most -optimistic among them had not hoped to be impressed, by his remarkable -personality.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon of the same day he made his way slowly, almost -furtively, into what had once been his familiar haunts. They lay close -about the house where he was now staying and at first he felt relieved, -so few were the changes noted by him; but after a while he realized that -this first impression was not a true one. Even in St. James's Street -there was much that struck him as strange. Where he had left low houses -he found huge buildings. His very boot-maker, though still flaunting the -proud device, 'Established in 1767,' across his plate-glass window, was, -though at the same number as of old, now merged<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> in a row of shops -forming the ground-floor of a red-brick edifice which seemed to dwarf -the low long mass of St. James's Palace opposite.</p> - -<p>In that square quarter-mile, bounded on the one side by Jermyn Street -and on the other by Pall Mall, he missed, if not whole streets, at least -many houses through whose hospitable doors he had often made his way. -Then a chance turn brought him opposite the place where he had spent the -last three years of his London life, and, by a curious irony, here alone -time seemed to have stood still. He looked consideringly at the old -house, up at the narrow windows of the first-floor at which a young and -happy George Downing had so often stood full of confidence in a kind -world and in himself; then, following a sudden impulse, he walked across -the street and rang the bell.</p> - -<p>A buxom, powerful-looking woman opened the door; Downing recognised her -at once as a certain Mary Crisp, the niece of his old landlord, and as -she stood waiting for him to speak he remembered that as a girl she had -not been allowed to do much of the waiting on her uncle's 'gentlemen.' -There was no glimmer of recognition in her placid face, and, in answer -to the request that he might see the rooms where he had once lived 'for -a short time,' she invited him civilly enough to come in, and to follow -her upstairs.</p> - -<p>'I expect it's the same paper, sir,' she said, as she opened the door of -what had been his sitting-room. 'It was put up when uncle first took on -the house, and, as it cost half a crown a foot, we always cleans it once -every three years with breadcrumbs, and it comes out as new.'</p> - -<p>How well Downing remembered the paper, with its dark-blue ground thickly -sprinkled with gold stars! indeed, before she spoke again, he knew what -her next words would be. 'It's the same pattern that the Queen and -Prince Albert chose for putting up at Windsor Castle; you don't see such -a good paper, nor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> such a good pattern, nowadays; but there, I'll just -leave you a minute while you take a look round.'</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>For some moments Downing remained standing just inside the door, as much -that he had forgotten, and more that he had tried vainly to forget, came -back to him in a turgid flood of recollection. Suddenly something in the -walls creaked, and he clenched his hands, half expecting to see figures -form themselves out of the shadows. One memory was spared him; the -sombre walls, the plain, heavy old furniture, placed much as it had been -in his time, evoked no vision of the foreign woman who had brought him -to disgrace, for, with a certain boyish chivalry, he had never allowed -her to come to his rooms; instead, poor fool that he had been, he had -occasionally entertained her in his official quarters, and the fact had -been one of those which had most weighed against him with his informal -judges.</p> - -<p>Instead, the place where he now stood brought to his mind another woman, -who had during those same years and months played a nobler, but alas! a -far minor part in his life.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Henry Delacour had been one of those beings who, though themselves -exquisitely feminine, seem destined to go through life playing the part -of confidential and platonic friend, for, in spite of all that is said -to the contrary, platonic friendships, sometimes disguised under another -name, count for much in our over-civilized world. The second wife of a -permanent Government official much older than herself, her thoughts, if -not her heart, enjoyed a painful and a dangerous freedom. At a time when -sentiment had gone for the moment out of fashion, she lavished much -innocent sentiment on those of her husband's younger colleagues who -seemed worthy of her interest, and,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> for she was a kind woman, in need -of it. She had first met George Downing after she had attained the age -when every charming woman feels herself privileged to behave as though -she were no longer on the active list, while yet quite ready, should the -occasion offer, to lead a forlorn hope. What that time of life is should -surely be left to each conscience, and almost to each nationality. In -the case of this lady the age had been thirty-eight, Downing being -fifteen years younger—a fact which he forgot, and which she -conscientiously strove to remember, whenever he found himself in her -soothing, kindly presence.</p> - -<p>Their relationship had been for a time full of subtle charm, and had -George Downing been as cosmopolitan as his profession should have made -him, had he even been an older man, he might have been content with all -that she felt able to offer him—all, indeed, that was possible. But -there came a time when he found himself absorbed in a more ardent, a -more responsive friendship, and when his feet learnt to shun the quiet -street where Mrs. Delacour dispensed her gracious hospitality; indeed, -the moment came when he almost forgot how innocently near they had once -been to one another.</p> - -<p>Yet now, as he stood inside the door of his old room, Mrs. Delacour -triumphantly reasserted herself, for she had come to him on the last -evening of his life in London. He advanced further into the room, and -slowly the scene reconstituted itself in his mind. It had been one which -no man was likely ever wholly to forget, and it came back to Downing, in -spite of the lapse of twenty years, with extraordinary vividness.</p> - -<p>Having arranged to leave early the next morning, he had given strict -orders that none of his friends were to be again admitted. Sick at -heart, he had been engaged in sorting the last batch of letters and -bills, when the door, opening, had revealed Mrs. Delacour, dressed in -the soft, rather shadowy colouring which,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> though at the time wholly out -of fashion, had always seemed to him, the young George Downing, an -essential part of her personality. For a moment, as she had hesitated in -the doorway, he had noticed that she carried a basket.</p> - -<p>With the egotism of youth, as he had taken the kind trembling little -hand and led his visitor into the room, he had uttered the words, 'Now I -know without doubt that I am dead!' As he stood there now, in this very -room which had witnessed the pitiful scene, he felt a rush of shame, -remembering how he had behaved during the hours that followed, for he -had sat, sullenly looking on, while she had packed the portmanteaux -lying on the floor, tied up packets of letters, and sorted bills. At -intervals he had asked her to leave him, begged her to go home, but she -had worked on, saying very little, looking at him not at all, and -showing none of the dreadful tenderness which had been lavished on him -by so many of his friends.</p> - -<p>Then had come the moment when he had roused himself sufficiently to -mutter a few words of thanks, reminding her, not ungently, that her -husband would be expecting her back to dinner. 'Is any one coming?' she -had asked, with a tremor in her voice; and on his quick disclaimer the -basket had been unpacked, and food and wine put upon the table.</p> - -<p>'Henry,' she had said, in the precise, rather anxious voice he recalled -so well—'Henry remembered how well you thought of this claret;' and she -had sat down, and by her example gradually compelled him to eat the -first real meal he had had for days.</p> - -<p>When at last the moment came when she had said, sadly enough, 'Now I -suppose I must go home,' he was glad to remember that he had tried to -bear himself like a man, tried to thank her for her coming. As he had -stood, saying good-bye, she had suddenly lifted the hand which grasped -hers, and had laid it against her cheek with the words, said bravely, -and with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> smile, 'You will come back, George—I am <i>sure</i> you will -come back.'</p> - -<p class="space-above">As Downing stood once more in the street, now grey with twilight, after -he had slipped a sovereign in Mary Crisp's hand, she asked him with -natural curiosity, 'And what name shall I say, sir, when uncle asks who -called? He always likes to hear of his gentlemen coming back.' Downing -hesitated, and then gave the name of the man who he knew had had the -rooms before him. The woman said nothing, but a look of fear came into -her face as she shut the door quickly. As she did so Downing remembered -that the man was dead.</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> - -<blockquote><p>'If you enter his house, his drawing-room, his library, you of -yourself say, This is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is -not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his -sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious -elegance in the possessor.'—<i>Lord Byron's Journal.</i></p></blockquote> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Mr. Julius Gumberg was the last survivor of a type familiar in the -English, or rather in the London, society of the middle period of the -nineteenth century. In those days reticence, concerning one's own -affairs be it understood, was still the rule rather than the exception, -but there were a certain number of men, and a few women, to whom -everything seems to have been told, and whose advice on the more -delicate and difficult affairs of life, if not invariably followed—for -that would have been asking too much of human nature—was invariably -asked.</p> - -<p>It has always been the case that to those, who know<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> much shall more be -revealed, and Mr. Gumberg had forgotten more scandals than even the most -trusted of his contemporaries had ever told or been told. His assistance -was even invoked, it was whispered, by the counsellors of very great -people, and it was further added that he had been instrumental in -averting more than one morganatic alliance. That, like most of those who -enjoy power, he had sometimes chosen to exercise his prerogative by -upholding and shielding those to whom the rest of the world cried -'Haro!' was felt to be to his credit. He had not only never married, -but, so far as his acquaintances knew, never even set sail for 'le pays -du tendre' with any woman belonging to a circle which had been widening -as the years slipped by, and this added to his prestige and gave him -authority among those whose paths had diverged so widely from his own.</p> - -<p>To all women, especially to those who sought his help when the -difficulty in which they found themselves had been caused rather by the -softness of their hearts than as the outcome of mere arid indiscretion, -he showed an indulgent, and, what was more to the point, a helpful -tenderness, which led to repeated confidences. 'The woman who has Mr. -Gumberg on her side can afford to postpone repentance,' a dowager who -was more feared than trusted was said to have exclaimed; but, like so -many bodily as well as moral physicians, he often felt that confidence, -when it was reposed in him, had been too long delayed. An intricate -problem, a situation to which there seemed no possible issue, was not, -he admitted to himself, without its special charm; but as he grew -older—indeed, into quite old age—he preferred exercising more subtle -arts in connection with the comparatively simpler stories of human life. -Unlike the poor French lady whose idle phrase has branded her throughout -the ages, Mr. Gumberg delighted in innocent pleasures, while he was -willing, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>notwithstanding, to make any effort and to exhume any -skeleton, however grim, from a friend's closet, if by so doing he could -prevent a scandal from crystallizing into a 'case.'</p> - -<p>Still, it may be repeated that what he really enjoyed when he could do -so conscientiously, and even, indeed, when he found his conscience to be -in no sense on the side of the more worldly angels of his acquaintance, -was to place all his knowledge of the world at the disposal of two -youthful and good-looking lovers. No man, so it was said, knew more ways -of melting the heart of an obdurate father, or, what is of course far -more difficult, of changing the mind of a sensible mother. Of the -several sayings of which he was fond of making use, and which he found -applicable to almost every case, especially those of purely sentimental -interest, submitted to him, his favourite came to be, 'Heaven helps -those who help themselves'; but as he preferred to be the sole auxiliary -of Heaven, he seldom quoted the phrase to those who might really have -profited by it.</p> - -<p>As young people sometimes found to their chagrin, Mr. Gumberg could not -always be trusted to see what he was fond of calling the syllabub side -of life; he occasionally took a parent's part, this especially when the -parent happened to be the mother of a young man. Thus, he was impatient -of the modern habit of <i>mésalliance</i>, and was old enough to remember the -days when divorce was the last resort of the wealthy, while yet -deploring the time when marriage was in truth an indissoluble bond. -Perhaps the only action which caused him ever-recurring astonishment was -the frivolity his young friends showed in entering a state of life -which, according to his old-fashioned views, should spell finality.</p> - -<p>'Heaven,' he would murmur to the afflicted mother of a misguided youth -who only asked to be allowed to contract honourable matrimony with the -humble<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> object of his choice—'Heaven helps those who help themselves: -therefore beware of the virtuous ballet-girl and of the industrious -barmaid; rather persuade your Augustus to cultivate more closely the -acquaintance of his cousin, a really agreeable widow, for jointures -should be induced to remain in the family when this can be done without -any serious sacrifice of feeling.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg's enemies—and, of course, like most people who live the -life that suits them best, and who are surrounded by a phalanx of -attached and powerful friends, he had enemies—were able to point to one -very serious blemish on his otherwise almost perfect advisory character. -With the approach of age he had become garrulous; he talked not only -freely, but with extraordinary, amazing freedom to those—and they were -many—who cheered him with their constant visits, and on whom he could -depend to give him news of the world he loved so well, but which for -many years past he had only been able to see poised against the limited -background of his fine library, of his cheerful breakfast-room, of his -delightful garden.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the fact that he was acquainted with so many of their own -secrets made him the more trust the discretion of his friends, and even -of his acquaintances. They on their side were always ready to urge in -exculpation of their valued mentor that the old man never discussed a -scandal, or indeed a secret, that was in the making. While always eager -to hear any story, or any addition to a story, then amusing the circle -with which he kept in close touch, he never added by so much as a word -to the swelling tale; on the contrary the more intimate his knowledge of -the details, the less he admitted that he knew, and his garrulity was -confined to events which had already become, from the point of view of -the younger generation, ancient history. The mere mention of a -name—even more, a passing visit from some acquaintance long lost sight<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> -of—would let loose on whoever had the good fortune to be present a -flood of amusing, if sometimes very muddy, reminiscence. 'My way,' he -would say quaintly, and in half-shamed excuse, 'of keeping a diary! and -as the circulation is necessarily so very limited, I can note much which -it would be scarcely fair to publish abroad.'</p> - -<p>Thus it was that Mr. Gumberg was seldom without the company of at least -one friend old enough to enjoy the real answers to long-forgotten social -riddles, while the more thoughtful of his younger acquaintances -recognized that some of his old stories were better worth hearing than -those which they in their turn came to tell.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>When Sir George Downing, after having returned from his excursion into -the past, sought out his host in the book-lined octagon room, looking -out on the Italian garden, where Mr. Julius Gumberg had established -himself for the evening, it was not because he expected to learn much of -interest unknown to him before, but because, though he felt half ashamed -of it, he longed intensely both to speak and to hear spoken a certain -name. With an abruptness which took the old man by surprise, Downing -asked him: 'Among your many charming friends, I wonder if you number a -certain Mrs. Robinson, the daughter, I believe, of the late Lord -Wantley?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg's reply was not long in coming.</p> - -<p>'Perdita,' he said briskly, 'is on the whole the most beautiful young -woman I know; I don't say, mind you, the most beautiful creature I have -ever known, but at the present time I cannot call to mind any of my -friends with whom I can compare her.' He tucked the rug in which he was -muffled up more tightly across his knees, and continued, with manifest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> -enjoyment: 'Doubtless you have noticed, George, even in the short time -you have been at home, that nowadays all our women claim to be -beauties—and the remarkable thing about it is that they succeed, the -hussies!'</p> - -<p>He gave a loud, discordant chuckle, and the pause enabled the other to -throw in the words:</p> - -<p>'Mrs. Robinson's name is, I believe, Penelope.'</p> - -<p>He spoke quickly, fearing a full biography of the fair stranger by whose -beauty Mr. Gumberg set so much store.</p> - -<p>'They succeed, and yet they fail,' continued the old man, ignoring the -interruption. 'They aim—it's odd they should do so—at being as like -one another as peas in a pod. Our beauties don't give each other room. -Ah! you should have seen, George, the women of my youth. The plain ones -kept their places—and very good places they were, too—but the others! -Now scarce a week goes by but some kind lady comes to me with, "Oh, Mr. -Gumberg, I'm going to bring you the new beauty. I'm sure you will be -charmed!" But I've given up expecting anything out of the common. When I -was a young man a new beauty was something to look at: she had hair, -teeth, eyes—not always <i>mind</i>, I grant you: but she was there to be -looked at, not talked at! I'm told that now a pretty woman hasn't a -chance unless she's clever. And that's the mischief, for the clever ones -can always make us believe that they're the pretty ones, too. Give me -the yellow-haired, pink-cheeked kind, out of which one could shake the -sawdust, eh?' Then he sighed a little ghostly sigh, and added: 'Yes, her -name's Penelope, of course—I was going to tell you so—but she's -Perdita, too, obviously.'</p> - -<p>'And has there been a Florizel?' Downing's question challenged a reply, -and Mr. Gumberg looked at him inquiringly as well as thoughtfully, as he -answered in rather a softer tone:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> - -<p>'God bless my soul, no! That's to say, a dozen, more or less! But I -don't see, and I doubt if Perdita sees, a Prince Charming among 'em. As -for Robinson, poor fellow!'—Mr. Gumberg hesitated; words sometimes -failed him, but never for long—'all I can say is he was the first of -those I was the first to dub the Sisyphians. I used to feel quite -honoured when he came to breakfast. People enjoyed meeting him. I never -could see why; but you know how they all—especially the women—run -after any man that is extraordinarily ordinary. Melancthon Wesley -Robinson—what a handicap, eh? And yet I'm bound to say one felt -inclined to forgive him even his name, even his good looks, even his -marriage to Penelope Wantley, for he had the supreme and now rare charm -of youth. You had it once, George; that was why we were all so fond of -you.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg got up from his chair, pushed the rug off his shrunken legs, -and slowly walked round the room till he reached one of the two -cupboards which filled up the recess on either side of the fireplace. -From its depths he brought out a small portfolio. Downing had started -up, but his host motioned him back to his seat with a certain -irritation, and then, as he made his way again to his own blue leather -armchair, he went on:</p> - -<p>'Those for whom I invented the name of Sisyphians—there are plenty of -'em about now—well, I divide 'em into two sets, both, I need hardly -say, equally distasteful to me. The one kind cultivates platonic -friendships with the women'—Mr. Gumberg made a slight grimace. 'Their -arguments appeal to feminine sensibility; "Make yourself happier by -making others happy," that's the notion, and I understand that they're -fairly successful as regards the primary object, but there seems some -doubt as to how far they succeed in the other—eh? I should hate to be -made happy myself. That sort of fellow is the husband's best<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> friend. -Not only does he keep the wife out of mischief, but he will act as -special constable on occasion, and when everything else fails he's -always there, ready to put his arm round the dear erring creature's -waist and implore her to remember her duties! The other set undertake a -more difficult task, and they don't find it so easy. That sort don't put -their arms round even their own wives' waists; their dream is to embrace -Humanity. She's a jealous mistress, and, from all I hear, I doubt if -she's as grateful as some of 'em make out!'</p> - -<p>The old man sat down again. He drew the rug over his knees, and propped -up the small portfolio on a sloping mahogany desk which always stood at -his elbow. With a certain eagerness he turned over its contents, still -talking the while.</p> - -<p>'Young Robinson was their founder, their leader. He built the first of -the palaces in the slums. I'm told they call the place the Melancthon -Settlement. I'm bound to say that he took it—and himself—quite -seriously, lived down there, and, what was much more strange, persuaded -Penelope to live there, too. Oh, not for long. She would soon have tired -of the whole business!' He added in a lower tone, his head bent over the -open portfolio: 'I don't find things as easily as I used to do. Yet I -know it's here.' Then he cried eagerly, 'I've found it!' and held up -triumphantly a rudely-coloured print of which the reverse side was -covered with much close writing.</p> - -<p>Downing put out his hand with a certain excitement; he knew that what -the old man was about to show him had a bearing on the story he was -being told.</p> - -<p>The print, obviously a caricature, represented a horsewoman sitting a -huge roan and clad in the long riding-habit, almost touching the ground, -which women wore in the twenties and thirties of last century. A large -black hat shaded, and almost entirely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> concealed, the oval face beneath. -In one hand the horsewoman held a hunting crop, with the other she -reined in her horse, presenting a dauntless front to some twenty couple -of yelping and snarling foxhounds. The colour was crude, but the drawing -clear, and full of rough power.</p> - -<p>Downing suddenly realized that each hound had the face of a man; also -that the countenance of the foremost dog was oddly familiar: he seemed -to have seen it looking down on him from innumerable engravings, in -particular from one which had hung in the hall of his parents' town -house. This dog, almost alone clean-shaven among its companions, held -between its paws the baton of a field-marshal. Below the print was -engraved in faded gilt letters the words 'The Lady and her Pack.'</p> - -<p>'A valuable and very rare family portrait,' said Mr. Gumberg grimly. -'The lady is Penelope's grandmother, Lady Wantley's mother, and the -Pack——' He checked himself, surprised at the look which passed over -the other's face.</p> - -<p>'Her grandmother?' Downing interrupted almost roughly. 'Why, you showed -me that print years ago, when I was a boy. I have never forgotten it.' -Then, in a more natural tone, he added: 'I suppose it's really unique?'</p> - -<p>'As far as I know, absolutely unique, but such odious surprises are -nowadays sprung upon collectors! I believe this copy is the only one -which has survived the many determined efforts to destroy the whole -edition, which was never at any time a large one. I fancy such things -were produced speculatively, you understand, doubtless with a view to -the pack. These good people'—Mr. Gumberg pointed with his long, lean -finger to the human-faced dogs—'were naturally quite ready to buy up -all the available copies, and then, later, John Oglethorpe, after he had -become the fair huntswoman's husband, also most naturally made<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> it his -business to get hold of the few which had found their way into -collections. I've been told also that Lord Wantley during many years -made a point of keeping his eye on one copy, which finally disappeared, -no one knows how, just on the eve of its being safely stored in the -British Museum! I got mine in Paris quite thirty years ago by an -extraordinary bit of good fortune. And so I showed it you, did I? I -wonder why. I so seldom show it, unless, of course, there's some special -reason why I should do so.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg stopped and thought for a few minutes. 'Let me see,' he -added thoughtfully, 'the last person who saw it was old Mrs. Byng. It -was the day of Penelope's marriage. It's a good way from Hanover Square, -and the old lady never takes a cab—too stingy. I knew how a sight of -this picture would revive her, poor old soul! One of my very few -remaining contemporaries, George.' Mr. Gumberg sighed a little heavily; -then, with a certain regret, 'So you know all about that strange -creature, Rosina Bellamont?'</p> - -<p>Again he took up the print between his lean fingers. He hated being done -out of telling a story, and Downing, well aware of this peculiarity, -smiled and said kindly enough: 'When you showed me this thing before, -you told me more of the pack than of the lady. In fact, if I remember -rightly, it was just after the death——'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg again interrupted with returning good-humour: 'Of course I -remember: it was just after the death of poor Jack Storks. You came in -as I was reading his obituary in the <i>Times</i>, and I showed you the print -to prove that he had not always been the grave and reverend signior they -made him out to have been!'</p> - -<p>'And Lady Wantley's mother, what of her?' Downing feared once more that -his venerable friend would start off on a reminiscent excursion of more -general than particular interest.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> - -<p>'She was a very remarkable woman,' answered Mr. Gumberg, 'and I will -tell you how and where I first made her acquaintance and that of her -daughter.'</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>'When I was a lad of fifteen,' began the old man, with a marked change -of tone and even of manner, 'my uncle, who was, as you are aware, a -Russia merchant, the kindest and wisest man I have ever known, and the -most delightful of companions, took me a walking tour through the -Yorkshire dales. Now, those were the days when all inns were bad and all -houses hospitable. We walked miles without meeting a living creature, -being the more solitary that my uncle preferred the bridle-paths to the -highroads, but he generally contrived that we should find a kind welcome -and comfortable quarters at the end of each day.</p> - -<p>'One afternoon, when climbing a stiff hillside not far from the place -whence five dales can be seen stretching fanstickwise, we came on two -figures standing against the skyline, a lady and a young girl, hand in -hand, curiously dressed—for those were the days of the crinoline—in -long, straight grey gowns and circular cloaks. Their faces, the one -pale, the other fresh and rosy, were framed by unbecoming close bonnets, -each lined with a frill of stiff white stuff. Even I, foolish boy that I -was, and while considering the strange pair most inelegantly dressed, -saw that they were in a sense distinguished, utterly unlike the often -oddly-gowned country wives and maids we met now and again trudging past -us.</p> - -<p>'To my surprise, my uncle, when he had become aware of their presence, -quickened his steps, and when we had reached the lonely stretch of grass -on which they were standing—that is, when we were close to the singular -couple, mother and daughter or grandmother and granddaughter; I could -not help<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> wondering what relationship existed between them—he bowed, -saying: "Have I the honour of greeting Mrs. Oglethorpe?" The elder -lady's cheek turned as rosy, but only for a moment, as that of the girl -by her side, and as she answered, "Yes," the colour receding seemed to -leave her cheek even paler than before. "That is my name," she said; and -then looking, or so it seemed to me, very pleadingly at my uncle, she -added quickly: "This is my young daughter. Adelaide, curtsey to the -gentleman." "Your father and I, young lady," said my uncle, again -bowing, "have had business dealings together for many years, and I am -honoured to meet his daughter."</p> - -<p>'Well, George, we followed them, retracing our steps down the dale, and -there, hidden in a park surrounded by high walls, we came at last on a -fine old house of grey stone. Our approach brought no sign of life or -animation. The formal gardens lacked the grace and brilliancy afforded -by flowers, and yet were in no sense neglected. Mrs. Oglethorpe turned -the handle of the front-door, and we passed into a large hall, where we -were greeted with great civility by an elderly man, whom I supposed, -rightly, to be our host, though, to be sure, his dress differed in no -way from that of those who passed silently backwards and forwards -through the hall, and who were apparently his servants.</p> - -<p>'Dear me, how strange everything seemed to my young eyes! In particular, -I was amazed to notice that a row of what were apparently family -portraits were all closely shrouded with some kind of white linen, while -below them, painted on the oak panelling, was the following -sentence'—Mr. Gumberg turned the print he still held in his hand, and -peered closely at the writing with which the back of it was -covered—'"<i>Forsake all, and thou shall possess all. Relinquish desire, -and thou shalt find rest.</i>" The hall was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>overlooked by what had -evidently been a music-gallery, and, glancing up there, I saw that the -carved oak railing had been partly covered in with deal boards, on which -was written in very large letters another strange saying: "<i>Esteem and -possess naught, and thou shalt enjoy all things.</i>" I tried, I trust -successfully, to imitate my uncle, the most courteous of men, in showing -nothing of the astonishment that these things caused me, the more so -that Mr. Oglethorpe treated us with the greatest consideration, himself -fetching bread, cheese, and beer for our entertainment.</p> - -<p>'After we had refreshed ourselves, a pretty young woman, dressed in what -appeared to be a modified copy of the curious straight garments worn by -our hostess and her daughter, led us to a bedchamber, the walls of which -were hung, as I now judge, looking back, with some fine French tapestry. -Across the surface of this ran the words, each letter cut out of white -linen stitched on to the tapestry: "<i>Foxes have holes, and the birds of -the air have nests; but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His -head.</i>"'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg paused a moment, and then continued his story: 'The -dining-room, to which we were bidden by the ringing of a bell, must have -been once, from its appearance, the scene of many great banquets; but I -noted that it only contained two long tables, composed of unpainted -boards set on rough trestles, while the walls, hung with maroon Utrecht -velvet, presented to my eyes an extraordinary appearance, each -picture—and there were many—being hidden from sight, as were those in -the hall, while on a long strip of white cloth, which ran right round -the room above the wainscotting, was written: "<i>Self-denial is the basis -of spiritual perfection. He that truly denies himself is arrived at a -state of great freedom and safety.</i>"</p> - -<p>'I noticed that the tables were laid for a considerable company, and -soon there walked slowly in some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> forty men and women, all dressed in -what seemed to me a very peculiar manner. There were many more women -than men, and they sat at separate tables, Mrs. Oglethorpe taking the -head of the one, while her husband, with my uncle at his right hand, -presided over the other. The food was plain, but of good quality; it was -eaten in silence, and while we ate the daughter of the house, Adelaide -Oglethorpe, sat on a high rostrum and read aloud from a book which I -have since ascertained to have been Mr. William Law's "Serious Call to a -Devout and Holy Life."</p> - -<p>'This reading surprised me very much, and, boy-like, I wondered -anxiously whether the girl was to be deprived of her evening meal; but -after we had finished supper she put a mark in the book she had been -reading, and, as the others all walked out, took her place at a little -table I had before scarcely noticed, and there, waited on most -assiduously by her father, she enjoyed a meal rather more dainty in -character than that which the rest of us had eaten. Looking back, -George,' observed Mr. Gumberg thoughtfully, 'I think I may say that this -was the first time in my life that I realized how even the most rigid -human beings sometimes fall away, and this almost unconsciously, from -their own standards.</p> - -<p>'We only stayed at Oglethorpe one night, and perhaps that is why I -recollect so well all that took place. Before we left, my uncle, to the -evident gratification of our host, advised me to copy the various -inscriptions about the house, notably one which had greatly taken his -fancy, and which was inscribed above the writing-table where Mrs. -Oglethorpe apparently spent many of the earlier hours of each day. This -saying ran: "<i>Charity is the meed of all; familiarity the right of -none.</i>" Our hostess, of whom I stood in great awe, bade her little -daughter show me the schoolroom, observing that there I should most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> -probably notice texts and inscriptions more suited to my understanding. -Miss Oglethorpe's room was strangely different from the others I had -seen; and, with a surprise which I was unable to conceal, I saw hanging -in a prominent place over the mantelpiece a painting of a beautiful -young woman pressing a little child to her bosom, while below the gold -frame was written the familiar verse: "<i>Suffer little children to come -unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.</i>" -Adelaide Oglethorpe evidently noticed my surprise, for she explained -diffidently that this painting represented her father's mother and -himself as a child: further, that this lady having been a most virtuous -and excellent wife and mother, Mr. Oglethorpe had not dealt with her -portrait as he had done with those of his own and his daughter's less -reputable forebears.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg ceased speaking. Downing's eyes were still fixed on the -rudely coloured caricature of Rosina Bellamont and her admirers.</p> - -<p>'And so this woman,' he said, 'became a mother in Israel? Well, I -suppose such things do happen now and then.'</p> - -<p>'Rather more often now than then,' Mr. Gumberg declared briskly. 'My -uncle used to describe to me, when I had come to a riper age, what a -stir the marriage made. Why, they even said the King—William IV., you -know—sent for Oglethorpe and remonstrated with him. Of course, a -Bellamont can always find a man to make an honest woman of her, but she -seldom has the good fortune to bear off such a prize as was John -Oglethorpe. That wasn't, however, the most amazing part of the story. -Within a few months of her marriage Mrs. Oglethorpe fell under the -influence of a preacher—a second Fletcher of Madeley. But she was -evidently not the woman to rest content with being a mere disciple, and -so, with the active help of her husband, she set herself to build<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> up -that strange kind of religious phalanstery which I have described to -you, and in which the future Lady Wantley was born and bred. Rosina -Bellamont was one of those women who are born to good fortune as the -sparks fly upward, and her luck did not desert her in the one matter in -which she could hardly have counted on it——'</p> - -<p>Downing looked up. 'You mean the marriage of her daughter?' he said.</p> - -<p>'Of course I do,' returned the old man vigorously. 'In those days peers -didn't hold forth at Exeter Hall—in fact, Wantley was the first of that -breed; and by great good fortune, chance—I suppose it <i>was</i> chance, eh, -George?—brought him to Oglethorpe. The odd thing was his going there at -all; once there, 'twas natural he should feel attracted.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose Lady Wantley is like her daughter?' said Downing.</p> - -<p>'God bless my soul, no! Lady Wantley's an Oglethorpe. Penelope's a——' -The old man did not finish his sentence, but turned it off with: 'She's -quite unlike her mother. Pity she wasn't a boy. The present man's no -good to 'em—I mean to Lady Wantley and Penelope. Why should he be? He -wasn't fairly treated. Of course he got Marston Lydiate, for that's -entailed; but the place in Dorset, Monk's Eype, and all the money, were -left away to the girl, although I did my best for him. Wantley spoke to -me about it, but I couldn't move him; and then he was hardly cold before -Penelope married her millionaire! A marriage, George, a marriage——' -Words failed Mr. Gumberg. For the third time he repeated, 'A -marriage'—his old eyes gleamed maliciously—'which was no marriage! You -understand, eh? <i>Mensa non thorus</i>—that was the notion. Common among -the early Christians, I believe. Well, no one can say what the end of it -would have been, for nature abhors a vacuum; but the poor monkish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> -creature died, caught small-pox from a foreign sailor, and the -bewitching girl was left all the Robinson millions!'</p> - -<p>'Then I suppose you advised restitution to young Lord Wantley?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg chuckled. He evidently thought his guest intended a grim -joke. 'The sort of thing a trustee would suggest, eh, George?' But -Downing was apparently quite serious.</p> - -<p>'I don't see why not,' he said. 'Do you mean that Lord Wantley is -penniless?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg nodded. 'Something very like it,' he declared. 'Of course, -the old man—though he was twenty years younger than I am now when he -died—had some show of reason for the unfair thing he did. People always -have. When he, and I suppose Lady Wantley, realized that they were not -likely to have a son, he gave his heir—his third cousin, I fancy—the -family living of Marston Lydiate, and years afterwards the man became a -Romanist! Wantley chose to consider himself very much injured. He never -saw his cousin again, and for years never took any notice of the boy—in -fact, not till the ex-parson was dead.'</p> - -<p>'Is young Lord Wantley a Roman Catholic?' asked Downing indifferently.</p> - -<p>'No, he's not,' said Mr. Gumberg. 'The other day I heard him described -as "a stickit Papist," and I suppose that's about what he is. But -where's your interest in these people, George?' Mr. Gumberg asked -suddenly. 'You don't know 'em, do you?'</p> - -<p>Downing hesitated. He was in the mood in which men feel almost compelled -to make unexpected and amazing confidences, but the words which were so -nearly being said were never uttered.</p> - -<p>Cutting across his hesitation, his half-formed impulse of taking his old -friend into his confidence, came the exclamation: 'Why, of course! -You've<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> met her! When I heard from you at Pol les Thermes I felt sure -there was someone else there that I knew, but I couldn't think who it -was at the moment. However, that don't matter now, for it seems you've -found each other out! I didn't say too much, George, did I? She <i>is</i> a -beautiful creature?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg's assertion was not without a note of interrogation. He -sometimes felt an uneasy suspicion that his standards, especially in the -matter of feminine loveliness, were not always blindly accepted by the -generations that had succeeded his own. But Downing's answer reassured -him.</p> - -<p>'I agree with you absolutely,' he said very gravely. 'I do not remember -a more beautiful woman, even in the old days.'</p> - -<p>This tribute to his taste sent Mr. Gumberg to bed in high good-humour; -and as he made his slow progress along the passage, leaning on Downing's -friendly arm, he kept muttering, 'Glad you met her—glad you met her.' -So often are we inclined to rejoice at happenings which, if we knew -more, we might regard as calamities.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">'... a queen</div> -<div>By virtue of her brow and breast;</div> -<div>Not needing to be crowned, I mean.'</div> -<div class="right"><span class="smcap">Browning.</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>When Penelope Wantley became the mistress of Monk's Eype, she left the -villa as she had always known it, for her sense of beauty compelled her -to approve the few changes which had been made to the great bare rooms -during her father's long tenure of the place. As child and as girl she -had found there much that satisfied her craving for the romantic and the -exquisite in nature and in art; and long after she was a grown-up woman -the flagged terraces, each guarded by a moss-grown balustrade, broken at -one end by steep stone steps which led from one rampart to another, -commanding all the way down the blue-green and grey bars of moving water -below, served as background to the memoried delights of her childhood.</p> - -<p>Penelope the woman had but to withdraw herself from what was about her -to see once more the child Penelope, watching with fascinated gaze the -stone and marble denizens of the gardens and the wood. In the summer -twilight, just before little Penelope went up to bed, the graceful -water-nymphs sometimes came down from their pedestals on the -bowling-green which lay beyond the western wing of the villa, and the -malicious, teasing faun, leaving the spot from which he gazed over the -changing seas, ranged at will through the little pine-wood edging the -open down. Even in the daylight the little girl sometimes thought she -caught glimpses of gentle green-capped fairies—a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> whole world of -strange, uncanny folk—who played 'touch' and blind-man's buff among the -hanging creepers and at the foot of each of the flower-laden bushes -which covered the slopes of this enchanted garden.</p> - -<p>In these fancies the young friends who occasionally came over to see -her, riding their ponies or driving their governess-carts, from distant -country-houses, had never any share. More was told to a boy with whom at -one time little Penelope had been much thrown. David Winfrith, the son -of a neighbouring clergyman, who, when shunned for no actual fault of -his own, had seen himself and his only child received very kindly by -Lord and Lady Wantley, was older than Penelope by those three or four -years which in childhood count so much, and later count so little. He -had spent more than one holiday at Monk's Eype, sharing Penelope's -play-room, which, partly hollowed out of the cliff, was lifted a few -feet above the beach by rude stone pillars. There a large solid table, -filling up the whole space in front of the wide window, made a fine -'vantage-ground for the display of the boy's skill as toy-maker and -boat-builder.</p> - -<p>Penelope, looking back, associated David Winfrith with her earliest -memories of Monk's Eype, and for her the villa, especially certain of -the great rooms of which the furnishings had been so little disturbed -for close on a hundred years, was instinct also with the thought and the -vanished figure of her father, who, when wearied and cast down by being -brought into contact with the misery he did so much to relieve, found in -his western home a great source of consolation and peace.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Lord Wantley, or rather his wife, had been among the first and most -ardent patrons of the group of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> painters who chose to be known as the -Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. More than one of these had spent happy days -at Monk's Eype, and it had been owing to the advice of the most famous -survivor of the early P.R.B. that Penelope had been allowed, and even -encouraged, to devote much of her early girlhood to the serious pursuit -of art. How far her parents had been right her mother sometimes doubted; -but there could be no doubt that the great artist had truly divined in -the beautiful girl a touch of exceptional power—some would have called -it by a rarer name. It was not his fault if such circumstances as youth, -rank, beauty, and ultimately great wealth, had asserted their claims, -and turned one who might have been a great woman artist into an amateur.</p> - -<p>Therefore it was rather as a lover of beauty and as a woman, fully, if -rather disdainfully, conscious of her own feminine supremacy, that Mrs. -Robinson had been so far well content to leave the spacious rooms of her -own, as it had been her father's, favourite home, in much the same order -as when they had been arranged under the eye of her great-uncle Ludovic, -known in local story as the Popish Lord Wantley.</p> - -<p>There was a side of her nature which made her feel peculiarly at ease -among the faded splendours of these Italian-looking rooms. Her tall -figure, slenderly stately in its proportions; the small, well-poised -head; clear-cut, delicate features; deep, troubled-looking blue eyes; -masses of red-brown hair, drawn high above the broad low forehead, in -the fashion worn when powdered locks lent charm to the plainest face—in -short, her whole presence and individuality made a satisfying harmony -with faded brocades, the ivory inlaid chairs and tables, and the massive -gilt dower-chests, which had no desecration to fear from their present -owner's beautiful hands.</p> - -<p>That Penelope could create as well as preserve beauty of -surroundings—the one power seems <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>nowadays as rare as the other—was -seen in the room, half studio, half library, where, when at Monk's Eype, -she chose to spend much of her time.</p> - -<p>Situated at the extreme western end of the villa, on which, indeed, it -still formed a strange excrescence, the room had been added to the main -building at a time when Penelope's parents had been inclined to believe -much more than they afterwards came to do in the power of eloquent -speech. The substantial brick walls of the hall, as it was still called -by some of the older servants, had witnessed curious gatherings, and -heard the voices of many a famous lay-preacher dealing with schemes -which, whether practical or nebulous, had all the same single -purpose—that of leaving the world better than it had been before.</p> - -<p>Penelope Wantley, as a little girl, had once been taken, when in Paris, -to see a certain old lady, who had in her day played a considerable rôle -in the brilliant society of the forties. The room in which the English -visitors had been received made a deep impression on the child's -imagination. The walls were painted in that soft shade of blue which the -turquoise is said to assume when a heart is untrue to its wearer, and -which is of all tints that best suited to be a background, whether of -human beings or of paintings; and the old lady's furniture had been -hidden in what the little Penelope had likened to herself as white -dimity overalls. The windows looked out on a fine old garden, along -whose shady paths had once walked blind Châteaubriand, led by Madame -Récamier.</p> - -<p>Many years later, when Mrs. Robinson was arranging and transforming the -one room at Monk's Eype which she felt at liberty to alter and to -arrange after her own fancy, she followed, perhaps unconsciously, the -scheme of colouring which had so much pleased her childish fancy. But -whereas in the French lady's salon there had been no books—indeed, no -sign that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> such a thing as literature existed in the world—books were -not lacking at Monk's Eype. Had Penelope followed her own natural -instinct, perhaps she would have kept even more closely than she had -done to the Frenchwoman's example; but, though she prided herself on -being one of the most unconventional of human beings, she was naturally -influenced by the atmosphere in which she had always moved and lived.</p> - -<p>'By Penelope's books you may know, not Penelope, but Penelope's -friends,' her cousin, Lord Wantley, had once observed. He had been -tempted to substitute the word 'adorers' for 'friends,' but had checked -himself in time, recollecting that the man with whom he was speaking was -one to whom the warmer term was notoriously applicable.</p> - -<p>As to what the books were—for there was no lack of variety—French -novels, much old and modern verse, mock-erudite volumes, and pamphlets -of the type that are written a hundredfold round whatever happens to be -the fad of the moment, warred here and there with a substantial -Blue-Book, or, stranger still, with some volume which contained deep and -painful probings into the gloomier problems of life. Such were the -contents of the book-shelves, which, by a curious conceit of the present -owner of Monk's Eype, framed the tall narrow door connecting her studio -with the rest of the building.</p> - -<p>Lord Wantley would also have told you that his brilliant cousin never -read. That, however, would have been unjust and untrue. Mrs. Robinson, -however deeply absorbed in other things, always found time to glance -through the books certain of her friends were good enough to send her.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, indeed, she felt considerable interest in what she had been -bidden to read, and almost always she showed an extraordinary, if -passing, insight into the author's meaning; but to tell the truth, and I -hope that in so doing I shall not prejudice my readers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> against my -heroine, she was one of those women, a greater number than is in these -days suspected, who regard literature much as the modern civilized man -of the world regards art. Such a man goes to those exhibitions which -have been specially mentioned to him as worthy of notice, but even to -the best of these it would never occur to him to go, save with a -pleasant companion, a second time; and in buying, it is always the -expert on whom he leans, not his own taste and judgment. In the same way -Penelope was always willing to read any volume which her world was -discussing at the moment, but she would have been a happier woman had -she been able sometimes to take up, not necessarily a classic, but at -any rate a book of yesterday rather than of to-day.</p> - -<p>But if literature was in her room only used in a decorative sense, the -water-colours and drawings, the casts, and the bas-reliefs, which were -so hung as to form a low dado down the whole length of the studio, were -one and all of remarkable quality, and here you touched the quick -reality of Penelope's life. In these matters she needed no advice, for, -while as an artist she was truly humble, she only cared to measure -herself with the best.</p> - -<p>There was something pathetic in this beautiful woman's desire to -discover hidden genius; only certain French painters with whom she -herself from time to time still studied could have told how generous and -how intelligent was the help she was ever ready to bestow on those of -her fellow art-students whose means were more slender than their talent. -It was to these, so rich and yet so poor, that her heart really warmed; -it was on them that she bestowed what time that she could spare from -herself.</p> - -<p>And yet the room which was specially her own showed very few signs of -artistic occupation. True, on a plain table were set out paint-boxes, -palettes, sketch-books; but an unobservant visitor might have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> come and -gone without knowing that the woman he had come to see ever took up a -pencil or used a brush.</p> - -<p>The broad low dado, composed of comparatively small water-colours, -drawings, and bas-reliefs, was twice broken, each time by a glazed -oil-painting, each time by the portrait of a woman.</p> - -<p>To the left of the book-framed door, hung a painting of Penelope's -mother, Lady Wantley.</p> - -<p>At every period of her life Lady Wantley had been one of those women -whom artists delight to paint, and the great artist whose work this was -had often had the privilege. But perhaps owing to certain peculiar -circumstances connected with this portrait, it was the one of them that -he himself preferred. The painting had been a commission from the sitter -herself; she had wished to give this portrait to her husband on his -sixtieth birthday, and together she and the painter, her friend, who had -once owed to her and to Lord Wantley much in the way of sympathy and -encouragement, had desired to suggest in the composition something which -would be symbolic of what had been an almost ideal wedded life.</p> - -<p>Then, without warning, when the scheme had been scarcely sketched out, -had come Lord Wantley's death away from home, and the portrait, scarcely -begun, had been hastily put away, counted by the artist as among those -half-finished things destined to remain tragic in their incompleteness. -But some months later his old friend and patroness, clad in no widow's -weeds, but in the curious black-and-white flowing draperies, and close -Quakerish bonnet, which had become to her friends and acquaintances -almost a portion of her identity, had come to see him, and he learnt -that she wished her portrait should be finished.</p> - -<p>'He always disliked the unfinished, the incomplete,' she had said rather -wistfully; and the artist had carried out her wish, finding little to -alter, though, perhaps, in the interval between the first and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> -second sitting the colourless skin of the sitter had lost something of -its clearness, the heavy-lidded grey eyes had gained somewhat in -dimness, and the hair from dark brown had become grey.</p> - -<p>The painter himself substituted, for the lilies which were to have -filled in part of the background, a sheaf of rosemary.</p> - -<p>The other picture had a less intimate history; and the only two people -who ever ventured to criticise Penelope had both, not in any concert -with one another, suggested that another place might be found for the -kitcat portrait, by Romney, of Mrs. Robinson's famous namesake, than -that where it now hung in juxtaposition with that of Lady Wantley.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Beneath this last portrait, holding herself upright on the low white -couch, a girl, Cecily Wake, sat waiting. She looked round the room with -an affectionate appreciation of its special charm—a charm destined to -be less apparent when seen as a frame to its brilliant mistress, who had -the gift, so often the perquisite of beauty, of making places as well as -people seem out of perspective. Cecily herself, all unconsciously, -completed the low-toned picture by adding a delicious touch of fragrant -youth.</p> - -<p>Only Mrs. Robinson in all good faith considered Cecily Wake pretty. -True, she had the abundant hair, the clear eyes, the white teeth, which -seemed to Mr. Gumberg so essential to feminine loveliness; but beautiful -she was not—indeed, none of her friends denied her those qualities -which the plain are always being told count so much more than beauty; -that is, abundant kindliness, a sterling honesty, and a certain fiery -loyalty which both touched and diverted those who knew her.</p> - -<p>To be worshipped in the heroic manner—that is,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> to be the object of -hero-worship—is almost always pleasant, especially if the divinity is -conscious that he or she has indeed done something to deserve it. -Penelope Robinson had rescued her young kinswoman from a mode of living -which had been peculiarly trying and unsuitable to one of an active, -ardent mind; more, she had provided her with work—something to do which -Cecily had felt was worth the doing. As all this had not been achieved -without what Penelope considered a great deal of trouble on her part, -she did not feel herself wholly undeserving of the deep affection -lavished on her by the girl whom she chose to call cousin, though in -truth the relationship was a very distant one.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson had just now the more reason to be satisfied both with her -own conduct and with that of her young friend. When it had been settled -that Cecily should spend a portion of her holiday—for she was one of -those happy people who, even when grown up, have holidays—at Monk's -Eype, it had not occurred to Penelope to include in her invitation the -aunt from whom she had rescued her friend, and she had been surprised -when Cecily had refused in a short, rather childishly-worded note. 'Of -course, I should like to come to you, and it is very kind of you to ask -me, but I cannot leave my aunt. She has been so looking forward to my -holiday, and, after all, I shall enjoy being at Brighton, near my old -convent.' Such had been Cecily's answer to her dear Penelope's -invitation, and, though she had shed bitter tears over it, she had sent -off her letter without consulting the old lady, to whom she was -sacrificing so great a joy.</p> - -<p>Happily for the world, there is a kind of unselfishness, which, as a -French theologian rather pungently put it, 'fait des petits,' and Mrs. -Robinson's answer had been responsive. 'Of course, I meant your aunt to -come, too,' she wrote, lying. 'I enclose a note for her. I shall be very -glad to see her here.' There<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> she wrote the truth, for only exceptional -people object to meet those whom they have vanquished in fair fight.</p> - -<p>This was why Cecily Wake, supremely content, was sitting, late in the -afternoon of a hot August day, in her cousin's pretty room.</p> - -<p>The glass doors were wide open, and from the flagged terrace blew in the -warm, gentle sea-wind.</p> - -<p>Cecily was still so young in body and in mind that she really preferred -work to play; nevertheless, playtime was very pleasant, especially now -that she was beginning to feel a little tired after the long journey -from town, and the more fatiguing experience of seeing to the unpacking -of her aunt's boxes, and of establishing her in bed.</p> - -<p>The elder Miss Wake was one of those women who, perhaps not altogether -unfortunately for their friends, enjoy poor health, and make it the -excuse for seldom doing anything which either annoys or bores them. -Occasionally, however, to her own surprise and disgust, Poor Health the -servant became Ill Health the master, and to-day outraged nature had -insisted on having the last word. This was why the aunt, really tired, -and suffering from a real headache, was lying upstairs, thinking, not -ungratefully, that Cecily, in spite of many modern peculiarities and -headstrong theories of life, was certainly in time of illness as -comforting a presence as might have been that ideal niece the aunt would -fain have had her be.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the great characteristic of youth is the power of ardently -looking forward to the enjoyment of an ideal pleasure. To retain even -the power of keen disappointment is to retain youth. Cecily Wake had -longed for this visit to Monk's Eype much as a different kind of girl -longs for her first ball, but, instead of feeling disappointed at being -received with the news that her hostess, after making all kinds of small -arrangements for her own and her aunt's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> comfort, had gone out riding, -she had felt relieved that the meeting between Miss Wake and Mrs. -Robinson had been put off till the former had regained her usual tart -serenity.</p> - -<p>The girl enjoyed these moments of quiet in what was, to one who had had -few opportunities of living amid beautiful surroundings, the most -charming room she had ever seen. Most of all, she delighted in one -exquisite singularity which it owed to the fancy of Lady Wantley. Not -long after it had been built, and while it was still being used as a -lecture-hall, Lady Wantley had had an oblong opening effected in the -brickwork just above the plain stone mantelpiece.</p> - -<p>This opening, filled with clear glass, was ever bringing into the room, -as no mere window could have done, a sense of nearness to the breezy -stretch of down, studded with gnarled, wind-twisted pine-trees, standing -out darkly against the irregular coast-line which stretched itself, with -many a fantastic turn, towards Plymouth.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>The tall book-framed door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Robinson walked -swiftly in. As she came down the room, a smile of real pleasure and -welcome lighting up her face, Cecily was almost startled by the look of -vigorous grace and vitality with which the whole figure was instinct, -and which was accentuated rather than lessened by the short skirt, the -dun-coloured coat, and soft hat, which fashion, for once wedded to -sense, has decreed should be the modern riding-dress.</p> - -<p>Almost involuntarily the girl exclaimed: 'How well you look!'</p> - -<p>'Do I?' Penelope sat down close to Cecily; then she leant across and -lightly kissed the young girl's round cheek. 'I ought to look well after -a long ride with David Winfrith. You know, he has just been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> made -Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the new Government.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, is he here, too?' Cecily spoke disappointedly. She had hoped, -rather foolishly, that Penelope would be alone at Monk's Eype.</p> - -<p>'No, he's not staying here. His own home is close by. We must go over -there some time and see his old father; you would like him, Cecily, -better than you do the son.' She hesitated, then continued in the -curiously modulated voice which was one of her peculiarities: 'We had -such a ride—such a discussion—such a quarrel—such a reconciliation! -Oh yes, I feel much better than I did yesterday.'</p> - -<p>'Was it about the Settlement?' Cecily fixed her thoughtful, honest eyes -on her friend's face.</p> - -<p>'Our discussion? No, no! My dear child, you must forget all about the -Settlement while you are here. I want to tell you about the people you -are going to meet. First, there's my mother, who, in theory, will spend -a good deal of time with your aunt, though in practice I shall be -surprised if they often speak to one another, for they are too utterly -unlike even to differ. Then there's my cousin, Lord Wantley. I'm afraid -you won't like him very much, for he makes fun of me—and of the -Settlement, too. But it isn't fair to tell you that! I want you to make -friends with him. You must spare him some of the pity you are so ready -to lavish on poor people who are unhappy or unlucky—Ludovic has been -rather unlucky, and he has a perfect genius for making himself unhappy.'</p> - -<p>'Lord Wantley is Catholic, is he not?' Cecily spoke with some -hesitation. She knew her aunt had told her something concerning -Penelope's cousin, but she could not remember what it was which had been -told her.</p> - -<p>Penelope looked up from the task of unbuttoning her gloves. 'No, he's -nothing of the kind,' she said decidedly, 'but perhaps he ought to be. -Who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> knows—Miss Wake may perhaps convert him,' she smiled rather -satirically. Cecily looked troubled; she was beginning to realize that -her holiday would be very different from what she had hoped and expected -it to be. 'Seriously, I want you to interest him in the Settlement. We -cannot expect David Winfrith to go on doing as much for us as he has -been doing. Besides'—she hesitated, and a shadow crossed the radiant -face—'I am thinking of making certain arrangements which will greatly -alter his position in the whole affair.'</p> - -<p>'But what would the Settlement do without Mr. Winfrith?' There was utter -dismay in the tone.</p> - -<p>'Well, we needn't discuss all that now. I only mean that Lord Wantley is -what people used to call a man of parts, and I have never been able to -see why he should not do more for me—I mean, of course, in this one -matter of the Settlement—than he has done as yet. He has led a very -selfish life.' Penelope spoke with much vigour. 'He has never done -anything for anybody, not even for himself, and what energy he has had -to spare has always been expended in the wrong direction. The only time -I have ever known him show any zeal was just after my father's death, -when he presented the chapel of the monastery at Beacon Abbas, near -here, with a window in memory of his father.' A whimsical smile flitted -across her face. 'I rather admired his pluck, but of course if my mother -had been another kind of woman it would have meant that we should have -broken with him. For my father, as all the world knew, had a great -prejudice against Roman Catholics, and Ludovic could not have done a -thing which would have annoyed him more.'</p> - -<p>Cecily made no comment. Instead, she observed, diffidently, 'I will -certainly try and interest him in the Settlement. I have brought down -the new report.'</p> - -<p>A delightful dimple came and went on Mrs. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>Robinson's curved cheek. 'I -think your spoken remarks,' she said seriously, 'will impress Ludovic -more than the new report; in fact, he would probably only pretend to -read it. Most people only pretend to read reports.'</p> - -<p>She got up, and walked to the plain deal table where lay a half-finished -sketch of the flagged terrace and the pierced stone parapet; then she -opened the drawer where she kept various odds and ends connected with -her work.</p> - -<p>'Tell me,' she said a little hurriedly, her face bent over the open -drawer as if seeking for something she had mislaid—'tell me, Cecily, -have you had any weddings at the Settlement? In my time there was much -marrying and giving in marriage.'</p> - -<p>'So there is now.' Cecily was eager to prove that the Settlement was not -deteriorating. Even to her loyal heart there was something strange and -unsatisfactory in Mrs. Robinson's apparent lack of interest in the work -to which she devoted so considerable a share of her large income each -year. But often she would tell herself that it was natural that her -friend should shrink from mentioning, more than was necessary, the place -which had been so intimately bound up with the tragedy of her husband's -early and heroic death.</p> - -<p>Cecily had never seen Melancthon Robinson, but she had of late been -constantly thrown in company with those over whom even his vanished -personality exercised an extraordinary influence. The fact that Penelope -had been his chosen coadjutor, that she was now, in spite of any -appearance to the contrary, his ever-mourning widow, was never absent -from the girl's mind. When the two young women were together this belief -added a touch of reverence to the affection with which Cecily regarded -her brilliant friend. And now she blushed with pleasure even to hear -this passing careless word of interest in the place and in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> the human -beings round whom she was now weaving so much innocent and practical -romance.</p> - -<p>In her eagerness Cecily also got up, and stood on the other side of the -table, over whose open drawer Penelope was still bending. 'Perhaps you -remember the Tobutts—the man who got crushed by a barrel? Well, his -daughter, who is in my cooking class, is engaged to a very nice drayman. -She is such a good girl, and I——'</p> - -<p>Penelope suddenly raised her head. She had at last found what she had -been seeking.</p> - -<p>Cecily stopped speaking somewhat abruptly. She felt a little mortified, -a little injured, as we are all apt to do when we feel that we have been -talking to space, for Mrs. Robinson's face was filled with the spirit of -withdrawal. It often was so when anything reminded her of that fragment -of her past life to which she looked back with a sense of almost angry -amazement. And yet she had surely heard what her companion had been -saying—</p> - -<p>'A good girl?' she repeated absently! then, hurrying over the words as -if anxious they should get themselves said and heard: 'I wish you to -give to her, or to some other girl you really like, and whose young man -you think well of, this wedding ring. Please don't say it comes from me. -And, Cecily, one thing more—you need not tell me to whom you have given -it.'</p> - -<p>Poor Cecily! perhaps she was slow-witted, but no thought of the true -significance of the little incident crossed her mind. Mrs. Robinson was -famed among the workers of the Settlement for her odd, intelligent -little acts of kindness, accordingly a pretty romance somewhat in this -wise thistle-downed itself on the girl's brain: Characters—Penelope and -Poor Lady. Poor Lady—stress of poverty—having to part with cherished -possessions, has good luck to meet Mrs. Robinson who buys from her, -among other things—of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> course at a fancy price—her wedding-ring. -Remembering that gold wedding-rings are prized heirlooms in the -neighbourhood of the Settlement——</p> - -<p>'It would greatly add to the value of the gift,' Cecily said shyly, 'if -I might say it came from you.'</p> - -<p>'No, no, no!' Mrs. Robinson spoke with sharp decision; her blue eyes -narrowed and darkened in displeasure. 'My dear child, you don't -understand. Come!'—she made an effort to speak lightly, even -caressingly—'do not let us say anything more about it.' Then, looking -rather coldly into the other's startled eyes, she added: 'I have never -before known you wanting in <i>la politesse du cœur</i>. Haven't you heard -the expression before? No? Well, it was a famous Frenchman's definition -of tact.'</p> - -<p>She laid her left hand on the girl's arm, and, as they moved together -towards the door, Cecily became aware that the hand lying on her arm was ringless.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'The inner side of every cloud</div> -<div class="i1">Is bright and shining:</div> -<div>I therefore turn my clouds about,</div> -<div>And always wear them inside out,</div> -<div class="i1">To show the lining!'</div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Cecily Wake had not been brought up by her aunt. Even before the death -of her father, which had followed that of her mother at an interval of -some years, she had been placed in one of those convent schools which, -in certain exceptional circumstances, take quite little children as -boarders. Accordingly, till the age of eighteen, the only home she had -ever known was the large, old-fashioned Georgian manor-house near -Brighton, which had been adapted to suit the requirements of the French -nuns who had first gone there in 1830.</p> - -<p>As time went on that branch of the Order which had settled in England -had become cosmopolitan in character. Among those who joined it were -many English women, one of them a sister of Cecily's mother. But the -Gallic nationality dies hard, even in those who claim to be citizens of -the heavenly kingdom, and Cecily's convent remained French in tradition, -in methods of education, and in the importance attached by the nuns to -such accomplishments as bed-making, sewing, cooking, and feminine -deportment. They also taught the duty of rather indiscriminate charity, -holding, with the saint who had been their founder, that it is better to -give alms to nine impostors rather than risk refusing the tenth just -beggar; but this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> interpretation of a Divine precept was unconsciously -abandoned by Cecily after she had become intimately acquainted with the -conditions of life which surrounded the Melancthon Settlement. Still -even there she remained, to the regret of her colleagues, curiously -open-handed, and—what was worse, for a principle was involved—she -always, during her connection with the Settlement, persisted in saying -that she herself, were she in the place of the deserving seeker for -help, would rather receive half a crown in specie than five shillings' -worth of goods chosen by some one else!</p> - -<p>As for education, in the modern sense of the word, Cecily was, and -remained, very deficient; many subjects now taught to every school-girl -were never even mentioned within the convent walls, and this was -specially true of all the 'ologies, including theology. On the other -hand, Cecily and her school-fellows were taught to read, write and talk -with accuracy two languages. The daughter of a man who has left his mark -on English literature, and whose children had one by one returned to the -old fold, taught them English composition, as she herself had been -taught it by a good old-fashioned governess. This nun, a curious -original person, also introduced the elder girls under her charge to -much of the sound early Victorian fiction with which she herself had -been familiar in her youth.</p> - -<p>The Superioress, who reserved to herself the supervision of all the -French classes, was a fine vigorous old woman, the daughter of a -Legitimist who had been among the leaders of the Duchesse de Berri's -abortive rising. As was natural, she held and taught very strong views -concerning the state, past and present, of her beloved native country. -To her everything which had taken place in France before the Revolution -had been more or less well done, while all that had followed it was evil -and reprobate. Without going so far as to show Louis XIV. 'étudiant les -plans du<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> General La Vallière et du Colonel Montespan,' she completely -hid from her pupils the ugly side of the old régime, and exhibited the -Sun King as among the most glorious descendants of St. Louis. To her the -romance of French history was all woven in and about Versailles, the -town where she had herself spent her girlhood, and on the steps of whose -palace her own uncle had fallen in defending the apartments of Marie -Antoinette on the historic 5th of October. The many heroic episodes of -the revolution and of the Vendean wars were as familiar to this old nun, -who had spent more than half her long life in England, as if she had -herself taken part in them, and she delighted in stirring her own and -her pupils' blood by their recital.</p> - -<p>So Cecily's heroes and heroines all wore doublet and hose, or hoops, -patches, and powder. Most of them spoke French, though in the spacious -chambers of her imagination there was room left for Charles I., his -Cavaliers, and their valiant wives and daughters.</p> - -<p>Equally real to the girl were the saints and martyrs with whose -histories she was naturally as familiar, and it was characteristic of -her sunny and kindly nature that she early adopted as her patroness and -object of special veneration that child-martyr whose very name is -unknown, and to whom was accordingly given by the Fathers that of -Theophila—the friend of God.</p> - -<p>Cecily, knowing very well what it was to be without those ties with -which most little girls are blessed, thought it probable that even in -heaven St. Theophila must sometimes feel a little lonely, especially -when she compared herself with such popular saints—from the human point -of view—as St. Theresa, St. Catherine, St. Anthony, and St. Francis.</p> - -<p>Perhaps some of the nuns, who in the course of long years had grown to -regard Cecily Wake as being as integral a part of their community as -they were <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>themselves, hoped that she would finally follow their own -excellent example. This was specially the wish of the old house-sister -who had been appointed the nurse of the motherless little girl whose -arrival at the convent had been the source of such interest and -amusement to its inmates. But the Mother Superior cherished no such -hopes, or, rather, no such illusion. Not long before Cecily left the -convent for 'the world'—as all that lies beyond their gates is -generally styled by religious—the nuns spent a portion of their -recreation in discussing the girl who was in so special a sense their -own child, and whose approaching departure caused some among them keen -pain. The Mother Superior heard all that was said, and then, speaking in -her native tongue, and with the decision that marked her slightest -utterances, observed: 'Cette petite fera le bonheur de quelque honnête -homme. Elle est faite pour cela.' After a short pause, and with a -twinkle in her small brown eyes, she had added: 'Et il ne sera pas à -plaindre, celui-là!'</p> - -<p>Cecily's first introduction to the world was not of a nature to make her -fall in love with its pomps and vanities. The busy, cheerful conventual -household, largely composed of girls of her own age, where each day was -lived according to rule, every hour bringing its appointed duty or -pleasure, was an unfortunate preparation for life in a small Mayfair -lodging, spent in sole company with a nervous elderly woman, who, while -capable of making a great sacrifice of comfort in order to do her duty -by her great-niece, was yet very unwilling to have the even tenor of her -life upset more than was absolutely necessary.</p> - -<p>The elder Miss Wake, from her own point of view, had not neglected -Cecily during the years the girl had been at school. She had made a -point of spending each year the Christmas fortnight at Brighton, and of -entertaining the child for one week of that fortnight. During those -successive eight days the elder lady had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> always been on her best -behaviour, and Cecily easy to amuse. Then, also, the child had many -school-fellows in Brighton, and her aunt always took her once each year -to the play. Cecily remembered these brief yearly holidays with -pleasure, and when about to leave the convent she looked forward to life -in London as to an existence composed of a perpetual round of pleasant -meetings with old school-fellows, of evenings at the theatre, varied -with visits and benefactions to Arcadian poor, for Cecily, after a -sincere childish fashion, was anxious to do her duty to those whom she -esteemed to be less fortunate than herself.</p> - -<p>The reality had proved, as realities are apt to do, very different from -what she had imagined. The elder Miss Wake, like so many of those women -born in a day when no career—and it might almost be said no pleasant -mode of life—was open to gentlewomen of straitened means, had learnt to -content herself with a way of existence which lacked every source of -healthy excitement, interest, and pleasure.</p> - -<p>Her one amusement, her only anodyne, was novel-reading. For her and her -like were written the three-volume love-stories, full of sentiment and -mild adventure, for which the modern spinster no longer has a use. When -absorbed in one of these romances, she was able to put aside, to push, -as it were, into the background of her mind, her most incessant, though -never mentioned, subject of thought. This was the problem of how to make -her small income suffice, not only to her simple wants, but to the -upkeep of the consideration she thought due to one of her name and -connections.</p> - -<p>Miss Theresa Wake never forgot that she belonged to a family which, in -addition to being almost the oldest in England, would now have been -doubtless great and powerful had it not remained faithful to a creed of -which the profession in the past had meant the loss of both property and -rank.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> - -<p>Settling down in London at the age of fifty, after a bitter quarrel with -her only remaining brother, a small squire in the North of England, she -had taken the ground-floor of a lodging-house of which the landlord and -his wife had come from her own native village, and therefore grudged her -none of that respect which she looked for from people in their position.</p> - -<p>In their more prosperous days the Wakes had married into various great -Northern families, and Miss Wake was thus connected with several of her -Mayfair neighbours. For a while after her removal to London she had kept -in touch with a certain number of people whose names spelled power and -consideration, but as the years went on, and as her income lowered some -pounds each year, she gradually broke with most of those whose -acquaintanceship with her had only been based, as she well knew, on a -good-natured acceptance of the claim of distant kinship. From some few -she continued, rather resentfully, to accept such tokens of remembrance -as boxes of flowers and presents of game; an ever-narrowing circle left -cards at the beginning of the season, and fewer still would now and -again come in and spend half an hour in her dreary sitting-room. These -last, oddly enough, almost always belonged to the newer generation, the -children of those whose parents she had once called friends; when a -stroke of good fortune had come to these young people, sometimes when a -feeling of happy vitality almost oppressed them, a call on Miss Wake -took the shape of a small dole to fate.</p> - -<p>There had been in the very long ago a marriage between a Wake and an -Oglethorpe. Lord and Lady Wantley had made this fact the excuse to be -persistently courteous and kind to the peculiar spinster lady, and in -this matter Penelope had followed her parents' example.</p> - -<p>Two or three times a year—in fact, it might almost be said, whenever -she was in London—Penelope<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> Robinson shed the radiance of her brilliant -presence on the dowdy little lodging, always paying Miss Wake the -compliment of coming at the right time, that is, between four and six, -and of being beautifully dressed. On one such occasion, when she might -surely have been forgiven for cutting short her call, for she was on the -way to a royal garden-party, she had actually prolonged her visit nearly -forty minutes!</p> - -<p>Yet another time she had come in for only a moment, but bringing with -her a gift which had deeply moved Miss Wake, for the noble water-colour -drawing seemed to bear into the dingy London sitting-room a breath of -the rolling hills and limitless dales of that tract of country which -lies in Yorkshire on the border of Westmorland, and which the old lady -still felt to be home. 'I thought you would like it,' Penelope had -exclaimed eagerly. 'I went over to Cargill Force from Oglethorpe, and I -chose the place——'</p> - -<p>'I know,' had interrupted Miss Wake, her voice trembling a little in -spite of herself. 'You must have drawn it from the mound by the Old -Lodge. I recognise the fir-tree, though it must have grown a good deal -since I was there last. The hills seem further off than they used to do -years ago, and, of course, we do not often have such bad weather as that -you have shown here. There are often long days without any rain.'</p> - -<p>Penelope had driven away a little chilled. 'I wonder if she would have -preferred a photograph,' she said to herself. But Miss Wake would not -have preferred a photograph. She saw not Nature as her cousin, Mrs. -Robinson, saw it, and she by no means wished she could; but she found -herself looking more often, and always with increasing conviction of its -truth, at the painting which showed the storm-god let loose over the -wild expanse of country which formed the background to all her early -life and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> associations. Finally Miss Wake hung the water-colour in the -place of honour over her mantelpiece, where she could herself always see -it from where she sat nursing both her real and her fancied ailments.</p> - -<p>This slight account of the elder Miss Wake will perhaps make it clear -how grievous was her perplexity when she decided that it was her duty to -take charge of her now grown-up niece. The idea that the girl might, and -indeed should, work for her livelihood never presented itself to the -aunt's mind, and yet the matter had been one that grimly reduced itself -to pounds, shillings, and pence. Cecily's income was the interest on a -thousand pounds, and her bare board and bed, to say nothing of clothes, -must cost nearly twice that sum. Miss Wake did the only thing possible: -she gave up all those necessities which she regarded as luxuries, but -sometimes she allowed herself to dwell on the possibility that her niece -would either marry, or develop, as would be so convenient, a religious -vocation.</p> - -<p>The months that followed her arrival in London had the effect of -gradually transforming Cecily Wake from an unthinking child into a -thoughtful young woman. Her energy and power of action, finding no -outlet, flowed back and vitalized her mind and nature. For the first -time she learnt to think, to observe, and to form her own conclusions. -She was only allowed to go out alone to the church close by, and to a -curious old circulating library, originally founded solely with a view -of providing its subscribers with Roman Catholic literature, but which, -as time had gone on, had gradually widened its scope, especially as -regarded works of history, memoirs, and biographies. Novels were -forbidden to the girl, according to the strict rule which had obtained -in Miss Wake's own girlhood, and when Cecily felt the dreary monotony of -her life almost intolerable, she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> would slip off to church for half an -hour, and return to her aunt, if not cheerful, at least submissive.</p> - -<p>More than once certain of the Jesuit priests, who had long known and -respected the elder Miss Wake, had tried to persuade her to allow her -niece a little more liberty and natural amusement. But, greatly as the -old lady valued the friendship of those whom she considered as both holy -and learned, she did not regard herself at all bound to accept their -advice as to how she should direct the life of her young charge. Above -all, she courteously but firmly declined for her niece any introductions -to other young people. 'Later on I shall perhaps be glad to avail myself -of your kindness,' she would answer a certain kindly old priest, who had -it in his power to open many doors; and he, in spite of a deserved -reputation for knowledge of the world and the human heart, never divined -Miss Wake's chief reason for declining his help—the fact, simple, bald, -unanswerable, that there was no money to buy Cecily even the plainest of -what the old lady, to herself, called 'party frocks.'</p> - -<p>In time Cecily, growing pale from want of air, heavy-eyed from -over-reading, and utterly dispirited from lack of something to do, was -secretly beginning to evolve a scheme of going back to her beloved -convent as pupil-teacher, when, on a most eventful March day, Mrs. -Robinson, driving up Park Street on her way back from a wedding, -suddenly bethought herself that it was a long time since she had called -on her old cousin.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>To Cecily Wake, her first meeting with the woman to whom she was to give -such faithful affection and long-enduring friendship ever remained -vivid.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson had inherited from her mother, Lady Wantley, the instinct -of dress, that gift which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> enables a woman to achieve distinction of -appearance with the simplest as with the most splendid materials and -accessories. She rarely wore jewels, but her taste inclined, far more -than that of Lady Wantley had ever done, to the magnificent. Herself an -artist, she dressed, when it was possible to do so, in a fashion which -would have delighted the eyes of the Italian painters of the -Renaissance, and it was perhaps fortunate, in these grey modern days, -that her taste was checked and kept in bounds by the fact, often only -remembered by her when at her dressmaker's, that she was a widow.</p> - -<p>On the day that Mrs. Robinson, calling on Miss Wake, first met Cecily, -the wedding to which she had just been was the excuse for a white velvet -gown of which the brilliancy was softened and attenuated by a cape of -silver-grey fur. To the elder Miss Wake the sight of her lovely -kinswoman always recalled—she could not have told you why—the few -purple patches which had lightened her rather dull youth. The night -after seeing Penelope she would dream of her first ball, again see the -great hall of a famous Northern stronghold filled with the graceful -forms of early Victorian belles, and the stalwart figures of young men -whose brilliant uniforms were soon to be tarnished and blood-stained on -Crimean battle-fields.</p> - -<p>As for Cecily, the girl's lonely heart was stormed by the first kindly -glance of Mrs. Robinson's blue eyes, and it wholly surrendered to the -second, emphasized as it was by the words: 'You should have written and -told me of this new cousin; I should have come sooner to see you both.'</p> - -<p>Then and there, after all due civilities to the aunt had been performed, -the young girl had been carried off, taken for an enchanting drive, not -round the dreary, still treeless park, where, every alternate morning, -Miss Theresa Wake and Cecily walked for an hour by the clock, but -through streets which, even<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> to the convent-bred girl, were peopled with -the shades of those who had once dwelt there.</p> - -<p>Finally, after a long vista of duller, meaner streets, there came a halt -before the wide doors of a long, low building, of which the latticed -windows and white curtains struck a curious note of cleanliness and -refinement in the squalid neighbourhood.</p> - -<p>'Is this a monastery or convent?' Cecily asked.</p> - -<p>Penelope smiled. 'No, but it is a very fair imitation of one. This is -the Melancthon Settlement. Perhaps you have heard of it? No? Ah, well, -this place was built by my husband.' Penelope's voice became graver in -quality. She added, after a short pause: 'I lived here during the whole -of my married life, and of course I still come whenever I'm in town and -can find time to do so.' Something in the girl's face made her add -hastily: 'Not as often as I ought to do.' But to her young companion -this added word was but a further sign of the humility, the thinking ill -of self, which she had always been taught is one of the clearest marks -of sanctity.</p> - -<p>Cecily's mind was filled with empty niches, waiting to be filled with -those heroes and saints with whom she might have the good fortune to -meet in her pilgrimage through life. Straightway, to-day, one of these -niches was filled by Penelope Robinson, and though the radiant figure -sometimes tottered—indeed once or twice nearly fell off its pedestal -altogether—Cecily's belief in her certainly helped the poor latter-day -saint, after her first and worst fit of tottering was over, to live up -to the reputation which had come to her unsought.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>The large panelled hall sitting-room to which the outside doors of the -Settlement gave almost direct access, and of which the sole ornament, if -such it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> could be called, consisted of a fine half-length portrait of a -young man whose auburn hair and pale, luminous eyes were those of the -typical enthusiast and dreamer, was soon filled with an eager little -crowd of men and women, who, as if drawn by a magic wand, hastened from -every part of the large building to welcome Mrs. Robinson.</p> - -<p>One slight and very pretty girl, whose short curly hair made her look -somewhat like a charming boy, struck Cecily as very oddly dressed, for -she wore a long straight, snuff-coloured gown, and a string of yellow -beads in guise of sash. Cecily much preferred the look of an older and -quieter-mannered woman, who, after having shaken hands with Mrs. -Robinson, disappeared for some moments, coming back ladened with a large -tea-tray.</p> - -<p>'You see,' said the girl in the snuff-coloured gown—'you see, we wait -on ourselves.'</p> - -<p>'Then there are no servants here?' Cecily spoke rather shyly. She -thought the Settlement quite strangely like a convent.</p> - -<p>'Of yes, of course there are; but tea is such an easy meal to get ready. -Anyone can make tea.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson had sat down close to the wide fireplace; her face, -resting on her two clasped hands, shone whitely against the grey, -flickering background formed by the flame and smoke of the log fire, -while her fur cape, thrown back, revealed the velvet gown which formed a -patch of soft, pure colour in the twilit room.</p> - -<p>She listened silently to what first one, and then another, of those -round her came forward to say, and Cecily noticed that again and again -came the words, 'We asked Mr. Winfrith,' 'Mr. Winfrith considered,' 'Mr. -Winfrith says.' Suddenly Mrs. Robinson turned, and, addressing the -curly-headed girl, said quickly: 'Daphne, will you show Miss Wake round -the Settlement? I think it would interest her, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> I have to discuss a -little business with Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret.'</p> - -<p>Cecily was disappointed. She would so much rather have stayed on in the -hall, listening, in the deepening twilight, to talk and discussions -which vaguely interested her. But she realized that the girl called -Daphne (what a pretty, curious name!—none of the girls at the convent -had been called Daphne) felt also disappointed at this banishment from -Mrs. Robinson's presence, and she admired the readiness with which the -other turned and led the way into the broad stone cloister out of which -many of the rooms of the Settlement opened.</p> - -<p>As Daphne walked she talked. Sometimes her explanations of the use to -which the various rooms through which she led her companion were put -might have been addressed to a little child or to a blind person. Such, -for instance, her remark in the refectory: 'This is where we eat our -breakfast, lunch, and supper—everything but tea, which we take in the -hall.'</p> - -<p>Now and again she would give Cecily her views on the graver social -problems of the moment. Once while standing in the very pretty and -charmingly arranged sitting-room, which was, she proudly said, her very -own, she suddenly asked her first question: 'Does not this remind you of -a convent cell?' But she did not wait for an answer. 'We aim,' she went -on, 'and I think we succeed, in preserving all that was best in the old -monastic system, while doing away with all that was corrupt and absurd. -Personally, I much regret that we do not wear a distinctive dress; in -fact, before I made up my mind to join the Settlement, I designed what I -thought to be an appropriate costume.' She looked down complacently. -'This is it. Does it not remind you of the Franciscan habit? You see the -idea? The yellow beads round my waist recall the rosary which the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> monks -always wore, and which I suppose they wear now,' she added doubtfully.</p> - -<p>'Oh yes,' said Cecily, 'but not round their waists.'</p> - -<p>'I hesitated rather as to which dress would be the most appropriate, and -which would look best. But brown, if a trying colour to most people, has -always suited me very well, and, though perhaps you do not know it, the -Franciscans had at one time quite a close connection with England. I -mean of course before the Reformation. Monks had such charming taste. -One of my uncles has a delightful country-house which was once a -monastery. Now you have seen, I think, almost everything worth seeing -about the Settlement. I wonder, though, whether you would care to look -into our Founder's room? It is only used by Mr. Hammond when he is doing -the accounts, or seeing someone on particular business. I am sure -Melancthon Robinson would have liked him to use it always, but he hardly -ever goes into it. I can't understand that feeling, can you? I should -think it such a privilege to have been the friend of such a man!'</p> - -<p>But Cecily hardly heard the words, for she was looking about her with -eager interest, trying to reconstitute the personality of the man who -had dwelt where she now stood, and who had been Mrs. Robinson's -beloved—her husband, her master. Severely simple in all its -appointments, two of the walls of the plain square room were lined with -oak bookcases, filled to overflowing, one long line of curiously-bound -volumes specially attracting the eye.</p> - -<p>'Do you know what those are?' asked Daphne; and Cecily, surprised, -realized that her companion awaited her answer with some eagerness.</p> - -<p>'Do you mean those books?' she said.</p> - -<p>The other girl smiled triumphantly. 'Yes. Well, they are Blue-Books. -When people talk to me of the Settlement, and criticize the work that is -done here, I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> merely ask them <i>one</i> question. I say, "Have you ever read -a Blue-Book?" Of course they nearly always have to answer "No," and then -I know that their opinion is worth nothing. I must confess,' she added -honestly enough, 'that I myself had never even seen a Blue-Book till I -came here. Mr. Winfrith made me read one, and I was so surprised. I -thought it would be such tremendously hard work, but really it was very -easy, for I found it was made up of the remarks of quite commonplace -people.'</p> - -<p>'And have you read all these right through?' asked Cecily, looking with -awe at the long line of tall volumes.</p> - -<p>'Oh no! how could I have found time? After I had read the one I did -read, I talked it well over with Mr. Winfrith, and he said he didn't -think it would be worth while for me ever to read another. Of course I -asked him if he thought I ought just to glance through a few more—for I -was most anxious to fit myself for the work of the Settlement—but he -said, No, it would only be waste of time.'</p> - -<p>'It must be very interesting, working among poor people and teaching -them things,' said Cecily wistfully. 'I suppose you show them how to sew -and mend, and darn and cook?'</p> - -<p>Daphne looked at her, surprised. 'Oh no,' she said in her gentle, rather -drawling voice; 'I can't sew myself, so how could I teach others to do -so? Besides, all poor people know how to do that sort of work. We want -to encourage them to think of higher things. They already give up far -too much time to their clothes and to their food. I have a singing class -and a wood-carving class. Then I make friends with them, and encourage -them to tell me about themselves. Mrs. Pomfret thinks that a mistake, -but I'm sure I know best. They have such extraordinary ideas about -things, especially about love. They seem to flirt quite as much as do -the girls<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> of our sort. I was most awfully surprised when I realized -<i>that</i>!'</p> - -<p>Cecily and Daphne found Mrs. Robinson in the hall, saying good-bye to -those about her. 'Will you come and lunch with me to-morrow?' she said -to Daphne. And as the other joyfully accepted, she added: 'We have not -had a talk for a long time.'</p> - -<p>When they were once more in the carriage, driving through the -brilliantly-lighted streets, Mrs. Robinson turned to Cecily, and said: -'Little cousin, I wonder who is your favourite character in history? -Joan of Arc? Mary Queen of Scots? I'll tell you mine: it was the -woman—I forget her name—who first said, in answer to a friend's -remark, "I hate a fool!" She had plenty of courage of the kind I should -like to borrow. The thought of to-morrow's execution makes me sick.' And -as Cecily looked at her, bewildered, she added: 'I wonder what you -thought of Daphne Purdon? They said very little—I mean Philip Hammond -and Mrs. Pomfret—but they simply won't keep her there any longer! She -corrupts her class of match-girls, and, what of course is much worse, -they are corrupting <i>her</i>.' Mrs. Robinson's lips curved into delighted -laughter at the recollection of a whispered word which had been uttered, -with bated breath, by Mrs. Pomfret.</p> - -<p>'How long has Miss Purdon been at the Settlement?' Perhaps Cecily, -childish though she was, entered more into her new friend's worries than -the other realized.</p> - -<p>'Not far from a year, broken, however, by frequent holidays in friends' -country-houses, and by a month spent last summer on a yacht. Poor Daphne -is a fool, but she's not a bad fool, and above all, she's a very pretty -fool!'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes,' said the girl eagerly, 'she is very pretty, and I should think -very good, even if she is not very sensible.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Well, her father, who was an old friend of my father's, died two years -ago, leaving practically nothing. At the time Daphne was engaged, and -the man threw her over; it was quite a little tragedy, and, as she took -it into her head she would like to do some kind of work, I persuaded my -people at the Settlement to take her and see what they could do with -her. Like most of my "goody" plans, it has failed utterly.'</p> - -<p>Cecily's kind, firm little hand, still wearing the cotton gloves of -convent days, crept over the carriage rug, and closed for a moment over -her new cousin's fingers. Mrs. Robinson went on: 'Philip Hammond is the -salt of the earth, and Mrs. Pomfret is an angel, but I never see them -without being told something I would rather not hear. Now, David -Winfrith, who has so much to do with the many responsibilities connected -with the Settlement, never worries me in that way. Perhaps if he did,' -she concluded in a lower tone, 'I should see him as seldom as I do the -others.'</p> - -<p>'And who,' asked Cecily with some eagerness—'who is David Winfrith?'</p> - -<p>'Like Daphne's,' answered Mrs. Robinson, 'his is an inherited -friendship. His father, who is a clergyman, was one of my father's -oldest friends.' Then quickly she added: 'I should not have said that, -for David Winfrith is one of my own best friends, the one person to whom -I feel I can always turn when I want anything done. What will perhaps -interest you more is the fact that he is becoming a really distinguished -man. If you read the <i>Morning Post</i> as regularly as I know your aunt -reads it——'</p> - -<p>'She has left off taking in a daily paper,' said Cecily quickly. 'She -says it tries her eyes to read too much.'</p> - -<p>But Penelope went on, unheeding: 'You would know a great deal more about -Mr. Winfrith and his doings than you seem to do now. Seriously, he is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> -the kind of honest, plodding, earnest fellow whom the British public -like to feel is looking after them, and each day he looks after them -more than he did the day before. And he will go plodding on till in -time—who knows?—he may become the Grand Panjandrum, the Prime Minister -himself!'</p> - -<p>'Then, he does not live at the Settlement?'</p> - -<p>'Oh no! He has sometimes thought of spending a holiday there, but he -very properly feels that he owes his free time to his father; but even -when resting he works hard, for he is, and always has been, provokingly -healthy. As for his connection with the Settlement, it has become his -hobby. To please himself'—Mrs. Robinson spoke quickly, as if in -self-defence—'no one ever asked him to do so—he looks after the -business side of everything connected with the place. I am the Queen, -and he is the Prime Minister; that is, he listens very civilly to all I -have to say, and then he does exactly what he himself thinks proper! Of -course, I get my way sometimes; for instance, he disapproved of Daphne -Purdon.'</p> - -<p>'I thought they were great friends,' said Cecily, surprised. 'He gave -her the first Blue-Book she ever read.'</p> - -<p>'Ah!' said Mrs. Robinson, 'did he? That was just like him, trying to -make a pig's ear out of a silk purse! Still, even so, he will certainly -be delighted to hear of her execution; for he saw from the very first -that she was quite unsuited for the life, and, of course, like all of -us, he likes to be proved right.'</p> - -<p>As she spoke, Mrs. Robinson was watching the girl by her side. Now and -again a gleam of bright light cast a glow on the serious childish face, -showed the curves of the sensible firm mouth, lit up the hazel eyes, so -empty of youthful laughter. During the drive to the Settlement Cecily -had talked eagerly, had poured out her heart to her new friend, telling -far more than she knew she told, both of her past and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> present life. And -Mrs. Robinson's active, intelligent brain was busy evolving a scheme of -release for the young creature to whom she had taken one of her -unreasoning instinctive likings.</p> - -<p>When at last, it seemed all too soon to Cecily, the carriage stopped -before old Miss Wake's dingy Mayfair lodging, Mrs. Robinson held the -other's hand a moment before saying good-bye. She did not offer to kiss -the girl, for Penelope was not given to kissing; but she said very -kindly: 'We must meet again soon. I am going to Brighton for a few days -next week. Suppose I were to come in to-morrow morning and ask Miss Wake -to let you go there with me? We would go out to your convent, and I -should make friends with the old French nun of whom you are so fond. She -and I might think of something which would make your life here a little -less dull, a little more cheerful.' And that night no happier girl lay -down to sleep in London than Cecily Wake.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson was also in a softened mood, and when she found David -Winfrith waiting for her in the library of the old house in Cavendish -Square which had been her father's, and which had seen the coming and -going of so many famous people, she greeted him with a gaiety, an -intimate warmth of manner, which quickened his pulses, and almost caused -him to say words he had made up his mind never again to utter.</p> - -<p>Soon she was kneeling by the fire warming her hands, talking eagerly, -looking up, smiling into the plain, clean-shaven face, of which she knew -every turn and expression. 'You must forgive and approve me for being -late,' she exclaimed. 'I have spent my afternoon exactly as you would -always have me do! Firstly, I fulfilled my social dooty, as Mr. Gumberg -would say, by going to the Walberton wedding'—a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> slight grimace defaced -for a moment her charming eyes and mouth—'enough to put one out of love -for ever with matrimony; but, then, my ideal still remains in those -matters what it always was.' In answer to a questioning look her eyelids -flickered as she said two words, 'Gretna Green!' and an almost -imperceptible quiver also passed over Winfrith's face.</p> - -<p>She went on eagerly, pleased with the betrayal of feeling her words had -evoked: 'Then I drove to the Settlement, where I listened patiently -while Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret poured their woes into my ears.'</p> - -<p>'That I'm sure they did not,' he interrupted good-humouredly.</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, they did! They don't keep everything for you. Well, Daphne -Purdon is leaving—not, of course, of her own free will. You were right -and I was wrong in that matter. But I think I've found just the right -person to replace her.'</p> - -<p>'H'm,' said he.</p> - -<p>'Someone who will be quite ideal, whom even Mrs. Pomfret liked at first -sight! But don't let's talk of the Settlement any more. Listen, rather, -to my further good deeds. I am going to Brighton, a place I detest, in -order to give pleasure to a good, kind little girl who is just now -having a very bad time.'</p> - -<p>'That,' he said,'is really meritorious. And when, may I ask, is this -work of mercy to take place?'</p> - -<p>'Next week; I shall be away for at least four days.'</p> - -<p>'Well, perhaps I shall be in Brighton for a night,'—Winfrith brushed an -invisible speck off his sleeve—'Wednesday night, myself. I do not share -your dislike to the place. We can talk over Settlement affairs there, if -we meet, as I suppose we shall?'</p> - -<p>Penelope hesitated. 'Yes,' she said at last, rather absently. 'We can -talk over things there better than here. I expect to go abroad rather -earlier this spring.'</p> - -<p>'Why that?' He could not keep the dismay out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> his voice. 'I thought -you were so fond of the spring in London?'</p> - -<p>She stood up, and they faced one another, each resting a hand on the -high marble mantelpiece. 'I love London at all times of the year,' she -said, 'but I am a nomad, a wanderer, by instinct. Perhaps mamma's -mother, before she "got religion," was a gipsy. I have always known -there was some mystery about her.' She spoke lightly, but Winfrith's -lips closed, one of his hands made a sudden arresting movement, and then -fell down again by his side, as she went on unheeding, looking, not at -him, but down into the fire. 'Why don't you take a holiday, David—even -you are entitled to a holiday sometimes—and come with me where I am -going—down to the South, west of Marseilles, where ordinary people -never, never go?'</p> - -<p>'My dear Penelope, how utterly absurd!' But there was a thrill in the -quiet, measured voice.</p> - -<p>She looked up eagerly, moved a little nearer to him. 'Do!' she -cried—'please do! Motey would be ample chaperon.' She added -unguardedly, 'she is used to that ungrateful rôle.'</p> - -<p>'Is she?' he asked sharply. 'Has she often had occasion to chaperon you, -and—and—a friend, on a similar excursion?'</p> - -<p>Penelope bit her lip. 'I think you are very rude,' she said. 'Why, of -course she has! Every man I know, half your acquaintances, have had the -privilege of travelling with me across the world. When one of your -trusted members goes off on a mysterious holiday, you can always in -future say to yourself, "He has paired with Penelope!"'</p> - -<p>He looked at her, perplexed, a little suspicious, but he was utterly -disarmed by her next words. 'David?'—she spoke softly—'how can you be -so foolish? I have never, never, never made such a proposal to any one -but you! Now that your mind is set at rest, now that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> you know you will -be a unique instance'—she could not keep the laughter out of her -voice—'will you consent to honour me with your company? It could all be -done in a fortnight.'</p> - -<p>'No.' He spoke with an effort, and hesitated perceptibly. But again he -said, 'No. I can't get away now—'tis impossible. Perhaps later—at -Easter.'</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Robinson had turned away. Mechanically she tore a paper spill -into small pieces. 'At Easter,' she said with a complete change of tone, -'I shall be in Paris, and every soul we know will be there, too, and I -certainly shall not want <i>you</i>.'</p> - -<p>'Well, now I must be going.' He spoke rather heavily, and, as she still -held her head averted, he added hurriedly, in a low tone, 'You know how -gladly I would come if I could.'</p> - -<p>'I know,' she said sharply, 'how easily you could come if you would! But -never mind, I am quite used to be alone—with Motey.'</p> - -<p>In spite of her anger and disappointment, she was loth to let him go. -Together they walked through the sombre, old-fashioned hall, of which -the walls were hung with engravings of men who had been her father's -early contemporaries and friends, and to which she had ever been -unwilling to make the slightest alteration. Every lozenge of the black -and white marble floor recalled her singularly happy, eager childhood, -and Mrs. Robinson would have missed the ugliest of the frock-coated -philanthropists and statesmen who looked at her so gravely from their -tarnished frames.</p> - -<p>She went with him through into the small glazed vestibule which gave -access to the square. Herself she opened the mahogany door, and looked -out, shivering, into the foggy darkness which lay beyond.</p> - -<p>Then came a murmured word or two—a pause—and Winfrith was gone, -shutting the door as he went, leaving her alone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> - -<p>As Mrs. Robinson was again crossing the hall she suddenly stayed her -steps, pushed her hair off her forehead with a gesture familiar to her -when perplexed, and pressed her cold hands against her face, now red -with one of her rare, painful blushes.</p> - -<p>She saw, as in a vision, a strange little scene. In her ears echoed -fragments of a conversation, so amazing, so unlikely to have taken -place, that she wondered whether the words could have been really -uttered.</p> - -<p>A man, whose tall, thick-set, and rather ungainly figure she knew -familiarly well, seemed to be standing close to a tall, slight woman, -with whose appearance Penelope felt herself to be at once less and more -intimate. She doubted her knowledge of the voice which uttered the -curious, ill-sounding words: 'You may kiss me if you like, David.' Not -doubtful, alas! her recognition of the quick, hoarse accents in which -had come the man's answer: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!'</p> - -<p>Could such a scene have ever taken place? Could such an invitation have -been made—and refused?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson walked on slowly. She went again into the library; once -more she knelt down before the fire, and held out her chill hands to the -blaze.</p> - -<p>That any woman should have said, even to her oldest—ay, even to her -dearest friend,'You may kiss me if you like,' was certainly -unconventional, perhaps even a little absurd. But amazing, and almost -incredible in such a case, would surely be the answer she still heard, -so clearly uttered: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!' Then came the -reflection, at once mortifying and consoling, that many would -give—what?—well, anything even to unreason, to have had this same -permission extended to themselves.</p> - -<p>She tried to place herself outside—wholly outside—the abominable -little scene.</p> - -<p>Supposing a woman—the foolish woman who had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> acted on so strange an -impulse—now came in, and telling her what had occurred, asked her -advice, how would she, Penelope, make answer to such a one?</p> - -<p>Quick came the words: 'Of course you can only do one of two -things—either never see him again, or go on as if nothing had -happened.'</p> - -<p>She saw, felt, the woman wince.</p> - -<p>'As to not seeing him again, that is quite out of the question. Besides, -there are circumstances——'</p> - -<p>'Oh, well,' she—Penelope—would say severely, 'of course, if you come -and ask my advice without telling me <i>everything</i>——'</p> - -<p>'No one ever tells everything,' the woman would object, 'but this much I -will confide to you. There was a time—I am sure, by all sorts of -things, that he remembers it more often than I do—when this man and I -were lovers, when he kissed me—ah, how often!'</p> - -<p>Penelope flushed. How could the other, this wraith-like woman, tell this -to her? But, even so, she would answer her patiently: 'That may be. But -in those days you two loved one another dearly. To such a man that fact -makes all the difference. He is the type—the rather unusual type—who -would far rather have no bread than only half the loaf.'</p> - -<p>'But how wrong! how utterly absurd!' the other woman would cry. 'How -short-sighted of him! The more so that sometimes, not of course always, -the half has been known to include the whole.'</p> - -<p>'Yes—but David Winfrith is not a man to understand that. And if I may -say so'—thus would she, the wise mentor, conclude her words of advice -and consolation to this most unwise and impulsive friend—'I think you -have really had an escape! In this case the half would certainly have -come to include the whole. To-night you are tired and lonely; in the -morning you will realize that you are much better off as you are. You -already see quite as much of him as you want to do, when in your sober -senses.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<p>('Oh, but I do miss him when he isn't there.')</p> - -<p>'What nonsense! You do not miss him when you are abroad, when -you—forgive me, dear, the vulgar expression—have other fish to fry. -No, no, you have had an escape! Being what he is, he will meet you -to-morrow exactly as if nothing had happened, and then you will go -abroad and have a delightful time.'</p> - -<p>('Yes, alone!')</p> - -<p>'Alone? Of course. Seeing beautiful places of which he, if with you, -would deny the charm; for, as you have often said to yourself, he has no -love, no understanding, of a whole side of life which is everything to -you.'</p> - -<p>('Yes, but he would have enjoyed being with me.')</p> - -<p>'So he would, only more so, in a coal-pit. No, no, you have made the -life you lead now one which exactly suits you.'</p> - -<p class="space-above">Mrs. Robinson got up. She rang the bell. 'Would you please ask Mrs. Mote -to come to me here?'</p> - -<p>And when the short, stout little woman, who had been the nurse of her -childhood and was now her maid, came in answer to the summons, she said -hastily: 'Motey, I am going to Brighton next week for a few days. I do -not intend to go abroad till later. Mr. Winfrith cannot get away just -now. He is too busy.'</p> - -<p>'He always was a busy young gentleman,' declared the old woman rather -sourly, as she took the cloak, the gloves, and the hat of her mistress, -and went quietly out of the room.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'There was a Door to which I found no Key:</div> -<div>There was a Veil past which I could not see:</div> -<div>Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee</div> -<div>There seem'd—and then no more of Thee and Me.'</div> -<div class="right"><span class="smcap">Omar Khayyám.</span></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>'Numero Deus impare gaudet.'</div> -<div class="right"><span class="smcap">Virgil.</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>When the man who remained in local story as the Popish Lord Wantley -built Monk's Eype, he planned the arrangements of the lower floor of his -villa in a way which was approved by neither his Neapolitan architect -nor his English acquaintances.</p> - -<p>From the broad terrace overhanging the sea, the row of high narrow -windows on either side of the shallow stone steps giving access to the -central hall, seemed strictly symmetrical. But there was nothing uniform -behind the stately façade. Instead of a suite of reception-rooms opening -the one out of the other on either side of the frescoed hall, the whole -left side of the villa—excepting the wing, which stretched, as did its -fellow, landward, and in which were the servants' quarters—was occupied -by one vast apartment.</p> - -<p>In this great room the creator of Monk's Eype had gathered together most -of his treasures, including the paintings which he had acquired during a -long sojourn in Italy; and his Victorian successor had added many -beautiful works of art to the collection.</p> - -<p>In the Picture Room, as it was called, Penelope's mother always sat when -at Monk's Eype, sometimes working at delicate embroidery, oftener -writing busily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> at an inlaid ivory table close to one of the windows -opening on to the terrace.</p> - -<p>On the other side of the circular hall the Italian architect had had his -way. Here there was a suite of lofty, well-proportioned rooms opening -the one out of the other.</p> - -<p>Of these rooms, the first was the dining-room, of which the painted -ceiling harmonized with the panels of old Flemish tapestry added to the -treasures of Monk's Eype by Penelope's parents. Then came another -spacious room, of much the same proportions, which had now been for many -years regarded as specially set apart for the use of young Lord Wantley, -Mrs. Robinson's cousin and frequent guest. In this pleasant room Wantley -read, painted, and smoked, and there also he would entertain those of -Penelope's visitors whose sex made him perforce their host. Still, even -his occupancy of what some of Mrs. Robinson's friends considered the -most agreeable room in the villa was poisoned by a bitter memory. Not -long after the death of the man whom he had been taught to call uncle, -he had heard his plea for a billiard-table set aside by the new mistress -of Monk's Eype with angry decision, and he had been made to feel that he -had unwittingly offered an insult to her father's memory.</p> - -<p>Beyond Lord Wantley's special quarters there was a third room, more -narrow, less well lighted than the others. There were those, -nevertheless, who would have regarded it as the most interesting -apartment at Monk's Eype, for there the greatest of Victorian -philanthropists had worked, spending long hours of his holiday at the -large plain knee-table so placed as both to block and to command the one -window. Here also hung a portrait which many would have come far to see. -If vile as a work of art, it was almost startlingly like the late owner -of the room, and this resemblance was the more striking because of the -familiar attitude, the left hand supporting the chin,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> which had had for -most of the sitter's fellow-countrymen the ridiculous associations of -caricature.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson disliked both the room and the portrait. But mingled -feelings of respect, of affection, and of fear, had caused her to leave -the room as it had been during her father's occupancy, and it was only -used by her on the rare occasions when she was compelled to have a -personal interview with one of her tenants from neighbouring Wyke Regis.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>On the evening of the day, a Saturday, when Miss Wake's and her niece's -arrival had taken place, Lord Wantley had returned somewhat unexpectedly -from a visit paid in the neighbourhood, which had been cut short by the -sudden illness of the hostess.</p> - -<p>After the cheerful, if commonplace, house and party he had just left, -Monk's Eype struck him as strangely quiet and depressing, though, as -always, the beauty of the villa impressed him anew as he passed through -into the circular hall, now flooded with the light of the setting sun.</p> - -<p>'I wonder who she has got here now,' he said to himself as he noticed a -man's hat, roomy travelling-coat, and stick laid across the top of the -Italian marriage-chest, the brilliancy of whose armorial ornaments and -bright gilding had been dimmed by a hundred years of the salt wind and -soft mists of the Dorset coast.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson was fond of entertaining those of her fellow-painters -whose work attracted her fancy or excited her admiration, and Wantley's -fastidious taste sometimes revolted from the associations into which she -thrust him.</p> - -<p>The young man's relations to his beautiful cousin were at once singular -and natural—best, perhaps, explained by a word said in the frankness of -grief<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> during the hours which had immediately followed his predecessor's -death. 'You know, Penelope,' the heir had said in all good faith, if a -little awkwardly—for at that time nothing was definitely known of the -famous philanthropist's will, and none doubted that the new peer would -find himself to have been treated fairly, if not generously, by the -great Lord Wantley—'you know that now you must consider me as your -brother; your father himself told me he hoped it would be so.'</p> - -<p>The wilful girl had looked at him in silence for a moment, and then, -very deliberately, had answered: 'What nonsense! Did my father ever -treat you as a son? No, Ludovic, we will go on as we have always done. -But if you like'—and she had smiled satirically—'I will look upon you -as a kind and well-meaning stepbrother!' And it was with the eyes of a -critical, but not unfriendly stepbrother that Wantley came in due course -to regard her.</p> - -<p>Concerning his cousin's—to his apprehension—extraordinary marriage, he -had not been in any way consulted. Indeed, at the time the engagement -and marriage took place he had been far away from England; but after -Melancthon Robinson's tragic death Penelope for a moment had clung to -him as if he had indeed been her brother, showing such real feeling, -such acute pain, such bitter distress, that he had come to the -conclusion that the tie between the oddly-assorted couple had been at -any rate one worthy of respect.</p> - -<p>When, somewhat later, Mrs. Robinson had begged Wantley to help her with -the complicated business details connected with the Melancthon -Settlement, he had drawn back, or rather he had advised her, not -unkindly, to hand the work over to one of the great social philanthropic -organizations already provided with suitable machinery.</p> - -<p>As he had learnt to expect, his cousin entirely <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>disregarded his advice; -instead, she found another to give her the help the head of her family -refused her, and this other, as the young man sometimes remembered with -an uneasy conscience, was one whom they should both have spared, partly -because he was engaged in public affairs which took up what should have -been the whole of his working time, partly because he had been the hero -of Penelope's first romance, and had once been her accepted lover.</p> - -<p>Wantley had watched the renewal of the link between the grave young -statesman and his old love with a certain cynical interest.</p> - -<p>Penelope had not cared to hide her annoyance and disappointment at her -cousin's somewhat pusillanimous refusal of responsibility, and so he had -not been asked to take any part in the conferences which were held -between David Winfrith and the widow of the philanthropic millionaire; -but weeks, months, and even the first years, of Penelope's widowhood -wore themselves away, and to Wantley's astonishment the relations -between Mrs. Robinson and her adviser and helper remained unchanged.</p> - -<p>The Melancthon Settlement went on its way, nominally under the -management of its founder's widow, in reality owing everything in it -that was practical and worthy of respect to the mind and to the tireless -industry of the man who had come to regard this work of supererogation -as the principal relaxation of a somewhat austere existence. But -Winfrith was not able to conceal from himself the fact that the -necessary interviews with his old love were the salt of what was -otherwise a laborious and often thankless task.</p> - -<p>Of course at one time his marriage with Mrs. Robinson had been regarded -as a certainty, but, as the years had gone on, the gossips admitted -their mistake, and, according to their fancy, declared either the lovely -widow or Winfrith disappointed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> - -<p>Alone, Wantley arrived very near the truth. He was sure that there had -been no renewal of the offer made and accepted so ardently in the days -when the two had been boy and girl; but a subtle instinct warned him -that Winfrith still regarded Penelope as nearer to himself than had -been, or could ever be, any other woman; and of the many things which he -envied his cousin, the young peer counted nothing more precious than the -chivalrous interest and affection of the man who most realized his own -ideal of the public-spirited Englishman who, born to pleasant fortune, -is content to work, both for his country and for his countrymen, for -what most would consider an inadequate reward.</p> - -<p>David Winfrith's existence formed a contrast to his own life of which -Wantley was ashamed. He was well aware that had the other been in his -place, even burdened with all his own early disadvantages, Winfrith -would by now have made for himself a position in every way befitting -that of the successor of such a man as had been Penelope's father.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>On the evening of his unexpected return to the villa, an evening long to -be remembered by him, Wantley dressed early and made his way into the -Picture Room. He went expecting to find an ill-assorted party, for Mrs. -Robinson was one of those women whose own personal relationship to those -whom they gather about them is the only matter of moment, and whose -guests are therefore rarely in sympathy one with another.</p> - -<p>All that Wantley knew concerning those strangers he was about to meet -was that he would be called upon to make himself pleasant to an elderly -Roman Catholic spinster, and to her niece, a girl closely associated -with the work of the Melancthon <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>Settlement; and the double prospect was -far from being agreeable to him.</p> - -<p>He was therefore relieved to find the Picture Room empty, save for the -immobile presence of Lady Wantley. She was sitting gazing out of the -window, her hands clasped together, absorbed in meditation. As he came -in she turned and smiled, but said no word of welcome; and he respected -her mood, knowing well that she was one of those who feel the invisible -world to be very near, and who believe themselves surrounded by unseen -presences.</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley's personality had always interested and fascinated the -young man. Even as a child he had never sympathized with his mother's -dislike of her, for he had early discerned how very different she was -from most of the people he knew; and to-night, fresh as he was from the -company of cheerful dowagers who were of the earth earthy, this -difference was even more apparent to him than usual.</p> - -<p>Penelope's mother doubtless owed something of her aloofness of -appearance to her singular and picturesque dress, of which the mode had -never varied for twenty years and more. The long sweeping skirts of -black silk or wool, the cross-over bodice and the lace coif, which -almost wholly concealed her banded hair, while not hiding the beautiful -shape of her head, had originally been designed for her by the painter -to whom, as a younger woman, she had so often sat. Since the great -artist had first brought her the drawing of the dress in which he wished -once more to paint her, she had never given a thought to the vagaries of -fashion, so it came to pass that those about her would have found it -impossible to think of her in any other garments than those composing -the singular, stately costume which accentuated the mingled severity and -mildness of her pale cameo-like face.</p> - -<p>After Melancthon Robinson's death, his widow had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> at once made it clear -that she had no intention of returning to her mother; but every winter -saw the two ladies spending some weeks together in London, and each -summer Lady Wantley became her daughter's guest at Monk's Eype.</p> - -<p>The rest of the year was spent by the elder woman at Marston Lydiate, -the great Somersetshire country-seat to which she had been brought as a -bride, and for which she now paid rent to her husband's successor. To -Wantley the arrangement had been a painful one. He would have much -preferred to let the place to strangers, and he had always refused to go -there as Lady Wantley's guest.</p> - -<p>As he stood, silent, by one of the high windows of the Picture Room, he -remembered suddenly that the next day, August 8th, was his birthday, and -that no human being, save a woman who had been his mother's servant for -many years, was likely to remember the fact, or to offer him those -congratulations which, if futile, always give pleasure. The bitterness -of the thought was perhaps the outcome of foolish sentimentality, but it -lent a sudden appearance of sternness and of purpose to his face.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson, coming into the room at that moment, was struck, for a -moment felt disconcerted, by the look on her cousin's face. She was -surprised and annoyed that he had returned so soon from the visit which, -of course unknown to him, she had herself arranged he should make, in -order that he might be absent at the time of the assembling of her -ill-assorted guests.</p> - -<p>Penelope feared the young man's dispassionate powers of observation; and -as she walked down the long room, at the other end of which she saw -first her mother's seated figure, and then, standing by one of the long, -uncurtained windows, the unwelcome form of her cousin, her heart beat -fast, for the little scene with Cecily Wake, added to other matters of -more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> moment, had set her nerves jarring. She dreaded the evening before -her, feared the betrayal of a secret which she wished to keep profoundly -hidden. Still, as was her wont, she met danger halfway.</p> - -<p>'I am glad you are back to-night,' she said, addressing Wantley, 'for -now you will be able to play host to Sir George Downing. I met him -abroad this spring, and he has come here for a few days.'</p> - -<p>'The Persian man?' She quickly noted that the young man's voice was full -of amused interest and curiosity, nothing more; and, as she nodded her -head, assurance and confidence came back.</p> - -<p>'Well, you are certainly a wonderful woman.' He turned, smiling, to Lady -Wantley, who was gazing at her daughter with her usual almost painful -tenderness of expression. 'Penelope's romantic encounters,' he said -gaily, 'would fill a book. Such adventures never befall me on my -travels. In Spain a fascinating stranger turns out to be Don Carlos in -disguise! In Germany she knocks up against Bismarck!'</p> - -<p>'I knew the son!' she cried, protesting, but not ill-pleased, for she -was proud of the good fortune that often befell her during her frequent -journeys, of coming across, if not always famous, at least generally -interesting and noteworthy people.</p> - -<p>'And now,' concluded Wantley, 'the lion whom most people—unofficial -people of course I mean'—he spoke significantly—'are all longing to -see and to entertain, is bound to her chariot wheels!'</p> - -<p>'Ah!' she cried eagerly, 'but that's just the point: he has a horror of -being lionized. He's promised to write a report, and I suggested that he -should come and do it here, where there's no fear of his being run to -earth by the wrong kind of people. I don't suppose Theresa Wake knows -there's such a person in the world as "Persian Downing."'</p> - -<p>'And the niece, the young lady who is to be my special charge?' Wantley -was still smiling. 'She's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> sure to know something about him—that is, if -you take in a daily paper at the Settlement.'</p> - -<p>'Cecily?' Mrs. Robinson's voice softened. 'Dear little Cecily won't -trouble her head about him at all.' She turned away quickly as Lady -Wantley's gentle, insistent voice floated across the room to where the -two cousins were standing.</p> - -<p>'George Downing? I remember your father bringing a youth called by that -name to our house, many years ago, when you were a child, my love.' She -hesitated, as if seeking to remember something which only half lingered -in her memory.</p> - -<p>Her daughter waited in painful silence. 'Would the ghost of that old -story of disgrace and pain never be laid?' she asked herself -rebelliously.</p> - -<p>But Lady Wantley was not the woman to recall a scandal, even had she -been wont to recall such things, of one who was now under her daughter's -roof. Her next words were, however, if a surprise, even less welcome to -one of her listeners than would have been those she expected to hear.</p> - -<p>'There was an American Mrs. Downing, a lady who came with an -introduction to see your father. She wished to consult him about a home -for emigrant children, and I heard—now what did I hear?' Again Lady -Wantley paused.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson straightened her well-poised head.</p> - -<p>'You probably heard, mamma, what is, I believe, true: that Lady Downing, -as she is of course now, is not on good terms with her husband. They -parted almost immediately after their marriage, and I believe that they -have not met for years.'</p> - -<p>Wantley looked at his cousin with some surprise; she spoke impetuously, -a note of deep feeling in her voice, and as if challenging -contradiction. Then, suddenly, she held up her hand with a quick warning -gesture.</p> - -<p>Her ears had caught the sound of footsteps for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> whose measured tread she -had learnt to listen, and a moment later the door opened, and the man of -whom they had been speaking, advancing into the great room, stood before them.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Few of us realize how very differently our physical appearance and -peculiarities strike each one of any new circle of persons to whose -notice we are introduced; and, according to whether we are humble-minded -or the reverse, the results of such inspection, were they suddenly -revealed, would surprise or amaze us.</p> - -<p>When Sir George Downing came forward to greet his hostess, and to be -introduced to her mother and to her cousin, his outer man impressed each -of them with direct and almost startling vividness. But in each case the -impression produced was a very different one.</p> - -<p>The first point which struck Lady Wantley in the tall, loosely-built -figure was its remaining look of youth, of strength of will, and of -purpose. This woman, to whom the things of the body were of such little -moment, yet saw how noteworthy was the brown sun-burnt face, with its -sharply-outlined features, and she gathered a very clear impression of -the distinction and power of the man who bowed over her hand with -old-fashioned courtesy and deference; more, she felt that there had been -a time in her life when her daughter's guest would have attracted and -interested her to a singular degree.</p> - -<p>As he raised his head, their eyes met—deep-sunk, rather light-grey -eyes, in some ways singularly alike, as Penelope had perceived with a -certain shock of surprise, very soon after her first meeting with Sir -George Downing. As these eyes, so curiously similar, met for a moment, -fixedly, Downing, with a tightening of the heart, said to himself: 'She -I must count an enemy.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> - -<p>Lord Wantley, as he came forward to meet the distinguished stranger to -whom he had just been told he must play host, observed him at once more -superficially, and yet more narrowly and in greater detail, than -Penelope's mother had done.</p> - -<p>In the pleasant country-house—of the world worldly—from which Wantley -had come, the man before him had been the subject of eager, amused -discussion.</p> - -<p>One of the talkers had known him as a youth, and had some recollection -(of which he made the most) of the romantic circumstances which had -attended his disgrace. His return was generally approved, all hoped to -meet him, and even, vaguely, to benefit in purse by so doing; but it had -been agreed that the recent change of Government lessened Downing's -chances of persuading the Foreign Office to carry out the policy which -he was known to have much at heart, and on which so many moneyed -interests depended. It was said that the Prime Minister had refused to -see him, that the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs had left town -to avoid him! On the other hand, a lady present had heard, 'on the best -authority,' that he had not been in England two days before he had been -sent for by the Sovereign, with whom he had had a long private talk.</p> - -<p>It was further declared that 'the city,' that mysterious potentate, more -powerful nowadays than any Sovereign, held him in high esteem, regarding -him as a benefactor to that race of investors who like to think that -they have Imperial as well as personal interests at heart. And even -those who deprecated the fact that one holding no official post should -be allowed to influence the policy of their country, admitted that, in -the past, England had owed much to such men as Persian Downing. 'Yes, -but in these days the soldier of fortune has been replaced by the banker -of fortune,' an ex-diplomatist had observed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> and the <i>mot</i> had been -allowed to pass without challenge.</p> - -<p>'And so,' thought Wantley, remembering the things which had been said, -'this is Persian Downing!'</p> - -<p>The lean, powerful figure, habited in old-fashioned dress-clothes, -looked older than he had imagined the famous man could be. The bushy, -dark-brown moustache, streaked with strands of white hair, and the -luminous grey eyes, penthoused under singularly straight eyebrows, gave -a worn and melancholy cast to the whole countenance.</p> - -<p>The younger man also noticed that Downing's hands and feet were -exceptionally small, considering his great height. 'I wonder if he will -like me,' he said to himself, and this, it must be admitted, was -generally Wantley's first thought; but he no longer felt as he had done -but a few moments before, listless and discontented with life—indeed, -so keenly interested had he, in these few moments, become in Penelope's -famous guest that he scarcely noticed the entrance into the room of the -young girl of whom his cousin had spoken, and whom she had specially -commended to his good offices.</p> - -<p>Dressed in a plain white muslin frock, presenting her aunt's excuses in -a low, even voice, Cecily Wake suggested to Lady Wantley, who had never -seen her before, the comparison, when standing by Penelope, of a -snowdrop with a rose. Perhaps this thought passed in some subtle way to -Wantley's mind, for it was not till he happened to glance at the girl, -across the round table which formed an oasis in the tapestry-hung -dining-room, that he became aware that there was something attractive, -and even unusual, in the round childish face and sincere, unquestioning -eyes.</p> - -<p>None of the party, save perhaps Wantley himself, possessed the art of -small-talk. Penelope was strangely silent. 'Even she,' her cousin -thought with a certain<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> satisfaction, 'is impressed by this remarkable -man, who has done her the honour of coming here.'</p> - -<p>Then he asked himself, none too soon, what had brought Persian Downing -to Monk's Eype? The obvious explanation, that Downing had been attracted -by the personality of one who was universally admitted to have an almost -uncannily compelling charm, when she cared to exercise it, he rejected -as too evident to be true.</p> - -<p>Wantley thought he knew his beautiful cousin through and through; yet in -truth there were many chambers of her heart where any sympathetic -stranger might have easy access, but the doors of which were tightly -locked when Wantley passed that way. Like most men, he found it -difficult to believe that a woman lacking all subtle attraction for -himself could possibly attract those of his own sex whom he favoured -with his particular regard. David Winfrith was the exception which -always proves a rule, and Wantley admitted unwillingly that in that case -there was some excuse; for here, at any rate, had been on Penelope's -part a moment of response. But to-night, and for many days to come, he -was strangely, and, as he often reminded himself in later life, -foolishly, culpably blind.</p> - -<p>Gradually the conversation turned on that still so secret and mysterious -country with which Sir George Downing was now intimately connected. His -slow voice, even, toneless, as is so often that of those who have lived -long in the East, acted, Wantley soon found, as a complete screen, when -he chose that it should be so, to his thoughts.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, and, as it appeared, in no connection with what had just been -said at the moment, Lady Wantley, turning to Downing, observed, 'I -perceive that you have a number-led mind?'</p> - -<p>Penelope looked up apprehensively, but her brow cleared as the man to -whom had been addressed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> this singular remark replied simply and -deferentially:</p> - -<p>'If you mean that certain days are marked in my life, it is certainly -so. Matters of moment are connected in my mind with the number seven.'</p> - -<p>Wantley and Cecily Wake both looked at the speaker with extreme -astonishment. 'I felt sure that it was so!' exclaimed Lady Wantley. -'Seven has also always been my number, but the knowledge inspires me -with no fear or horror. It simply makes me aware that my times are in -our Father's hands.' She added, in a lower voice: 'All predestination is -centralized in God's elect, and all concurrent wills of the creature are -thereunto subordinated.'</p> - -<p>'He may be odd, but he must certainly think us odder,' thought Wantley, -not without enjoyment.</p> - -<p>But a cloud had come over Penelope's face. 'Mamma!' she said anxiously, -and then again, 'Mamma!'</p> - -<p>'I think he knows what I mean,' said Lady Wantley, fixing the grey eyes -which seemed to see at once so much and so little on the face of her -daughter's guest.</p> - -<p>Again, to Wantley's surprise, Downing answered at once, and gravely -enough: 'Yes, I think I do know what you mean, and on the whole I -agree.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson, glancing at her cousin with what he thought a look of -appeal, threw a pebble, very deliberately, into the deep pool where they -all suddenly found themselves. 'Do you really believe in lucky numbers?' -she asked flippantly.</p> - -<p>Downing looked at her fixedly for a moment. 'Yes,' he replied, 'and also -in unlucky numbers.'</p> - -<p>'I hope,' she cried—and as she spoke she reddened deeply—'that your -first meeting with David Winfrith will take place on one of your lucky -days. He is believed to have more influence concerning the matter you -are interested in just now than anyone else, for he claims to have -studied the question on the spot.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Ah!' thought Wantley, pleased as a man always is to receive what he -believes to be the answer to a riddle; 'I know now what has brought -Persian Downing to Monk's Eype!' and he also took up the ball.</p> - -<p>'Winfrith claims,' he said, 'to have made Persia his special study. I -believe he once spent six weeks there, on the strength of which he wrote -a book. You probably came across him when he was in Teheran.'</p> - -<p>But as he spoke he was aware that in Winfrith's book there was no -mention of Downing, and that though at the time of the writer's sojourn -in Persia no other Englishman had wielded there so great a power, or so -counteracted influences inimical to his country's interests.</p> - -<p>'No, I did not see him there. At the time of Mr. Winfrith's stay in -Teheran'—Downing spoke with an indifference the other thought -studied—'I was in America, where I have to go from time to time to see -my partners.' He added, with a smile: 'I think you are mistaken in -saying that Mr. Winfrith only spent six weeks in Persia. In any case, -his book is good—very good.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose,' said Wantley, turning to his cousin, 'that you have -arranged for Winfrith to come over to-morrow, or Monday?'</p> - -<p>'Oh no,' she answered hurriedly. 'He is going to be away for the next -few days; after that, perhaps, Sir George Downing will meet him.' She -spoke awkwardly, and Wantley felt he had been clumsy. But he thought -that now he thoroughly understood what had happened. Winfrith had -evidently no wish to meet informally the man whom his chief had not been -willing to receive. Doubtless Penelope had done her best to bring her -important new friend in contact with her old friend. She had failed, -hence her awkward, hesitating answer to his question. But the young man -knew his cousin, and the potency of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> spell over obstinate Winfrith; -he had no doubt that within a week the two men would have met under her -roof, 'though whether the meeting will lead to anything,' he said to -himself, 'remains to be seen.'</p> - -<p class="space-above">Wantley was, however, quite wrong. During the hours which Mrs. Robinson -had spent that day riding with the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, -the name of Persian Downing had not once been mentioned, and at this -very moment David Winfrith, playing, after an early dinner, a game of -chess with his old father, saw in imagination his lovely friend acting -as kind hostess to her mother, for whom he himself had never felt any -particular liking, and to Miss Wake and her niece, against both of whom -he had an unreasonable prejudice. Lord Wantley he believed to be still -away; and, as he allowed his father to checkmate him, he felt a pang of -annoyance at the thought that he himself was going to be absent during -days of holiday which might have been so much better employed, in part -at least, in Penelope's company. Not for many months, not, when he came -to think of it, for some two years, had Mrs. Robinson been at once so -joyously high-spirited and yet so submissive, so intimately confidential -while yet so willing to take advice—in a word, so enchantingly near to -himself, as she had been that day, riding along the narrow lanes which -lay in close network behind the bare cliffs and hills bounding the -coast.</p> - -<p>But to Wantley, doing the honours of his smoking room to Sir George -Downing, and later when taking him out to the terrace where Mrs. -Robinson and Cecily were pacing up and down in the twilight, the -presence of this distinguished visitor at Monk's Eype was fully -explained by the fact that Winfrith was not only the near neighbour, but -also the very good friend, of Mrs. Robinson, and, the young man ventured -to think, of himself.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> - -<blockquote><p>'Qui, la moitié et la plus belle moitié de la vie est cachée à -l'homme qui n'a pas aimé avec passion.'—<span class="smcap">Stendhal.</span></p></blockquote> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'Madrid la antesala del cielo.'</div> -<div class="right"><i>Spanish Saying.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Above, close to the window of a high narrow room which had once been the -Catholic Lord Wantley's oratory, and which was next to the bedroom -always occupied by Penelope herself, sat in the darkness Mrs. Mote.</p> - -<p>The window directly overlooked the flagged terrace, the leafy scented -gardens, and the sea, and there were members of Mrs. Robinson's -household who considered it highly unfitting that an apartment so -pleasantly situated should be the 'own room' of the plain, sturdy little -woman who, after having been Penelope Wantley's devoted and skilful -nurse for close on twenty years, had been promoted on her nursling's -marriage to be her less skilful but equally devoted maid.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mote had never been what we are wont to call a pleasant woman. She -was over thirty when she had first entered Lord and Lady Wantley's -service as nurse to their only child, and as the years had gone on her -temper had not improved, and her manner had not become more -conciliating. Even in the days when Penelope had been a nervous, -highly-strung little girl, Lady Wantley had had much to bear from -'Motey,' as the nurse had been early named by the child. Very feminine, -under a hard, unprepossessing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> exterior which recalled that of Noah's -wife in Penelope's old-fashioned Noah's ark, Motey instinctively -disliked all those women—and, alas! there were many such, below and -above stairs—who were more attractive than herself.</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley, beautiful, beloved, and enjoying, even among many of the -servant's own sort, a reputation for austere goodness and spiritual -perfection, was for long years the object of poor Motey's special -aversion. Singularly reticent, and taking pride in 'keeping herself to -herself,' the woman never betrayed her feelings, or rather she did so in -such small and intangible ways as were never suspected by the person -most closely concerned. Lady Wantley recognised the woman's undoubted -devotion to the child to whom she was herself so devoted, and she simply -regarded Mrs. Mote's sullen though never disrespectful behaviour to -herself as one of those unfortunate peculiarities of manner and temper -which often accompany sterling worth. Lord Wantley had been so far -old-fashioned that he disliked going anywhere without his wife, and the -mother had felt great solace to leave her daughter in such sure hands; -but she had sacrificed excellent maids of her own, and innumerable -under-servants, to the nurse's peculiar temper and irritability.</p> - -<p>There had been a moment, Penelope being then about seventeen, when Mrs. -Mote's supremacy had trembled in the balance. The trusted nurse had -played a certain part in the girl's first love affair, acting with a -secretiveness, a lack of proper confidence in her master and mistress, -which had made them both extremely displeased and angry, and there had -been some question as to whether she should remain in their service. -Mrs. Mote never forgot having overheard a short conversation between the -headstrong girl and her mother. 'If you tell me it must be so, I will -give up David Winfrith,' Penelope had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> declared, sobbing bitterly the -while; 'but if you send Motey away I will throw myself into the sea!'</p> - -<p>All this was now, however, ancient history. Mrs. Mote had been forgiven -her plunge into vicarious romance, and a day had come, not, however, -till after Lord Wantley's death, when Penelope's mother had admitted to -herself that perhaps Motey had been more clear-sighted than herself. In -any case, the old nurse had firmly established her position as a member -of the family. She and Lady Wantley had grown old together, and even -before Penelope's marriage the servant had learnt to regard her mistress -not only with a certain affection, but with what she had before been -unwilling to give her—namely, real respect. To her master she had -always been warmly attached, and she mourned him sincerely, being -pathetically moved when she learnt that he had left her, as 'a token of -regard and gratitude,' the sum of five hundred pounds.</p> - -<p>The phrase had touched her more than the money had done. Motey, as are -so many servants, was lavishly generous, and she had helped with her -legacy several worthless relations of her own to start small businesses -which invariably failed. These losses, however, she bore with great -philosophy. Her home was wherever her darling, her 'young lady,' her -'ma'am,' happened to be, and her circle that of the family with whose -fortunes hers had now been bound up for so many years.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson's faithful affection for this old servant was one of the -best traits in a somewhat capricious if generous character, the more so -that the maid by no means always approved of even her mistress's most -innocent actions and associates. Thus, she had first felt a rough -contempt, and later a fierce dislike, of poor Melancthon Robinson.</p> - -<p>There were two people, both men, whom Motey would have been willing to -see more often with her mistress.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> - -<p>The one was David Winfrith, who, if now a successful, almost it might be -said a famous man, had played a rather inglorious part in Penelope's -first love affair. The other was young Lord Wantley, of whom the old -nurse had constituted herself the champion in the days when her master -and mistress had merely regarded the presence of the nervous, sensitive -boy as an unpleasant duty.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mote's liking for these two young men was completely subordinate to -her love for her nursling; she would cheerfully have seen either of them -undergo the most unpleasant ordeal had Penelope thereby been saved the -smallest pain or hurt. In fact, it was because she well knew how stanch -a friend Winfrith could be, and how useful, in perhaps a slightly -whimsical way, Lord Wantley had more than once proved himself in his -cousin's service, that she would have preferred to see more of these two -and less of certain others.</p> - -<p>Ah, those others! There had always been a side of Mrs. Robinson's nature -which thirsted for sentimental adventure, and yet of the three women who -in their several ways loved her supremely—her mother, Cecily Wake, and -the old nurse—only the last was really aware of this craving for -romantic encounter. Mrs. Mote had too often found herself compelled to -stand inactive in the wings of the stage on which her mistress was wont -to take part in mimic, but none the less dangerous, combat, for her to -remain ignorant of many things, not only unsuspected, but in a sense -unthinkable, by either the austere mother or the girl friend.</p> - -<p>Perhaps this blindness in those who yet loved her well was owing to the -fact that, in the ordinary sense of the term, Penelope was no flirt. -Indeed, those among her friends who belonged to a society which, if -over-civilized, is perhaps the more ready to extend a large measure of -sympathy to those of its number who feel an overmastering impulse to -revert, in affairs of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> heart, to primitive nature, regarded the -beautiful widow as singularly free from the temptations with which they -were themselves so sorely beset.</p> - -<p>Doubtless because she was herself so physically perfect, physical -perfection held for Penelope none of that potent, beckoning appeal it so -often holds for even the most refined and intelligent women. Rather had -she always been attracted, tempted, in a certain sense conquered, by the -souls of those with whom her passion for romance brought her into -temporary relation. Even as a girl she had disdained easy conquest, and -at all times she had been, when dealing with men, as a skilful musician -who only cares to play on the finest instruments. Often she was -surprised and disturbed, even made indignant, both by the harmonies and -by the discords she thus produced; and sometimes, again, she made a -mistake concerning the quality of the human instrument under her hand.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>As Mrs. Mote sat by her open window, her eyes seeking to distinguish -among those walking on the terrace below the upright, graceful form of -her mistress, she deliberately let her thoughts wander back to certain -passages in her own and Mrs. Robinson's joint lives. In moments of -danger we recall our hairbreadth escapes with a certain complacency; -they induce a sense of sometimes false security, and just now this old -woman, who loved Penelope so dearly, felt very much afraid.</p> - -<p>The memory of two episodes came to still her fears. Though both long -past, perhaps forgotten by Penelope, to Mrs. Mote they returned to-night -with strange, uncomfortable vividness.</p> - -<p>The hero of the one had been a Frenchman, of the other a Spaniard.</p> - -<p>As for the Frenchman, Motey thought of him with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> certain kindness, and -even with regret, though he, too, as she put it to herself, had 'given -her a good fright.' The meeting between the Comte de Lucque and Mrs. -Robinson had taken place not very long after Melancthon Robinson's -death, in that enchanted borderland which seems at once Switzerland and Italy.</p> - -<p>The French lad—he was little more—was stranded there in search of -health, and Penelope had soon felt for him that pity which, while so -little akin to love, so often induces love in the creature pitied. She -allowed, nay, encouraged, him to be her companion on long painting -expeditions, and he soon made his way through, as others had done before -him, to the outer ramparts of her heart.</p> - -<p>For a while she had found him charming, at once so full of surprising -naïvetés and of strange, ardent enthusiasms; so utterly unlike the -younger Englishman of her acquaintance and differing also greatly from -the Frenchmen she had known.</p> - -<p>Brought up between a widowed mother and a monk tutor, the young Count -was in some ways as ignorant and as enthusiastic as must have been that -ancestor of his who started with St. Louis from Aiguesmortes, bound for -Jerusalem. His father had been killed in the great charge of the -Cuirassiers at the Battle of Reichofen, and Penelope discovered that he -above all things wished to live and to become strong, in order that he -might take a part in 'La Revanche,' that fantasy which played so great a -rôle in the imagination of those Frenchmen belonging to his generation.</p> - -<p>But when one evening Mrs. Robinson asked suddenly, 'Motey, how would you -like to see me become a French Countess?' the nurse had not taken the -question as put seriously, as, indeed, it had not been. Still, even the -old servant, who regarded the fact of any man's being made what she -quaintly called 'uncomfortable' by her mistress as a small, -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>well-merited revenge for all the indignities heaped by his sex on -hers—even Motey felt sorry for the Count when the inevitable day of -parting came.</p> - -<p>At first, Penelope read with some attention the long, closely-written -letters which reached her day by day with faithful regularity, but there -came a time when she was absorbed in the details of a small exhibition -of the very latest manifestations of French art, and the Count's letters -were scarcely looked at before they were thrown aside. Then, suddenly he -made abrupt and most unlooked-for intrusion into Mrs. Robinson's life, -at a time when the old nurse was accustomed to expect freedom from -Penelope's studies in sentiment—that is, during the few weeks of the -years which were always spent by Mrs. Robinson working hard in the -studio of some great Paris artist.</p> - -<p>Penelope had known how to organize her working life very intelligently; -she so timed her visits to Paris as to arrange with a French painter, -who was, like herself, what the unkind would call a wealthy amateur, to -take over his flat, his studio, and his servants.</p> - -<p>During nine happy weeks each spring Mrs. Robinson lived the busy -Bohemian life which she loved, and which, she thought, suited her so -well; but Mrs. Mote was never neglected, or, at least, never allowed -herself to feel so, and occasionally her mistress found her a useful, if -over-vigilant, chaperon. Mrs. Mote was on very good terms with the -French servants with whom she was thus each year thrown into contact. -Their easy gaiety beguiled even her grim ill-temper, and, fortunately, -she never conceived the dimmest suspicion of the fact that they were all -firmly persuaded that she was the humble, but none the less authentic, -'mère de madame'!</p> - -<p class="space-above">Now in the spring following her stay in Switzerland, not many days after -she had settled down to work<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> in Paris, Mrs. Robinson desired the -excellent <i>maître d'hôtel</i> to inform Mrs. Mote that she was awaited in -the studio. 'Motey, you remember the French count we met in Switzerland -last year?' Before giving the maid time to answer, she continued: 'Well, -I heard from him this morning. He asks me to go and see him. He says he -is very ill, and I want you to come with me.' Penelope spoke in the -hurried way usual to her when moved by real feeling.</p> - -<p>Then, when the two were seated side by side in one of the comfortable, -shabby, open French cabs, of which even Mrs. Mote recognized the charm, -Penelope added suddenly: 'Motey—you don't think—do you doubt he is -really ill? It would be a shabby trick——'</p> - -<p>'All gentlemen, as far as I'm aware, ma'am, do shabby tricks sometimes. -There's that saying, "All's fair in love and war"; it's very -advantageous to them. I don't suppose the Count's heard it, though; he -knew very little English, poor young fellow!' But Motey might have -spoken more strongly had she realized how very passive was to be on this -occasion her rôle of duenna.</p> - -<p>At last the fiacre stopped opposite a narrow door let into a high blank -wall forming the side of one of those lonely quiet streets, almost -ghostly in their sunny stillness, which may yet be found in certain -quarters of modern Paris. Penelope gave her companion the choice of -waiting for her in the carriage or of walking up and down. Mrs. Mote did -not remonstrate with her mistress; she simply and sulkily expressed -great distrust of Paris cabmen in general, and her preference for the -pavement in particular. Then, with some misgiving, she saw Mrs. Robinson -ring the bell. The door in the wall swung back, framing a green lawn, -edged with bushes of blossoming lilac, against which Penelope's white -serge gown was silhouetted for a brief moment, before the bright vision -was shut out.</p> - -<p>First walking, then standing, on the other side of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> the street, finally -actually sitting on the edge of the pavement, but not before she had -assured herself even in the midst of her perturbation of spirit that it -was spotlessly clean, the old nurse waited during what seemed to her an -eternity of time, and went through what was certainly an agony of -fright.</p> - -<p>The worst kind of fear is unreasoning. Mrs. Mote's imagination conjured -up every horror; and nothing but the curious lack of initiative which -seems common to those who have lived in servitude held her back from -doing something undoubtedly foolish.</p> - -<p>At last, when she was making up her mind to something very desperate -indeed, though what form this desperate something should take she could -not determine, there fell on her ears, coming nearer and nearer, the -sound of deep sobbing. A few moments later the little green door, -opening slowly, revealed two figures, that of Mrs. Robinson, pale and -moved, but otherwise looking much as usual, and that of a stout, -middle-aged woman, dressed in black, who, crying bitterly, clung to her, -seeming loth to let her go.</p> - -<p>Very gently, and not till they were actually standing on the pavement -outside the open door, did Penelope disengage herself from the trembling -hands which sought to keep her. Motey did not understand the words, 'Mon -pauvre enfant, il vous aime tant! Vous reviendrez demain, n'est ce pas, -madame?' but she understood enough to say no word of her long waiting, -to give voice to no grumbling, as she and her mistress walked slowly -down the sunny street, after having seen the little green door shut -behind the short, homely figure, lacking all dignity save that of grief.</p> - -<p>In those days, as Mrs. Mote, sitting up there remembering in the -darkness, recalled with bitterness, Mrs. Robinson had had no confidante -but her old nurse, and Penelope had instantly begun pouring out, as was -her wont, the tale of all that had happened in the hour she had been -away.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Oh, Motey, that is his poor mother! It is so horribly sad. He is her -only child. Her husband was killed in the Franco-Prussian War when she -was quite a young woman, and she has given up her whole life to him. Now -the poor fellow is dying'—Penelope shuddered—'and I have promised to -go and see him every day till he does die.'</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>It was with no feeling of pity that Mrs. Mote now turned in her own mind -to the second episode.</p> - -<p>A journey to Madrid in search of pictured dons and high hidalgos had led -Mrs. Robinson to make the acquaintance of a Spanish gentleman, a certain -Don José Moricada; and the old Englishwoman, with her healthy contempt -of extravagance of behaviour and language, could now smile grimly as she -evoked the striking individuality of the man who had given her the worst -quarter of an hour she had ever known.</p> - -<p>At the time of their first meeting Don José had seemed to Penelope to -embody in his single person all the qualities which may be supposed to -have animated the noble models whose good fortune it was to be -immortalized by Velasquez; indeed, he ultimately proved himself -possessed to quite an inconvenient degree of the passion and living -fervour which the great artist, who was of all painters Penelope's most -admired master, could so subtly convey.</p> - -<p>With restrained ardour the Don had placed himself, almost at their first -meeting, at the beautiful Englishwoman's disposal, and Penelope had -seldom met with a more intelligent and unobtrusive cicerone. At his -bidding the heavy doors of old Madrid mansions, embowered in gardens, -and hidden behind gates which had never opened even to the most -courteous of strangers, swung back, revealing treasures hitherto<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> -jealously hidden from the foreign lover of Spanish art. Together they -had journeyed to the Escurial in leisurely old-world fashion, driving -along the arid roads and stony tracks so often traversed at mule gallop -by Philip of Arragon; and the mouldering courts of the great -death-haunted palace through which her Spanish gallant led Mrs. Robinson -had rarely seen the passage of a better contrasted couple.</p> - -<p>Softer hours were spent in the deserted scented gardens of Buen Retiro, -and not once did the Spaniard imply by word or gesture that he expected -his companion's assent to the significant Spanish proverb, <i>Dame ye -darte he</i> (Give to me, and I will give to thee).</p> - -<p>Penelope had never enjoyed a more delicate and inconsequent romance, or -a more delightful interlude in what was then a life overfull of unsought -pleasures and of interests sprung upon it. In those days Mrs. Robinson -had not found herself. She was even then still tasting, with a certain -tearfulness, the joys of complete freedom, and those who always lie in -wait, even if innocently, to profit by such freedoms, soon called her -insistently back to England.</p> - -<p>They had an abettor in Mrs. Mote, whose long-suffering love of her -mistress had seldom been more tried than during the sojourn in Spain, -spent by the maid in gloomy hotel solitude, or, more unpleasing still, -in company where she felt herself regarded by the Spaniard as an -intolerable and somewhat grotesque duenna, and by her mistress as a -bore, to be endured for kindness' sake. But the boredom of her old -nurse's companionship was not one which Penelope often felt called upon -to share with her indefatigable cavalier, and, as there came a time when -Don José and Mrs. Robinson seemed to the old nurse to be scarcely ever -apart, Mrs. Mote often felt both angry and lonely.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Penelope grew tired, not of Spain, but of Madrid, perhaps also -of her Spanish friend, especially when she discovered, with annoyance, -that he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> arranged, if not to accompany her, at least to travel on -the same days as herself first to Toledo, and thence to Seville. Also -something else had happened which had proved very distasteful to Mrs. -Robinson.</p> - -<p>The English Ambassador, an old friend of her parents, and a man who, as -he had begun by reminding Penelope at the outset of their detestable -conversation, was almost old enough to be her grandfather, had called on -Mrs. Robinson and said a word of caution.</p> - -<p>The word was carefully chosen; for the old gentleman was not only a -diplomatist, but he had lived in Spain so many years that he had caught -some of the Spanish elusiveness of language and courtesy of phrase. -Penelope, with reddening cheek, had at first made the mistake of -affecting to misunderstand him. Then, with British bluntness, he had -spoken out. 'Spaniards are not Englishmen, my dear young lady. You met -your new friend at my house, and so I feel a certain added -responsibility. Of course, I know you have been absolutely discreet; -still, I feel the time has come when I should warn you. These Spanish -fellows when in love sometimes give a lot of trouble.' He had jerked the -sentence out, angry with her, angrier perhaps with himself.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The day before Mrs. Robinson was leaving Madrid, and not, as she -somewhat coldly informed Don José Moricada, for Toledo, there was a -question of one last expedition.</p> - -<p>On the outskirts of the town, in an old house reputed to have been at -one time the country residence of that French Ambassador, Monsieur de -Villars, whose wife had left so vivid an account of seventeenth-century -Madrid, were to be seen a magnificent collection of paintings and -studies by Goya. According to tradition, they had been painted during -the enchanted period of the Don Juanesque artist's love passages with -the Duchess of Alba, and very early in her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> acquaintance with the -Spaniard Penelope had expressed a strong desire to see work done by the -great painter under such romantic and unusual circumstances. And Don -José had been at considerable pains to obtain the absent owner's -permission. His request had been acceded to only after a long delay, and -at a moment when Mrs. Robinson had become weary both of Madrid and of -her Spanish gallant's company.</p> - -<p>It seemed, however, churlish to refuse to avail herself of a favour -obtained with so much difficulty. For awhile she had hesitated; not only -did the warning of the old Ambassador still sound most unpleasantly in -her ears, but of late there had come something less restrained, more -ardent, in the attitude of the Spaniard, proving only too significantly -how right the old Englishman had been. But even were she to return -another year to Madrid, the opportunity of visiting this curious old -house and its, to her, most notable contents, was not likely to recur.</p> - -<p>The appointment for the visit to Los Francias was therefore made and -kept; but when Don José, himself driving the splendid English horses of -which he was so proud, called at the hotel for Mrs. Robinson, he found, -to his angry astonishment, that her old nurse, the maid he so disliked, -was to be of the company.</p> - -<p>During the drive, Mrs. Mote, in high good-humour at her approaching -release from Madrid, noticed with satisfaction that her mistress's -Spanish friend seemed preoccupied and gloomy, though Mrs. Robinson's -high spirits and apparent pleasure in the picturesque streets and byways -they passed through might well have proved infectious.</p> - -<p>At last Los Francias was reached; and after walking through deserted, -scented gardens, where Nature was disregarding, with triumphant success, -the Bourbon formality of myrtle hedges, marble fountains, and sunk -parterres, the ill-assorted trio found themselves<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> being ushered by a -man-servant, with great ceremony, into a large vestibule situated in the -centre of a house recalling rather a French château than a Spanish -country-house.</p> - -<p>In answer to a muttered word from the Spaniard, Mrs. Mote heard her -mistress answer decidedly: 'My maid would much prefer to come with us -than to stay here with a man of whose language she doesn't know a word. -Besides, this is <i>not</i> the last time. I hope to come back some day, and -you will surely visit England.'</p> - -<p>On hearing these words Don José had turned and looked at his beautiful -companion with a curious gleam in his small, narrow-lidded eyes, and a -foreboding had come to the old servant.</p> - -<p>The high rooms, opening the one into the other, still contained shabby -pieces of fine old French furniture, of which the faded gilding and -moth-eaten tapestries contrasted oddly with the vivid, strangely living -paintings which seemed ready to leap from the walls above them. The -heavy stillness, the utter emptiness, of the great salons oddly affected -the old Englishwoman, walking behind the other two; she felt a vague -misgiving, and was more than ever glad to remember that in a few days -Mrs. Robinson would have left Madrid.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, when strolling through the largest, and apparently the last of -the whole suite of rooms, Mrs. Mote missed her mistress and Don José.</p> - -<p>Had they gone forward or turned back? She looked round her, utterly -bewildered, then spied in the wall a narrow aperture to which admission -was apparently given by a hinged panel, hung, as was the rest of the -salon, with red brocade.</p> - -<p>This, then, was where and how the other two had disappeared. She felt -relieved, even a little ashamed of her unreasoning fear.</p> - -<p>For a moment she hesitated, then stepped through the aperture into a -narrow corridor, shaped like an S,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> and characteristic—but Motey knew -nothing of this—of French château architecture; for these curiously -narrow passages, tucked away in the thickness of the wall, form a link -between the state rooms of many a great palace and the 'little -apartments' arranged for their owner's daily and familiar use.</p> - -<p>The inner twist of the S-shaped corridor was quite dark, but very soon -Mrs. Mote found that the passage terminated with an ordinary door, -through which, the upper half being glazed, she saw her mistress and the -Spaniard engaged in an apparently very animated conversation.</p> - -<p>The room in which stood the two she sought was almost ludicrously unlike -those to which it was so closely linked by the passage in which the -onlooker was standing. Perhaps the present owner of the old house, or -more probably his wife, had found the Goyas oppressive company, for here -no pictures hung on brocaded walls; instead, the round, domed room, -lighted only from above, was lined with a gay modern wall-paper, of -which the design simulated a fruitful vine, trained against green -trellis-work. Modern French basket furniture, the worse for wear, was -arranged about a circular marble fountain, which, let into the tiled -floor, must have afforded coolness on the hottest day.</p> - -<p>Memories of former occupants, and of another age, were conjured up by a -First Empire table, pushed back against the wall; and opposite the door -behind which the old nurse stood peering was the entrance, wide open, to -a darkened room, while just inside this room Mrs. Mote was surprised to -see a curious sign of actual occupancy—a small, spider-legged table, on -which stood a decanter of white wine, a plate of chocolate cakes, and a -gold bowl full of roses.</p> - -<p>But these things were rather remembered later, for at the time the old -woman's whole attention was centred on her mistress and the latter's -companion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> Mrs. Robinson, her back turned to the darkened room beyond, -was standing by a slender marble pillar, rimmed at the top with a -tarnished gilt railing; a long grey silk cloak and boat-shaped hat, -covered with white ostrich feathers, accentuated her tall slenderness, -for in these early days of widowhood Penelope was exquisitely, -miraculously slender. With head bent and eyes cast down, she seemed to -be listening, embarrassed and ashamed, to Don José Moricada. One arm and -hand, the latter holding a glove, rested on the marble pillar, and her -whole figure, if instinct with proud submissiveness, breathed angry, -embarrassed endurance.</p> - -<p>As for the Spaniard, always sober of gesture, his arms folded across his -breast in the dignified fashion first taught to short men by Napoleon, -he seemed to be pouring out a torrent of eager, impassioned words, every -sentence emphasized by an imperious glance from the bright dark eyes, -which, as Mrs. Mote did not fail to remind herself, had always inspired -her with distrust.</p> - -<p>The unseen spectator of the singular scene also divined the -protestations, the entreaties, the reproaches, which were being uttered -in a language of which she could not understand one word.</p> - -<p>For a few moments she felt pity, even a certain measure of sympathy for -the man. To her thinking—and Mrs. Mote had her own ideas about most -matters—Penelope had brought this torrent of words and reproaches on -herself; but when the old nurse heard the voice of the Spaniard become -more threatening and less appealing, when she saw Mrs. Robinson suddenly -turn and face him, her head thrown back, her blue eyes wide open with -something even Motey had never seen in them before—for till that day -Penelope and Fear had never met—then the onlooker felt the lesson had -indeed lasted long enough, and that, even at the risk of angering her -mistress, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> time had come when she should interfere. Her hand sought -and found the handle of the door. She turned and twisted it this way and -that, but the door remained fast, and suddenly she realized that -Penelope was a prisoner.</p> - -<p>In this primitive, but none the less potent, way had the Spaniard made -himself, in one sense at least, master of the situation—the old eternal -situation between the man pursuing and the woman fleeing.</p> - -<p>Caring little whether she was now seen or not, Mrs. Mote pressed her -face closely to the glass pane. She looked at the lithe sinewy figure of -Penelope's companion with a curiously altered feeling; a great sinking -of the heart had taken the place of the pity and contempt of only a -moment before.</p> - -<p>For awhile neither Penelope nor Don José saw the face behind the door. -Mrs. Robinson had turned away, and had begun walking slowly round the -domed hall, her companion following her, but keeping his distance. At -last, when passing for the second time the open door leading to the -darkened room beyond, she had looked up, uttered an exclamation of angry -disgust, and had slackened her footsteps, while he, quickening his, had -decreased the space between them....</p> - -<p>When, in later life, Penelope unwillingly recalled the scene, her memory -preferred to dwell on the grotesque rather than on the sinister side of -the episode. But at the moment of ordeal—ah, then her whole being -became very literally absorbed in supplication to the dead two who when -living had never failed her: her father and Melancthon Robinson.</p> - -<p>They may have been permitted to respond, or perhaps a more explicable -cause may have brought about a revival of pride and good feeling in the -Spanish gentleman; for when there came release it seemed as if Mrs. Mote -was the unwitting <i>dea ex machina</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> - -<p>The two, moving within panther and doe wise, both saw, simultaneously, -the plain, homely face of Mrs. Robinson's old nurse staring in upon -them, and the sight, affording the woman infinite comfort and courage, -seemed to withdraw all power from the man, for very slowly, with -apparent reluctance, Don José Moricada turned on his heel, and unlocked -the door.</p> - -<p>The maid did not reply to the rebuke, uttered in a low tone, 'Oh, Motey, -we've been waiting for you such a long time.' Instead, she turned to the -Spaniard. 'My lady is tired, sir. Surely you've showed her enough by -now.'</p> - -<p>He bent his head, silently opening again the glazed door and waiting for -them to pass through, as his only answer.</p> - -<p>But Penelope's nerve had gone. She was clutching her old nurse's arm -with desperate tightening fingers. 'I can't go through there, Motey, -unless'—she spoke almost inaudibly—'unless you can make him walk -through first.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mote was quite equal to the occasion. 'Will you please go on, sir? -My mistress is nervous of the dark passage.'</p> - -<p>Again the Spaniard silently obeyed the old servant, and Penelope never -saw the look, full of passionate humiliation and dumb craving for -forgiveness, with which he uttered the words—though they brought vague -relief—explaining that he was leaving his groom to drive her and her -maid back to the hotel alone.</p> - -<p>During the moments which followed, Mrs. Robinson, looking straight -before her, spoke much of indifferent matters, and pointed out to Mrs. -Mote many an interesting and characteristic sight by the roadside; but -both the speaker's knee and the hands clasped across it trembled -violently the while, and when they were at last safely back again in the -hotel, after Mrs. Robinson had said some gracious words to Don José -Moricada's English groom, and had given him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> more substantial tokens of -her gratitude for the many pleasant drives she had taken with his noble -master, a curious thing happened.</p> - -<p>Having prepared the bath which had been her mistress's first order when -they found themselves in their own rooms, Motey, now quite her stolid -self again, on opening the sitting-room door, found her mistress engaged -in a strange occupation. Mrs. Robinson, still standing, was cutting the -long grey silk cloak, which she had been wearing but a moment before, -into a thousand narrow strips. The maid's work-basket, a survival of -Penelope's childhood—for it had been the little girl's first -birthday-gift to her nurse—had evidently provided the sharp cutting-out -scissors for the sacrifice.</p> - -<p>To a woman who has done much needlework there is something dreadful, -unnatural, in the wanton destruction of a faithful garment, and Mrs. -Mote stood looking on, silent indeed, but breathing protest in every -line of her short figure. But Penelope, after a short glance, had at -once averted her eyes, and completed her task with what seemed to the -other a dreadful thoroughness.</p> - -<p>Then the relentless scissors attacked the charming hat. Each long white -plume was quickly reduced to a heap of feathery atoms, and the -exquisitely plaited straw was slashed through and through. 'You can give -all the other things I have worn to-day to the chambermaid,' Mrs. -Robinson said quickly, 'and Motey—never, never speak of—of—our stay -here, in Madrid I mean, to me again. We shall leave to-night, not -to-morrow morning.'</p> - -<p class="space-above">And now, looking down below, seeing the moving figures pacing slowly all -together, then watching two of the shadowy forms detach themselves from -the rest, and wander off into the pine-wood, then back again, down the -steps which led to the lower moonlit terraces<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> and so to the darker -sea-shore, Mrs. Mote felt full of vague fears and suspicions.</p> - -<p>Again she felt as if she were standing behind a door, barred away from -her mistress. But, alas! this time it was Penelope who had turned the -key in the lock, Penelope pursuing rather than pursued, and longing for -the moment of surrender.</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> - -<blockquote><p>'L'Amour est comme la dévotion: il vient tard. On n'est -guère amoureuse ni devote à vingt ans ... les prédestinées -elles-mêmes luttent longtemps contre cette grace d'aimer, -plus terrible que la foudre qui tomba sur le chemin de Damas.'</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Anatole France.</span></p></blockquote> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>... 'a Shepherdess, and fair was she.</div> -<div>He found she dwelt in Stratford, E.,</div> -<div>Which ain't exactly Arcadee.'</div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The radiant stillness of early summer morning lay over the gardens of -Monk's Eype; and though the wide stone-flagged terrace was in shadow, -the newly-risen sun rioted gloriously beyond, flecking with pink and -silver the sheets of sand which spread their glistening spaces from the -shore to the sea.</p> - -<p>Cecily Wake, already up and dressed, sitting writing by her open window, -felt exquisitely content. The pungent scent thrown out by the geranium -bushes which rose from the curiously twisted vases set at intervals -along the marble balustrade floated up to where she sat, giving a -delicate keenness to the warm sea-wind. She longed to go out of doors -and make her way down to the little strip of beach which she knew lay -below the terraces and gardens; but the plain gold watch which had been -her father's, and a treasured possession of her own since she had left<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> -the convent school, told her that it was only a quarter to six.</p> - -<p>Alone the birds, the butterflies, and herself seemed to be awake, in -this enchanting and enchanted place, and she put the longing from her. -Now and again, as she looked up from the two account-books lying open -before her on the old-fashioned, rather rickety little table set at -right angles to the window, and saw before and below her the splendid -views of land and sea, came joyous anticipations of pleasant days to be -spent in the company of Mrs. Robinson. To her fellow-guests—to Downing, -to Wantley—she gave no thought at all. Winfrith alone was a possible -rival. She sighed a little as she remembered that Penelope had seen him -yesterday, and would doubtless see him to-morrow.</p> - -<p>The girl was well aware—for only the vain and the obtuse are not always -well aware of such things—that David Winfrith had no liking for her; -more, that he regarded her affection for Mrs. Robinson as slightly -absurd; worst of all, that he viewed with suspicion and disapproval her -connection with the Melancthon Settlement and its affairs.</p> - -<p>Some folk are born to charity—such was Cecily Wake; and some, in these -modern days at any rate, have charity thrust upon them—such, in the -matter of the Melancthon Settlement, was David Winfrith. Problems -affected him far more than persons; and though the apparently insoluble -problems of London poverty, London overcrowding, and London -thriftlessness, had become to him matters full of poignant concern, he -gave scarcely a thought to the individuals composing that mass of human -beings whose claims upon society he recognized in theory. What thought -he did give was extremely distasteful to him, perhaps because he -regarded those who now provided these problems as irrevocably condemned -and past present help.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> - -<p>Winfrith had never cared to join in the actual daily effort made by the -small group of educated, refined people, who were the precursors of the -many now trying to grapple with a state of things which the thinkers of -that time were just beginning to realize. Still, his hard good sense had -been of the utmost use to the Settlement, or rather to Mrs. Robinson, -during the years which immediately followed her husband's death.</p> - -<p>But though he had been the terror, and the vigorous chaser-forth, of the -sentimental faddist, he had at no time understood the value of that -grain of divine folly without which it is difficult to regain those, -themselves so foolish, that seem utterly lost.</p> - -<p>Winfrith had been astonished, and none too well pleased, when he had -found that certain of Cecily Wake's innovations, especially a -day-nursery where mothers could leave their babies throughout their long -working hours, had received the flattery of imitation from several of -the new philanthropic centres then beginning to spring up in all the -poorer quarters of the town. Cecily was full of the eager constructive -ardour of youth, and during the two years spent by her at the Settlement -her infectious energy had quickened into life more than one of the paper -schemes evolved by Melancthon Robinson.</p> - -<p>To the girl, in this early, instinctive stage of her life, problems were -nothing, individuals everything. The Catholic Church enjoins the duty of -personal charity, insisting upon its efficacy, both to those who give -and to those who receive, as opposed to that often magnificent -impersonal institutional philanthropy so much practised in this country. -Thus, Cecily's instinct in this direction had never been checked, and -the first sermon to which, as a child, she had listened with attention -and understanding had been one in which a Jesuit had insisted on the -duty of helping those who cannot, rather than those who can, help -themselves.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> - -<p>But even if Cecily Wake had never been taught the duty of charity, her -nature and instinct would have always impelled her to lift up those who -had fallen by the way, and to seek a cure for the apparently incurable. -Then, as sometimes happens, the burdens which others had refused became, -when she assumed them, surprisingly light; and often she felt abashed to -find with what approval, and openly-expressed admiration, her two -mentors at the Settlement, Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret, regarded -some action or scheme which had cost her nothing but a happy thought and -a little hard work to carry through.</p> - -<p>Cecily, an old-fashioned girl, was humble-minded, and far more easily -cast down by a word of admonition concerning some youthful fault or want -of method than lifted up by successes which sometimes seemed to those -about her to be of the nature of miracles.</p> - -<p>Even now, on this the first morning of her holiday, she was struggling -painfully with the simple accounts of the day-nursery; for she had -promised Mrs. Pomfret to make out a detailed statement of what its cost -had actually been during the past month, and as she caught herself -repeating 'Five and four make fifty-four,' she felt heartily ashamed of -herself, knowing that Winfrith would indeed despise her if he knew how -difficult she found this simple task!</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>There came a sudden sound below her window, the muffled tread of steps -on the stone flags, and the tall, angular figure of Sir George Downing -strode into view. He was bare-headed, but about his square, powerful -shoulders hung the old-fashioned cloak which had attracted Wantley's -attention the afternoon before. When he reached the marble parapet -Cecily saw that he was carrying a large red despatch-box, which he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> -placed, and then leant upon, across the flat, weather-stained top of the -balustrade.</p> - -<p>As she gazed at the motionless, almost stark figure, of which the head -was now sunk between the shoulders, Cecily felt that he strangely -disturbed her peaceful impression of the scene, and that, while in no -sense attracted by, or even specially interested in him, she was -curiously conscious of his silent, pervading presence.</p> - -<p>She tried to remember what Lord Wantley had said to her the evening -before concerning this same fellow-guest, for after the two men had -joined their hostess on the terrace, Mrs. Robinson and Downing, leaving -the younger couple, had wandered off into the pine-wood which formed a -scented rampart between Monk's Eype, its terraces and gardens, and the -open down.</p> - -<p>At once Wantley had spoken to his companion of the famous man, and of -his life-history, which he seemed to think must be familiar to Cecily as -it was to himself. 'If you are as romantic as all nice young ladies -should be, and as, I believe, they are,' he had said, 'you must feel -grateful to Mrs. Robinson for giving you the opportunity of meeting such -a remarkable man. Even I, <i>blasé</i> as I am, felt a thrill to-day when I -realized that Persian Downing was actually here.' There had been a -twinkle in his eye as he spoke, but even so his listener had felt that -he meant what he said.</p> - -<p>Like most young people, Cecily dreaded above all things being made to -look foolish, and so, not knowing what to answer—for she knew but -little of Persia and nothing at all of Sir George Downing—she had -wisely remained silent. But now she reddened as she remembered how -ignorant and how awkward she must have seemed to her dear Penelope's -cousin, and she made up her mind that she would this very day ask Mrs. -Robinson why Sir George Downing was famous,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> and why Lord Wantley -considered him specially interesting to the romantic.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Almost at once came the opportunity. There was a light tap at the door, -and as it opened Cecily saw Penelope, a finger to her lips, standing in -the wide corridor, of which the citron-coloured walls were hung with -large, sharply-defined black-and-white engravings of Italian scenery and -Roman temples.</p> - -<p>For a moment they stood smiling at one another; then Mrs. Robinson -beckoned to the girl to come to her. 'I thought it just possible you -might already be up,' she whispered, 'and that you would like to come -down to the shore. Last night I promised Sir George Downing to take him -early to the Beach Room, which I have had arranged in order that he may -be able to work there undisturbed.' Then, as together they walked down -the corridor, she added: 'I am afraid he has been already waiting some -time, for I found it so difficult to dress myself—without Motey, I -mean!' and, with a graver note in her voice, 'It's rather terrible,' she -said, 'to think how dependent one may become on another human being. -Poor old Motey! from her point of view I could not possibly exist -without her. When I was abroad—last spring, I mean—I often got up -quite early to paint, but Motey always managed to be earlier—I never -could escape her! However, to-day I've succeeded, and you, child, are a -quite as efficient, and a much pleasanter chaperon.'</p> - -<p>Cecily did not stop to wonder what Mrs. Robinson could mean by these -last words, uttered with strange whispering haste. She had at once -noticed, as people generally do notice any change in a loved or admired -presence, that her friend this morning looked unlike herself; but a -moment's thought had shown that this was owing to the way in which -Penelope had dressed her hair. The red-brown masses, instead of being<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> -cunningly coiled above and round the face, had been thrust into a gold -net, thus altering in appearance the very shape of their owner's head, -of her slender neck, and even, or so it seemed to her companion, of the -delicate, cameo-like features. Cecily was not sure whether she approved -of the change, and Mrs. Robinson caught the look of doubt in the girl's -ingenuous eyes.</p> - -<p>'Yes, I know I failed with my hair! In that one matter Motey will be -able to exult; but, fortunately, I remembered that I had a net. My -father had it made in Italy for mamma, and all through my childhood she -always wore it, I envying her the possession. One day when I was ill -(you know I was far too cosseted and pampered as a child) I said to her: -"I'm sure I should get well quicker if you would only lend me your gold -net!"—for I was a selfish, covetous little creature—and, of course, -she did give it me. But poor mamma never got back her net. After I was -tired of wearing it, or trying to wear it, I made a breastplate of it -for my favourite doll. I kept it more than twice seven years, and now -you see I've found a use for it!'</p> - -<p>They were already halfway down the staircase which connected the upper -story of Monk's Eype with the hall, when came the earnest question: -'Penelope, I want to ask you—now—before we go out, why Sir George -Downing is famous, and what he has done to make him so?'</p> - -<p>For a moment Mrs. Robinson made no answer. Then Cecily, her feet already -on the rug laid below the lowest marble stair, felt a firm hand on her -shoulder. Surprised, she turned and looked up. Penelope stood two or -three steps higher, and though the younger woman in time forgot the -actual words, she always remembered their gist, and the rapt, glowing -look, the deliberation, with which they had been uttered.</p> - -<p>'I am glad you have asked me this. I meant—I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> wanted—to speak to you -of him yesterday, before you met him. For, Cecily'—the speaker's hand -leaned heavily on the girl's slight shoulder, and her next words, though -not uttered loudly, rang out as a confession of faith,—'if my -acquaintance with Sir George Downing has been short, and I admit that it -has been so, measured by time, his friendship and—and—his regard have -become very much to me. I reverence the greatness of his mind, of his -heart, and of his aims. Some day you will be proud to remember that you -once met him.'</p> - -<p>A little colour suffused the speaker's face, seeming to intensify the -blue of her clear, unquailing eyes, to make memorable the words she had -said.</p> - -<p>More indifferently she presently added: 'As to why he has lately become -what you call famous, ask the reason of my cousin, Lord Wantley. He will -give what is, I suppose, the true explanation—namely, that Sir George -Downing has of late years revealed himself as a brilliant diplomatist, -as well as a remarkable writer, able to describe, as no one else has -been able to do, the strange country which has become his place of work -and dwelling. Other circumstances have also led, almost by accident, to -his name becoming known, and his life in Persia discussed, by the sort -of people whose approval and interest confer fame.'</p> - -<p>In silence they walked together across the hall to the glass door, -through which could be seen, darkly outlined against the line of sea, -the angular, bent figure of the man of whom they had been speaking.</p> - -<p>And then Mrs. Robinson again opened her lips; again the clear voice -vibrated with intense, unaccustomed feeling: 'I should like to say one -more thing—Always remember that Sir George Downing has never sought -recognition; and though it has come at last, it has come too late. Too -late, I mean, to atone for a great injustice done to him as a young -man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>—too late to be now of any real value to him, unless it helps him -to achieve the objects he has in view.'</p> - -<p>But though the words were uttered with a solemnity, a passion of -protest, which made the voice falter, when speaker and listener joined -Downing, it was Cecily whose hazel eyes were full of pity, Penelope -whose radiant and now softened beauty made the man, tired and seared -with life, whose cause she had been so gallantly defending, feel, as he -turned to meet her, once more young and glad.</p> - -<p>That sunny morning hour altered, and in a measure transformed and -deepened, Cecily Wake's emotional nature. Then was she brought into -contact, for the first time, with the rarefied atmosphere of a great, -even if unsanctified passion, and that she was, and for some -considerable time remained, ignorant of its presence and nearness made -the effect on her mind and heart, if anything, more subtle and enduring.</p> - -<p>To this convent-bred orphan girl Love was the lightsome pagan deity, -synonymous with Youth, whose arrows sometimes stung, perhaps even -fastened into the wound, but who threw no shadow as he walked the earth, -seeking the happy girls and boys who had leisure and opportunity—Cecily -was very human, and sometimes found time to sigh that she had -neither—to enjoy the pretty sport of love-making, with the logical -outcome of ideal marriage.</p> - -<p>Life just then would have been a very different matter had she realized -that Cupid spent a considerable portion of his time in the neighbourhood -of the Settlement, and not always with the happiest results. Of course, -Cecily knew that even in Stratford East there were happy lovers, such, -for instance, the girl for whom she destined Penelope's wedding-ring; -but on the whole she was inclined to believe that Cupid reserved his -attentions, or at any rate his swiftest arrows, for those young people -who enjoy the double advantage of good birth and wealth. Even them she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> -would have thought more likely to meet with Cupid in the country than in -the town, just as the believer in fairyland finds it impossible to -associate the Little People with the London pavement, however much he -may hope to meet with them some day sporting in grassy glades or under -the hedgerows.</p> - -<p>And so, while the other two were well aware that Love walked with them, -down the steep steps cut out of the soft blue lias rock, Cecily Wake was -utterly unconscious of his nearness, and this although the unseen -presence quickened her own sensibilities, and made her more ready to -receive new and unsought emotions.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>To Mrs. Robinson, looking up into Downing's face, full of fearful, -exultant joy in his presence—she had not felt sure that he would really -come to Monk's Eype—the Beach Room, as arranged by her for her great -man, cried the truth aloud.</p> - -<p>Very divergently does love act on different natures, sometimes, alas! -bringing out all that is grotesque and absurd in a human being, happily -more often evoking an intelligent tenderness which seeks to promote the -material happiness of the beloved.</p> - -<p>Penelope had spent happy hours preparing the place where Downing, while -under her roof, was to do the work he had so much at heart, and nothing -had been omitted from the Beach Room which could minister to his -peculiar ideals of comfort.</p> - -<p>On the large table, where twenty odd years before the little Penelope -Wantley and the dour-faced boy, David Winfrith, had set up their mimic -fleets of wooden boats, were many objects denoting how special had been -her care. Thus, in addition to the obvious requirements of a writer, -stood a replica of the old-fashioned opaquely-shaded reading-lamp which -she knew was always included in his travelling kit; close<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> to the lamp -were simple appliances for the making of coffee, for she was aware of -Downing's almost morbid dislike to the presence, about him, of servants; -and, behind a tall eighteenth-century screen, brought from China to Wyke -Regis by some seafaring man a hundred years ago, was a camp-bed which -would enable the worker, if so minded, to remain with his work all -night.</p> - -<p>Apart from these things, the large room had been left bare of ordinary -furniture, but across the uneven oak boards, never wholly free from -cobweb-like sheets of glittering grey sand, were strips of carpet, for -Penelope had remembered Downing's once telling her that he generally -came and went barefooted in that mysterious Persian dwelling—part -fortress, part palace—to which her thoughts now so often turned with a -strange mingling of dread and longing.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The man for whom all these preparations had been made, after passing -through the heavy wooden door which shut out wind, sand, and spray, -paused a moment and looked about him abstractedly.</p> - -<p>Downing had always been curiously sensitive to the spirit and influence -of place, and the oddly-shaped bare room, partly excavated from the -cliff, into which for the moment no sun penetrated, struck him with -sudden chill and gloom. Mrs. Robinson, intently watching him, aware of -every flicker of feeling sweeping over the lean, strongly-accentuated -features, saw the momentary hesitation, the darkening of his face, and -there came over her, also, a feeling of sharp misgiving, a fear that all -was not well with him.</p> - -<p>Since they had first looked into one another's eyes, Penelope had never -felt Downing to be so remote from herself as during the brief hours they -had spent together the evening before; and now he still seemed to be -mentally withdrawn, communing apart in a place whither she could not -follow him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> - -<p>Standing there in the Beach Room, she asked herself whether, after all, -she had not been wrong to compel him to come to Monk's Eype, imprudent -to subject him, and herself, to such an ordeal. Yet, at the time she had -first proposed his coming, she had actually made herself believe that in -this way would be softened the blow she knew herself about to inflict on -those who loved her, and those whose respect she was eager to retain. 'I -want my mother to meet you,' she had said, in answer to a word of -hesitation, even, as she now saw looking back, of repugnance, on -Downing's part, 'for then, later, she will understand, even if she does -not approve, what I am about to do.'</p> - -<p>And so at her bidding he had come; and now, this morning, they both -knew, and felt ashamed to know, how completely successful they had been -in concealing the truth from those about them.</p> - -<p>That first night, when out of earshot of Lord Wantley and Cecily Wake, -Downing's words, uttered when they had found themselves alone for the -first time for many days, had been: 'I feel like a thief—nay, like a -murderer—here!' And yet, as she had eagerly reminded herself, he had -stolen nothing as yet—that is to say, nothing tangible—only her -heart—the heart which had proved so enigmatical a Will-o'-the-wisp to -many a seeker.</p> - -<p>And now, returning up the steep steps, going up slowly, as if she were -bearing a burden, with Cecily silent by her side, respecting her mood, -Mrs. Robinson blamed herself, with something like anguish, for not -having been content to let Downing stay on in London. When there he had -written to her twice, sometimes three times, a day, letters which seemed -to bring him much nearer to herself than she felt him to be now, for -they had been of ardent prevision of a time when they would be always -together, side by side, heart to heart, in that far-away country which -had become to her full of mysterious glamour and delight.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> - -<p>She stayed her steps, and, turning, looked at the sea with a long -wavering look, as she remembered, and again with a feeling of shame, -though she was glad to know that this could not be in any sense shared -by Downing, that one reason she had urged for his coming had been the -nearness to Monk's Eype of David Winfrith's home.</p> - -<p>She had become aware that, by lingering with her so long in France while -on his way to England, Downing had lost a chance of furthering his -political and financial projects.</p> - -<p>The former Government had consisted of men who, even if not friendly to -himself, sympathized with his aims; but now, among the members of the -incoming Liberal Ministry, Persian Downing was looked at with suspicion, -and regarded as one who desired to embroil his country with the great -European Power who is only dangerous, according to Liberal tradition, -when aggressively aroused from her political torpor.</p> - -<p>Winfrith alone among the new men was known to have other views. He had -in a sense made his name by a book concerning Asian problems, and Mrs. -Robinson, with feminine shrewdness, felt sure that he would not be able -to resist the chance of meeting, in an informal way, the man who -admittedly knew more of Persia and its rulers than any Englishman alive.</p> - -<p>No woman, save, perhaps, she who only lives to make a sport of men, -cares to be present as third at the meeting of a man who loves her and -of the man whom she herself loves. And so Penelope had arranged in her -own mind that her cousin, Lord Wantley, should be the link between -Winfrith and Downing.</p> - -<p>She had, however, meant to prepare the way, and it was with that object -in view that she had asked Winfrith to ride with her the day before. But -to her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> surprise, almost to her indignation and self-contempt, she had -found that the name of Sir George Downing, from her to her old friend, -had literally stuck in her throat, and she had been relieved when she -found that Winfrith was to be for some days absent from the -neighbourhood.</p> - -<p class="space-above">When she and Cecily were once more standing on the broad terrace spread -out before the villa, Mrs. Robinson broke her long silence. Resolutely -she put from her the painful thoughts and the perplexities which had -possessed her, and 'It must be very nice,' she said, 'to be a good girl. -I was always a very naughty girl; but I am good now, and I want to beg -your pardon for having been so very horrid to you yesterday—I mean -about the ring.'</p> - -<p>'Be horrid to me again,' said Cecily, 'but never beg my pardon; I don't -like to hear you do it. Besides,' she added quaintly, 'you can never be -really horrid to me, for I shall not let you be.'</p> - -<p>'You are a comfortable friend, child, if even rather absurd at times. -But now about this morning. I have arranged for Ludovic to drive you and -Miss Theresa over to the monastery. We won't mention the plan to mamma, -because she thinks Beacon Abbas the abiding-place of seven devils.'</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid Aunt Theresa won't be well enough to get up to-day; but, of -course, I can go to church by myself.'</p> - -<p>'In that case, you and Ludovic can walk across the cliffs. It will be a -good opportunity for you to describe to him the delights of the -Settlement, and perhaps to make him feel a little ashamed of having done -so little to help us.'</p> - -<p>They were now close to the open windows of the dining-room, and Cecily -could see the stately figure of Lady Wantley bending over a small table, -on which lay, open, a large Bible.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>An hour later an oddly-assorted couple set out for Beacon Abbas, bound -for the monastery which had been so great an eyesore to the famous -Evangelical peer.</p> - -<p>Wantley's critical taste soon found secret fault with the blue-and-white -check cotton gown, which, if it intensified the wearer's pure colouring, -was surely unsuited to do battle with sea-wind; the sailor-hat, however, -was more what the young man, to himself, called <i>de circonstance</i>; but -he groaned inwardly over the clumsy shape of the brown laced shoes which -encased what he divined to be the pretty, slender feet of his companion, -and he thoroughly disapproved of a shabby little black bag fastened to -her belt.</p> - -<p>It must be admitted that Cecily did not compare, outwardly at least, -very favourably with the three girls who had formed part of the -house-party he had left the day before, though even in them, as regarded -their minds, however, not their appearance, Wantley had found plenty to -cavil at.</p> - -<p>Perhaps Cecily's critic would have been surprised and rather nettled, -had he known that he also was undergoing a keen scrutiny, and one not -altogether favourable, from the candid eyes which he had soon decided -were the best feature in the girl's serious face.</p> - -<p>Wantley's loosely-knit figure, of only medium height, clad in what even -she realized were somewhat unconventional clothes for church-going; the -short pointed beard (Cecily felt sure that only old gentlemen were -entitled to wear beards); the grey eyes twinkling under light eyebrows; -the nondescript light-brown hair brushed sleekly across the lined -forehead—these did not compose a whole according well with her ideal of -young manhood. But, after all, Penelope had declared her cousin to be -quite clever enough<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> to be of use to the Settlement. There, as Cecily -knew well, even the most unpromising educated human material could -almost always be made useful: already, in imagination, she saw Lord -Wantley teaching an evening class of youths to draw, for surely Mrs. -Robinson had said he was a good artist.</p> - -<p>As they walked along the path through the pine-wood, the fresh, keen -air, the sunlight falling slantwise through the pine-trees, softened the -young man's mood. He felt inclined to bless the girl for her silence: -inpertinent appreciation of nature was one of the traits he found most -odious in those of his young countrywomen with whom fate—and -Penelope—had hitherto brought him in contact. Wantley far preferred the -honest—but, oh, how rare!—girl Philistines who bluntly avowed -themselves blind to the charms of sea, land, and sky.</p> - -<p>Not that he felt inclined to include Cecily Wake among these. He had -seen her face when a sudden bend of the path had revealed the long -turning coast-line, and spread the wide seas below them; but she had -uttered no exclamation, refrained from trite remark, and so the heart of -this rather fantastic young man warmed to her.</p> - -<p>'And now,' he said, holding open the wicket-gate which led from the wood -to the open stretch of down—'and now that the moment has come to reveal -our mutual aversions, I will begin by confessing that quite my pet -aversion in life has long been your Settlement.' Then, as his companion -only reddened by way of answer, he altered his tone, and added more -seriously: 'I esteem all that I have ever heard of Melancthon Robinson. -I never saw him, for I was in America both when the marriage and when -his death took place, but I have no patience with sham playing at -Christian Socialism. Of course, I know that the Melancthon Settlement -was but a pioneer of better things, and that it has led the way to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> -establishment of several more practical undertakings.' (Here Cecily bit -her lip.) 'But when I think of all that my uncle—I of course mean -Penelope's father—accomplished in the way of really benefiting and -bettering the condition of our working people, and that, I imagine, -without ever even seeing the East End—when I consider how he would have -regarded the Melancthon Settlement——'</p> - -<p>He smiled a rather ugly smile, but still Cecily Wake made no answer. -Nettled by her silence, he added suddenly: 'I will give you an instance -of what I mean. You know my cousin Penelope?'</p> - -<p>For the first time Wantley realized that the girl walking by his side -had a peculiarly charming smile, and he altered, because of that smile, -what he had meant to be a franker expression of feeling.</p> - -<p>'Now, honestly, Miss Wake, can you imagine Penelope, even in intention, -living an austere life among the London poor, and occasionally pulling -them up by the roots to see if they were growing better under her -earnest guidance? The fact that young Robinson thought it possible that -she should ever do so added, to my mind, a touch of absurdity to what -was, after all, a sad business.'</p> - -<p>'And yet he and she did really live and work at the Settlement,' -objected Cecily quietly, and he was rather disappointed that she showed -so little vehemence in defence of her friend.</p> - -<p>'That's true, tho' I believe Penelope was very often away during the -four months the marriage lasted, it was a new experience, and we all -enjoy—Penelope more than most of us, perhaps—new experiences and new -emotions.'</p> - -<p>'But our people'—the girl spoke as if she had not heard his last words, -and Wantley was pleased with the low, rounded quality of her voice—'our -people, those of them who are still there, for you know that they come -and go in that part of London, have never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> forgotten that time: I mean -when Penelope lived at the Settlement. Perhaps you think that poor -people do not care about beautiful things; if so, you would be surprised -to see how those to whom Mrs. Robinson gave drawings treasure them, how -they ask after her, how eager they are to see her!'</p> - -<p>'She doesn't often give them that pleasure.' The retort was too obvious. -He delighted in being Devil's Advocate, and it amused him to see the -colour at last come and go in cheeks still pale from too long -acquaintance with London air.</p> - -<p>But the time had come to call a truce. The little town of Wyke Regis lay -below them, looking, even to the boats lying on the sea, like a medieval -map, and, for some time before they reached the road leading to the -monastery, they could see streams of people passing through the great -doors, which, forming a true French <i>porte-cochère</i>, gave access first -to monastic buildings built round three sides of a vast paved courtyard, -and then to the spacious gardens and orchard, where jutted out the -curious miniature basilica which had been the pride and pleasure of the -Popish Lord Wantley.</p> - -<p>To Cecily's surprise, perhaps a little to her disappointment, Wantley -refused to accompany her into the chapel; instead, he remained outside -in the sunshine, smoking one cigarette after another, and amusing -himself by deciphering the brief inscriptions on the plain slabs of -stone which, sunk into the grass under and among the apple-trees, marked -the graves of two generations of French monks.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Cecily Wake—for they had arrived some minutes late, and Wyke -Regis was now full of summer visitors—knelt down at the back of the -chapel, among the curiously miscellaneous crowd of men and women -generally to be found gathered together just within the doors of a -Catholic place of worship.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> - -<p>After she had said her simple prayers, not omitting the three requests, -one of which at least she trusted would be granted, according to the old -belief that such a favour is extended to those who enter for the first -time a duly consecrated church, Cecily, during the chanting of the -Creed, allowed her eyes to wander sufficiently to enjoy the singular -beauty and ornate splendour of the monastery chapel.</p> - -<p>She soon saw which were the windows connected with Penelope's family. On -the one was emblazoned the mailed figure of St. George crushing the -dragon, presumably of Wantley, under his spurred heel. Obviously of the -same period was the St. Cecilia, who, sitting at an old-fashioned -Italian spinet, seemed to be charming the ears of two musically-minded -angels. More crude in colouring, and more utilitarian in design, was the -figure of good St. Louis dispensing justice under the traditional rood: -this last window, as the girl was aware, was that which the young man, -who had refused to come into the chapel, had raised to the memory of his -own father.</p> - -<p>Just as the bell rang, warning those not in sight of the high-altar that -the most solemn portion of the Mass was about to begin, there arose, -close to where Cecily was kneeling with her face buried in her hands, -the loud, discordant cry of an ailing child.</p> - -<p>Various pious persons at once turned and threw shocked glances at a -woman who, alone seated among the kneeling throng, and herself nodding -with fatigue, was shifting from one arm to another a fat curly-headed -little boy, whom Cecily, now well versed in such lore, instinctively -guessed to be about two years old.</p> - -<p class="space-above">A few minutes later, Wantley, tired of waiting in the deserted orchard, -pushed open the red-baize door.</p> - -<p>At first he saw nothing; then, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the -dimmer light, he became<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> aware that at the end of a little lane of -people, and outlined against a rose-coloured marble pillar, stood the -blue-clad figure of a young woman holding to her breast a little child, -the two thus forming the immemorial group which has kept its hold on the -imagination of Christendom throughout the ages.</p> - -<p>Cecily was swaying rhythmically, now forward, now backward, her head -bent over that of the child. She did not see Wantley, being wholly -absorbed in her task of quieting and comforting the little creature now -cradled in her arms; but he, as he looked at her, felt as if he then saw -her for the first time.</p> - -<p>Over the whole scene brooded a curious stillness, the stillness with -which he was already familiar, owing to his haunting, when abroad, the -long Sunday services held alike in the great cathedrals and the little -village churches of France and Italy.</p> - -<p>Long years afterwards, Wantley, happening to be present at one of those -futile conversations in which are discussed the first meetings of those -destined to know each other well, in answer to the somewhat impertinent -question, uttered, however, by a youthful and therefore privileged -voice, 'And do you, Lord Wantley, remember your first meeting with her?' -answered in all good faith: 'I first saw her in our Roman Catholic -chapel at Beacon Abbas, nursing a little beggar child. She wore a bright -blue frock, and what I took to be a halo; as a matter of fact it was a -sailor-hat!' And then, from more than one of those that were present, -came the words, 'How nice! and how exactly what one would have expected -from what one knows of her now!' And Wantley, happy Wantley, saw no -cause to say them nay.</p> - -<p>Yet the half-hour which followed might well have effaced the memory of a -more tangible vision, and have impressed a man less whimsical and -easy-going as almost intolerably prosaic.</p> - -<p>After the congregation had dispersed, he had had to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> wait at a short -distance, but not, as he congratulated himself, out of earshot, while -Cecily Wake and the Irish mother of the ailing child held what seemed to -be an interminable conversation. The listener then became acquainted, -for the first time, with certain not uninteresting data as to how the -citizens of our great Empire are prepared for their struggle through -existence. He learnt that the child's first meal that Sunday, -administered by the advice of 'a very knowing woman,' had consisted of a -half-glass of the best bitters and of a biscuit; he overheard Cecily's -realistic if gently worded description of what effect this diet was -likely to have on an unfortunate baby's interior, and he admired the way -in which the speaker mingled practical advice with praise of the poor -little creature's prettiness.</p> - -<p>Finally, from the shabby waist bag Wantley had looked at with so much -disfavour a couple of hours before, Cecily took a leaflet, which she -handed to the woman, the gift being softened by the addition of a -two-shilling piece. He heard her say, 'This is milk money; you will not -spend it on anything else, will you?' And there had followed a few -mysterious sentences, uttered in lower tones, of which Wantley had -caught the words, 'afternoon,' 'Benediction,' 'fits,' and 'doctor.'</p> - -<p>At last the woman had shuffled away with her now quiescent burden, and -as they passed through the monastery gates Wantley saw with concern that -his companion looked pale and tired. 'If you propose coming back here -this afternoon, and seeing that woman again,' he said with kindly -authority, 'I will drive you over. Perhaps by that time your aunt will -be well enough to come too.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I hope not!' Cecily's expression of dismay was involuntary. 'Aunt -Theresa only likes my helping poor people whom I know about already,' -she explained.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> - -<p>'And does she approve of the Settlement?' He could not forbear the -question. The girl blushed and shook her head, smiling. 'Of course not. -She feels about the Settlement much as you do, only she thinks all that -sort of work ought to be left to nuns. But Mrs. Robinson persuaded the -Mother Superior of the convent where I was brought up, to write and tell -Aunt Theresa that she might at least let me try and see if I could do -what Penelope proposed.'</p> - -<p>'I think that Penelope has had decidedly the best of the bargain,' -Wantley rejoined dryly; for now, looking at his companion with new eyes -of solicitude, he saw the effects of that work which he also thought -might well be left to nuns, or at any rate to women older than Cecily. -But he was somewhat taken aback when, encouraged by the kindly glance, -his young companion exclaimed impulsively, 'Why are you—what makes -you—so unfair to Penelope? And why have you always refused to have -anything to do with the Settlement?'</p> - -<p>Wantley turned and looked at her rather grimly. 'So ho!' he said to -himself, 'my shortcomings have evidently been revealed. That's too bad!' -And then, aloud, he answered, quite gravely, 'If I am unfair to my -cousin—I mean, of course, unduly so—she is suffering for the sins of -her parents, or perhaps I should say of her father, by whom, as you are -possibly aware, I was adopted in a sort of fashion after the death of my -mother.'</p> - -<p>Cecily looked at him surprised. To her apprehension, the great Lord -Wantley had been one of those men who, in another and a holier age, -might well have been canonized. Of Lady Wantley she knew, or thought she -knew, less—indeed, they had never met till the evening before; but, -while admitting to herself her own complete lack of comprehension of the -older woman's peculiar religious views, Cecily was prepared to idealize -her in the double character of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> famous philanthropist's widow and as -Penelope's mother.</p> - -<p>But Wantley, his easy-going nature now singularly moved and stirred, was -determined not to spare her.</p> - -<p>In short, dry sentences he told her of his happy childhood, of his -father's conversion to the Catholic faith, followed shortly after by -that now ruined father's death. Of Lord Wantley's reluctant adoption of -him, coupled with a refusal to give him the education he had himself -received, and which is, in a sense, the birthright of certain -Englishmen.</p> - -<p>He described, shortly indeed, but with a sharpness born of long-endured -bitterness, the years which he had spent as an idle member of Lord and -Lady Wantley's large household. Instinct warned him to pass lightly over -Penelope's share in his early troubles and humiliations; but there were -things in his recital which recalled, as almost every moving story -generally does recall, episodes in the listener's own life; and when at -last he looked at her, partly ashamed of his burst of confidence, he saw -that he had been successful in presenting his side of the story, more, -that Cecily was looking at him with new-born sympathy and interest.</p> - -<p>Then a slight accident turned the current of their thoughts into a -brighter and a lighter channel. Wantley suddenly dropped the heavy old -Prayer-Book of which he had taken charge, and, as it fell on to the -path, what seemed a page detached itself, and, fluttering out, was -caught between the tiny twigs of a briar-bush. As he bent to rescue and -restore, he could not help seeing that what was lying face upwards on -the mass of little leaves was one of the 'Holy Pictures' so often placed -by Catholics as markers in their books of devotion.</p> - -<p>On the upper half of the small white card had been pasted an inch-square -engraving of a little child guided by its guardian angel, while -underneath was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> rudely written, in a childish handwriting, each word so -formed as to resemble printing: 'Dear Angel, help me to-day to practise -Obedience, Punctuality, and Kindness, for the love of the Holy Child and -His blessed Mother.'</p> - -<p>As Wantley placed the little card back again between the leaves of -Cecily's shabby Prayer-Book, of which the title, 'The Path to Heaven,' -pleased him by its unquestioning directness, he said, smiling, 'And may -I ask if you still believe, Miss Wake, in the actual constant presence, -near to you, of a guardian angel?'</p> - -<p>'Of course I do!' She looked at him with wide-open eyes of surprise.</p> - -<p>'But,' he said deferentially, 'isn't that a little awkward sometimes, -even for you?'</p> - -<p>Cecily made what was for her a great mental leap.</p> - -<p>'Isn't everything—of that sort—a little awkward, sometimes, for all of -us?' she asked.</p> - -<p>'Yes,' he said; 'there must be times when guardian angels must feel -inclined to edge off somewhat, eh? or do you think they fly off for rest -and change when their charges annoy them by being contrary?'</p> - -<p>Cecily looked at him doubtfully. He spoke quite seriously, but she -thought it just possible that he was laughing at her. 'I suppose that -they do not remain long with very wicked people,' she said at last, and -he saw a frown of perplexity pucker her white forehead. 'But I'm sure -they do all they can to keep us good.'</p> - -<p>'I wonder,' he said reflectively, 'what limitation you would put to -their power? To give you an instance; you admit that had your aunt been -at church to-day you could not have taken charge of that poor baby, or -afterwards helped, as you most certainly did help, its tired mother. -Now, do you suppose that this baby's guardian angel provoked, by some -way best known to itself, your excellent aunt's headache?'</p> - -<p>'Laugh at me,' she said, smiling a little vexedly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> 'but not at our own -or at other people's guardian angels; for I suppose even you would admit -that if they are with us they have feelings which may be hurt?'</p> - -<p>As he held the wicket-gate open for her to pass through from the cliff -path into the pine-wood boundary of Monk's Eype, Wantley said suddenly: -'I wonder if you have ever read a story called "In the Wrong Paradise"?' -and as Cecily shook her head he added: 'Then never do so! I am sure your -guardian angel would not at all approve of the moral it sets out to -convey.' And then, just as she was going up from the flagged terrace -into the central hall of the villa, he said, the laughter dying wholly -out of his voice: 'And if I may do so, let me tell you that I hope, with -all my heart, that I may ultimately be found worthy to enter whichever -may happen to be <i>your</i> Paradise.'</p> - -<p>A look of great kindness, of understanding more than he had perhaps -meant to convey, came over Cecily's candid eyes. She made no answer, but -as she ran upstairs to her aunt's room she said to herself: 'Poor -fellow! Of course he means the Church. Oh, I must pray hard that he may -some day find his way to his father's Paradise and mine!'</p> - -<p class="space-above">She found her aunt lying down, and apparently asleep, on the broad -comfortable old sofa which was placed across the bottom of the bed, -opposite the window. The pretty room, hung with blue Irish linen forming -an admirable background to Mrs. Robinson's fine water-colours, looked -delightfully cool to the girl's tired eyes; the blinds had been pulled -down, and Cecily, walking on tiptoe past her aunt, sat down in a low -easy-chair, content to wait quietly till Miss Wake should open her eyes. -But the long walk, the sea-air, had made the watcher drowsy, and soon -Cecily also was asleep.</p> - -<p>Then, within the next few moments, a strange thing happened to Cecily -Wake.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> - -<p>After what seemed a long time, she apparently awoke to a sight which -struck her as odd rather than unexpected.</p> - -<p>On the elder Miss Wake's chest, nestling down among the folds of her -white shawl, sat a tiny angel, whose chubby countenance was quite -familiar to Cecily, as his brown curls and pale, sensitive face -recalled, though, of course, in a benignant and peaceful sense, the -little child whom she had soothed in church.</p> - -<p>Cecily tried to get up and go to her aunt's assistance but something -seemed to hold her down in her chair. 'Please go away,' she heard -herself say, quite politely, but with considerable urgency. 'How can my -aunt's headache get better as long as you sit there? Besides, your -little charge is much in need of you!'</p> - -<p>But the angelic visitor made no response, and she noticed, with dismay, -that he wore on his chubby little face the look of intelligent obstinacy -so often seen on the faces of very young children.</p> - -<p>Again she said: 'Please go away. You are really not wanted here'—as a -concession she added, 'any more!' But he only flapped his little wings -defiantly, and seemed to settle down among the warm folds of Miss -Theresa's shawl as if arranging for a long stay.</p> - -<p>Cecily was in despair; and she began to think that everything was -strangely topsy-turvy. 'Perhaps,' she said to herself, 'he only -understands Irish, so I'll try him with French!' and, speaking the -language, to her so dear, which lends itself so singularly well to -courteous entreaty, she again begged her aunt's strange guest to take -his departure, pointing out that his mission was indeed fulfilled, and -there were reasons, imperative reasons, why he should go away. Then, to -her dismay, the little angel's eyes filled with tears, and at last he -spoke impetuously: 'Mais oui, j'ai de quoi!' he cried angrily in an -eager childish treble.</p> - -<p>Cecily felt herself blush as she answered hurriedly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> soothingly: 'Mais, -petit ange, mon cher petit ange, je ne dis pas le contraire!' and she -had hardly time to add to herself, 'Then he <i>was</i> Irish, after all,' -when the blinds, which were drawn down, all flapped together, although, -as Cecily often assured herself afterwards, there was absolutely no -wind, and the girl, rubbing her eyes, once more saw the white shawl as -usual crossed over primly on her aunt's chest, while Miss Theresa Wake, -opening her eyes, suddenly exclaimed: 'Is that you, my dear? I have not -been asleep exactly, but I now feel much better and less oppressed than -I did a few moments ago.'</p> - -<p>Cecily never told her curious experience, but a day came when the -dearest of all voices in the world asked imperiously: 'Mammy, do angels -ever come and talk to people? I mean to usual people, not to saints and -martyrs. Of course, I <i>know</i>, they do to <i>them</i>.' And Cecily answered, -very soberly: 'I think they do sometimes, my Ludovic, for an angel once -came and talked to me.' But not even to this questioner did she reveal -what the angelic visitant had said to her.</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> - -<blockquote><p>L'amour est de toutes les passions la plus forte, parce qu'elle -attaque à la fois la tête, le cœur et le corps.</p></blockquote> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>All over the East, and even nearer home, on the Continent, old women -take a great place, and are even permitted to play a great rôle, in the -human affairs of those about them. Here in England it is otherwise. Here -they are allowed but grudgingly the privilege of standing on the bank -whence they see helpless boats, laden with freights to them so precious, -drifting down a current of whose dangerous places, of whose shoals<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> and -shallows, their knowledge and experience are counted of no moment.</p> - -<p>In a French country-house three such women as Lady Wantley, Theresa -Wake, and the old nurse, Mrs. Mote, would have been the pivots round -which the younger people would have naturally revolved. At Monk's Eype -their presence—and this although each was singularly individual in -character and disposition—did not affect or modify one jot the actions -of the men and women about them.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson, now weaving with unfaltering hand her own destiny, -absorbed in her own complicated emotions of fear, love, and pain, would -have listened incredulously indeed, had a seer, greatly daring, warned -her that each of these three old women might well, were she not careful -to respect their several prejudices, bring her to shipwreck.</p> - -<p>Downing, whose business it had long been to study those about him with -reference to their attitude to himself, instinctively avoided the -solitary company of Lady Wantley, for in her he recognized a possible -and formidable opponent. But of old Miss Wake's presence in the villa he -was scarcely conscious. Penelope's maid he knew to be a point of danger, -the living spark which might set all ablaze.</p> - -<p>The day after his coming to Monk's Eype, Sir George Downing and Mrs. -Mote had met face to face, and he had turned on his heel without a word -of greeting. Yet when he had last seen her they had parted pleasantly, -the servant believing, foolishly enough, that she and her mistress were -then seeing the last of one who had been their inseparable companion for -many, to her increasingly anxious, days.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mote's crabbed face and short, ungainly figure were burnt into -Downing's memory as having cast the only shadow on the sunny stretch of -time which had so marvellously renewed his youth, brought warmth about -his chilled heart, and made the future bright<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> exceedingly. And so the -meeting with the old nurse had been to him a sharp reminder that one -person at least at Monk's Eype already wished him ill, and would fain -see him go away for ever.</p> - -<p>The maid also avoided him, though she sat long hours at her window, -taking note of his comings and goings, jealously counting the moments -that her mistress chose to spend in his company, either down in the -Beach Room, or, more often, pacing up and down on the broad terrace, and -under the ilex-trees which protected from relentless sea-winds the -delicate flowering shrubs that were counted among the greatest glories -of Monk's Eype.</p> - -<p>It was there, under those trees, completely screened from the windows -which swept the terrace, that Mrs. Robinson preferred to spend what -leisure Sir George Downing allowed himself from his work. More than once -Motey had come down from her watching-place, and had crept into the -little pine-wood to watch, to overhear, what was being done and what was -being said in the ilex grove. But the old woman's unhappy, suspicious -eyes only saw what they had seen so often before: her mistress and -Downing walking slowly side by side, she listening, absorbed, to his -utterances. Sometimes Penelope would lay her hand a moment on his arm, -with a curious, familiar, tender gesture—curious as coming from one who -avoided alike familiarity and tenderness when dealing with her friends.</p> - -<p>Only once, however, had Mrs. Mote surprised a gesture which might not -have been witnessed by all the world. One afternoon when a strand of -Mrs. Robinson's beautiful hair had become loosened, and so uncoiled its -length upon her shoulder, Downing, turning towards her, had suddenly -taken it up between his fingers and raised it to his lips. Then the old -nurse had seen the bright gleam of what was so intimately a part of her -mistress mingling for a moment with the dark moustache heavily streaked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> -with white, and she had clenched her hands in impotent anger and disgust.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Her aunt's presence at Monk's Eype scarcely affected Cecily Wake. The -two had never become intimate; the girl's young eagernesses and -enthusiasms disturbed Miss Wake, and even her sunny good temper and -buoyancy were a source of irritation to one who had led so grey and -toneless a life.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, Miss Theresa Wake was really attached to the -beautiful woman whom she called cousin.</p> - -<p>She watched Penelope far more closely than the latter knew during those -still, hot August days, when the thin, shrunken figure of the spinster -lady, wrapped, in spite of the heat, in an old-fashioned cashmere shawl, -sat back in one of the hooded chairs set on the eastern side of the -terrace. When out in the open air Miss Wake always armed herself with -one of the novels which had been thoughtfully provided by her kind -hostess for her entertainment; but often she would lay the volume down -on her knee, and gaze, her dim eyes full of speculation, at Mrs. -Robinson's brilliant figure coming and going across the terrace, to and -from the studio, sometimes—nay, generally—accompanied, shadow-wise, by -the tall, lean form of Sir George Downing.</p> - -<p>After watching these two for a while, Miss Wake would find her -interrupted novel oddly uninteresting and dreary.</p> - -<p>To Cecily these holiday days were not passing by as happily as she had -thought they would. She felt for the first time in her short life -disturbed, she knew not why; distressed, she knew not by what.</p> - -<p>The hours spent with Mrs. Robinson, doing work she had looked forward to -doing, seemed strangely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> dull compared with those briefer moments when -Wantley strolled or sat by her side, looking down smiling into her eyes, -asking whimsical questions concerning the Settlement, with a view—or so -he said—of settling there himself, if Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret -would accept him as a disciple!</p> - -<p>Twice in those ten days he had gone with her to early Mass at Beacon -Abbas; and oh, how pleasant had been the walks along the cliff path, how -soothing the half-hours spent in the beautiful chapel, with Wantley -standing and kneeling by her side. But on the second occasion of their -return from Beacon Abbas Penelope had greeted the two walkers, or rather -had greeted Cecily, with a questioning piercing look. Was it one of -dissatisfaction, of slight jealousy, or simply of surprise? That one -glance—and Wantley was well aware that it was so—put an end to any -further joint expeditions to the monastery chapel.</p> - -<p>During these same unquiet days, when Cecily's heart would beat without -reason, when she seemed to be always waiting, she knew not for what, the -girl became fond, in a shy, childish way, of Penelope's mother.</p> - -<p>Perhaps because she was utterly unlike any other woman Cecily Wake had -ever seen, or even imagined, Lady Wantley exercised a curious -fascination over her heart and mind. The tall, stately figure, wrapped -in sweeping black and white garments, was seen but seldom in the -sunshine, out of doors. Since her widowhood she had lived a life -withdrawn from the world about her, and she had occupied what had been a -sudden and unwelcome leisure by writing two mystical volumes, which had -enjoyed great popularity among those ever ready to welcome a new -interpretation of the more esoteric passages of the Scriptures.</p> - -<p>When staying at Monk's Eype, Lady Wantley would spend long hours of -solitude in the Picture Room; and there Cecily would sometimes find -her,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> absorbed in a strangely-worded French or English book of devotion, -from which, looking up, she would make the girl read her short passages. -At other moments Cecily would discover her engaged in writing long -letters of spiritual advice to correspondents, almost always unknown to -her, who had read her books, and who wished to consult her concerning -their own spiritual difficulties and perplexities.</p> - -<p>When not thus employed Lady Wantley sat idle, her long, -delicately-modelled hands clasped loosely together, enjoying, as she -believed, actual communion with her own dead—with the fine, -true-hearted father, whose earthly memory was so dear to her; with the -beloved mother, to whom as she grew older she felt herself to be growing -more alike and nearer; with the husband who, however stern and -awe-inspiring to others, had ever been fond and tender to herself. The -little group of strangely assorted souls seemed ever gathered about her, -and in no distant, inaccessible heaven.</p> - -<p>Once, when Cecily Wake had come upon her in one of these strange -companied trances, Lady Wantley had said very simply: 'I have been -telling Penelope's father of her many perfections: of her goodness to -those who, if they are the disinherited of the earth, are yet the heirs -of the kingdom—those whom he himself ever made his special care. I -think, dear child, that, if you would not mind my doing so, I will also -some day tell him—my husband, I mean—of you, and of Penelope's love -and care for you.' And she had added, as if to herself: 'But how could -she be otherwise? Was she not, even before her birth, dedicated to the -Lord in His temple?'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley was sometimes in a sterner mood, when hell seemed as near -as—ay, nearer than—heaven. Evil spirits then appeared to encompass -her, and she would feel herself to be wrestling with their dread master -himself. When this was so, her delicate,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> bloodless face would become -transfigured, and the large, heavy-lidded grey eyes would seem to flash -out fire, while Cecily listened, awed, to strange majestic utterances, -of which she knew not that their source was the Apocalypse.</p> - -<p>That this convent-bred girl had a genuine belief in the Evil One, and a -due fear of his cunning ways, was undoubtedly a link between Lady -Wantley and herself; as was also the softer fact of her great affection -for the one creature whom Lady Wantley loved with simple human devotion. -After hearing the older woman talk, as she so often did talk, of her -loved and admired daughter, Cecily would feel grieved, even a little -perplexed, when next she perceived how lightly Penelope esteemed this -boundless mother-love.</p> - -<p>In no material thing did Mrs. Robinson neglect Lady Wantley. Every -morning she would make her way into the Picture Room, ready with some -practical suggestion designed to further her mother's comfort during the -coming day; but to Penelope, much as she loved her, Lady Wantley never -alluded to the matters which lay nearest to her heart. She found it -easier to do so to the Catholic girl than to the creature she had -herself borne, over whose upbringing she had watched so zealously, and, -as she sometimes admitted to herself in moments of rare self-sincerity, -with so little success.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Wantley only so far remembered the presence at Monk's Eype of Penelope's -mother as to thank Heaven that she had nothing in common with the -match-making dowagers, of whom he had met certain types in his way -through life, and who at this moment would have brushed some of the -bloom from his fragrant romance.</p> - -<p>Absorbed as he had already become in the novel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> feeling of considering -another more than himself, he yet found the time now and again to wonder -why it was that he saw so little of the remarkable man to whom he stood -in at least the nominal relation of host. That first evening they had -sat up together long into the night, and there had been, not only no -apparent barrier between them, but the younger man had been both -fascinated and interested by the other's account of the land where he -had already spent the best half of his life. Such had been the magic of -Downing's manner, such the infectious quality of his sustained -enthusiasm, that for a moment Wantley had wondered whether he also might -not create a career for himself in that country of which the boundless -resources and equally boundless necessities had now been made real to -him for the first time.</p> - -<p>Then, as it had seemed, gradually, but looking back he saw that the -change had come very quickly, Wantley had perceived that Downing avoided -instead of seeking or welcoming his company. True, the other man was -engaged in heavy work, spending much of his time in the Beach Room, and -often returning there late in the evening; but even so Wantley could not -understand why Downing now seemed desirous of seeing as little of him as -possible. The knowledge made him a little sore, the more so that he -attributed the change in the other's manner to some careless word -uttered by Penelope.</p> - -<p>Another grievance, and one which pushed the other into the background of -his mind, was the fact that Mrs. Robinson, more capricious, more -restless than her wont, absorbed each day much of the time and attention -of Cecily Wake. That the latter apparently regarded this constant call -on her leisure as a privilege, in no sense softened the young man's -irritation: it seemed to him that his cousin took an impish delight in -frustrating his attempts—somewhat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> shamefaced at first, openly eager as -time went on—to be with the girl.</p> - -<p>Wantley consoled himself by bestowing on the aunt the time and the -attention he would fain have bestowed on the niece. The elder Miss Wake -soon came to regard him as an exceptionally agreeable and well-bred man, -with a strong leaning to Catholicism—even, she sometimes ventured to -hope, to the priesthood; for many were Lord Wantley's questions -concerning monasteries and convents, and had he not on two week-day -mornings escorted her niece to Mass at Beacon Abbas? According to Miss -Wake's limited knowledge of the ways of men, and especially of the ways -of noblemen, such zeal, if it involved early rising, was quite -exceptional, and must surely be done with an object.</p> - -<p>Poor Wantley, unconscious of these hopes, his sense of humour for the -moment more or less suspended, found the mornings especially hang heavy -on his hands, for Cecily, after an hour spent with Penelope in the -studio, generally disappeared upstairs into her own room till lunch; and -this absorption, as he supposed, in business connected with the -Melancthon Settlement did not increase his liking for the place which -filled so much of Cecily's heart, and took up so much of the time he -might have spent with her.</p> - -<p>At last the day came when the young man solved the innocent mystery of -how Cecily Wake spent her mornings. Passing along the terrace, he -overheard a fragmentary conversation which showed him that his cousin -was using her young friend as secretary, handing over to her the large -correspondence which dogs the hours of every man and woman known to have -the disposal of great wealth. When there had been no one at hand more -compliant, Wantley had himself undertaken the task of dealing with the -hundred and one absurd, futile, often pathetic,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> requests for help, -which filled by far the greater part of Mrs. Robinson's letter-bag. Too -well he knew the tenor of the various remarks which now fell upon his -ear; one sentence, however, at once compelled closer attention: 'I have -had a letter—to which I should like you also to send an answer. It's -from David Winfrith. Please say I'm glad he's back, and that we will -drive over there to-morrow. Write to him and say I have asked you to do -so, as I am too busy to answer his letter to-day.'</p> - -<p>Wantley, with keen irritation, heard the low, hesitating answer: 'If you -don't mind, I would so much prefer not to write to Mr. Winfrith. You -know he has never liked me, and I am sure he would feel very much -annoyed if he thought'—the soft voice paused, but went bravely on—'if -he thought I had seen any letter of his to you——'</p> - -<p>'But you have not seen his letter! Still, I dare say you're right. We -will drive over there to-day—the more so that I have something else to -do in that neighbourhood.'</p> - -<p>A moment later Wantley heard the door of the studio opening and -shutting, and knew that his cousin was alone. He walked in through the -window prepared to tell Mrs. Robinson, and that very plainly, his -opinion of what he considered her gross selfishness. But quickly she -carried the war into the enemy's country.</p> - -<p>'I saw you,' she said, with heightened colour, 'and I didn't think it -very pretty of you to stand listening out there!'</p> - -<p>Then, struck by the look of suppressed anger which was his only answer, -she added: 'Perhaps I've been rather selfish the last few days, but you -and she see quite as much of each other as is good for you, just at -present. And, Ludovic, I've been longing to show you something which, I -think even you will agree, exactly fits your present condition.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p> - -<p>She took from the table a prettily bound volume, in which had been -thrust an envelope as marker. 'Listen!' she cried, and then declaimed -with emphasis, and partly in the faultless French which he had always -envied her:</p> - -<p>'<i>First Old Bachelor</i>: "Et les jeunes filles? Aime-tu ça? Toi?"</p> - -<p>'<i>Second Old Bachelor</i>: "Hélas! mon ami, je commence!"'</p> - -<p>Wantley bit his lip. He could not help smiling. 'You have not shown her -that?' he asked suspiciously.</p> - -<p>'No, indeed! How could you think such a thing, even of me?' Mrs. -Robinson rose; she came and stood by him, and as their eyes met he saw -that she was strangely moved. 'Ah, Ludovic,' she said softly, 'you are a -lucky man!'</p> - -<p>He looked away. 'Do you really think that she likes being with me?' he -asked awkwardly.</p> - -<p>'Yes, even better than with me—now!' The young man knew, rather than -saw, that her eyes were full of tears, and in spite of his absorption in -himself and his own affairs, he found time to wonder why Penelope was so -unlike herself—so gentle, so moved. Her next words confirmed his -feeling of uneasy astonishment, for, 'You won't ever set her against -me,' she asked, 'whatever happens, will you?'</p> - -<p>Wantley felt amused and a little touched. 'My dear Penelope!' he cried, -'I think it's my turn now to ask you how you could think such a thing, -even of me? Also I must say you do her a great injustice. Why, she loves -you with all her heart! Not even'—he used the first simile that came -into his mind—'not even an angel with a flaming sword would keep her -from you.'</p> - -<p>'No; but some Roman Catholic notion of obedience to one's lawful owner -might prove more tangible than a flaming sword!'</p> - -<p>The harsh words grated on Wantley's ear; he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> wondered why women -sometimes put things so much more coarsely than a man, in a similar -case, would do.</p> - -<p>But before he could answer Penelope had moved away, and, with a complete -change of voice, and a return of her usual rather disdainful serenity of -manner, was saying: 'I see Sir George Downing coming up from the Beach -Room. By the way, I want to tell you that he finds he can't work -properly with so many people about, and I have suggested that he should -put in a few days at Kingpole Farm. I believe the lodgings there are -very comfortable, and the place has the further advantage of being near -Shagisham. You know he wishes to meet David Winfrith, and I thought, -perhaps, that the introduction'—Penelope now spoke with nervous -hesitation—'would come better from you.'</p> - -<p>Wantley assented cordially, pleased that his cousin should for once -propose a common-sense plan in which he, Wantley, would play a proper -part.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Wantley, as Penelope shrewdly suspected—for to her he had never worn -his heart upon his sleeve—had spent from boyhood onwards much more time -than was good for his soul's health in self-pity and self-examination.</p> - -<p>This was especially true during that portion of the year when he was in -England, and especially the case when he was staying, as he did each -summer, at Monk's Eype. In his heart he grudged his beautiful cousin the -possession of a place created by a man to whom they stood in equal -relationship, but which, as he never failed to remind himself when in -Dorset, had always belonged to the Lord Wantley of the day. At Monk's -Eype he felt himself a stranger where he ought to have felt at home; and -this was the more painful to him because the villa had been the creation -of the one man with whom he believed himself to be in closer affinity -than with any other former bearer of his name.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> - -<p>During his long idle youth, Wantley's happiest moments had been those -spent in wandering along the byways of France, Spain, and Germany. He -had been denied the ordinary upbringing of his rank and race, but, -during the long Continental journeys in which he had been the companion -of Lord and Lady Wantley and their daughter, he had learnt and seen much -which in later life was to cause him abiding pleasure and comfort, the -more so as he was a fair artist, and came of scholar stock.</p> - -<p>Brought up by a mother to whom her son's future had been the only -consoling thought in a middle age of singular trials and perplexities, -Ludovic Wantley had from childhood realized, to an almost pathetic -extent, the pleasant possibilities of life as a British peer. But very -soon after he had succeeded his cousin he discovered that much of the -glories, and all the pleasures attached to the position would be denied -him, partly from want of means, more perhaps from lack of that -robustness of outlook induced, not wholly to his spiritual advantage, in -the average public school boy.</p> - -<p>When abroad Wantley never became, as it were, forgetful of his -identity—never affected the incognito so dear, and sometimes so useful, -to the travelling English peer. Indeed, young Lord Wantley had soon -become the Continental innkeeper's ideal 'milord,' content to pay well -for indifferent accommodation, delighted rather than otherwise to meet -with those trifling mishaps which annoy so acutely the ordinary tourist, -and content to come back, winter after winter, to the same auberge, -osteria, or gasthaus.</p> - -<p>In yet another matter he differed greatly from the conventional -travelled and travelling Englishman: he came and went alone, apparently -feeling no need, as did most of his countrymen, of congenial -companionship. One day the kindly landlady of one of those stately -posting inns, yclept 'Le Tournebride,' which may still be found -scattered through provincial<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> France, had ventured to suggest that the -next time she had the pleasure of seeing him she hoped he would come -accompanied by 'une belle milady.' He had smiled as he had answered: -'Jamais! jamais! jamais!' But that particular 'Tournebride' had known -him no more.</p> - -<p>Wantley had thought much of marriage. What man so situated does not do -so? He knew, or thought he knew, that to him money and marriage must be -synonymous terms, and the knowledge had angered him. In one of his rare -moments of confidence he had said to his cousin: 'Like your eccentric -friend who always knew when there was a baronet in the room, I always -know when there's an heiress there. And, what is more serious, her -presence always induces a feeling of repulsion!'</p> - -<p>Penelope had laughed suddenly, and then changed the subject. Any -allusion to Wantley's monetary affairs held for her a sharp if small -pin-prick of conscience. For a while she had tried, it must be admitted -in but a fitful and desultory way, to bring him in contact with the type -of English girl, often, let it be said in parenthesis, a not unpleasing -type of modern girlhood, who is willing to consider very seriously, and -in all good faith, the preliminaries to a bargain in which she and her -fortune, a peer and his peerage, are to be the human goods weighed -opposite one another in the balance of life.</p> - -<p>There had also been periods in Wantley's life when he had found himself -in love with love, and ready to weave an ardent romance round every -pretty sentimentalist in search of an adventure. But these feelings had -never deepened into one so strong as to compel the thought of an -enduring tie. His fastidious critical temperament shrank from concrete -realities, and as time went on he had felt, over-sensitively, how little -he had to offer to a woman of the kind to whom he sometimes felt a -strong if temporary attraction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> - -<p>As he grew older, passed the border-line of thirty, the longing for the -stability afforded by a happy marriage appealed to him, for awhile, far -more than it had done when he was a younger man. And so for some two -years, being then much abroad, he had toyed with the idea of making, in -France or in Italy, a <i>mariage de convenance</i> with some well-born, -well-dowered girl who should leave her convent-school to become his -wife, and with whom he would promise himself, when in the mood, an -after-marriage romance not lacking in piquancy.</p> - -<p>Unfortunately, Wantley was an Englishman, and by no means as -unconventional as he liked to think himself. Accordingly, when he came -to consider, and even more when he came to discuss, with some -good-natured French or Italian acquaintance, the preliminaries of such a -marriage as had appealed to his fancy, his gorge rose at certain sides -of the question then closely presented to his notice, and finally he put -the idea from him.</p> - -<p class="space-above">This spring Wantley had returned to England, ready, as usual, to spend -the summer in half-unwilling attendance on his lovely cousin, and -further than he had been for many years from all thought of marriage.</p> - -<p>Then, with what seemed at times incredible and disconcerting swiftness, -had come over him, in these few days of sunny quietude, a limitless -unreasoning tenderness for a young creature utterly unlike his former -ideals of womanhood. Even when aghast at the thought of how easily he -might have missed her on the way of his life—even when he felt her -already so much a part of himself that he could no longer have described -her, as he had first seen her, to a stranger—Wantley admitted, nay, -forced on himself the knowledge, that she was not beautiful, not even -particularly gifted or clever. One reason why he had always displayed so -sincere a lack of liking for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> heiresses, willing to be peeresses, -whom Penelope had thrust upon his notice, had been that to him they had -all looked so unaccountably plain; and yet, compared with Cecily Wake, -he knew that more than one of these young women might well have been -considered a beauty.</p> - -<p>Wantley had always been fond of analyzing his own emotions, and now the -simplicity, as well as the strength, of his feeling amazed him. When -with Cecily Wake he felt that he was journeying through some delicious -unknown country, the old Paradise rediscovered by them two, she still a -sweet mysterious stranger, whose better acquaintance he was making day -by day. But when she was no longer by his side, and there were many -hours he could only spend in thinking of her, then Wantley felt as a -mother feels about her own little child, as if he had always known her, -always loved her with this placid and yet uneasy care, this trusting and -yet watchful tenderness.</p> - -<p>He had ever deprecated enthusiasm, and had actively disliked -philanthropists, as only those who in early youth are constrained to -endure the company of enthusiasts and the atmosphere of philanthropy can -deprecate the one and dislike the other. Well, now, so the young man -whimsically told himself, had come what his old enemies—those who had -gathered about his uncle and aunt in days he hated to remember—would -doubtless have recognised as a distinct 'call.' It seemed to him that he -had made a good beginning that first Sunday afternoon, when he had kept -the aunt in play while the niece had accomplished her prosaic errand of -mercy.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The same evening, late at night, he had gone into the room which had -been the great Lord Wantley's study, and, under the grim eyes of the man -who had never judged him fairly, he had pulled out faded Blue-Books, -reports, and pamphlets which had been the tools of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> mighty worker for -his kind. Then, lamp in hand, he had wandered on into the studio, and -there, oddly out of keeping with their fellows on the pretty quaintly -placed white shelves framing the door, he had found newer, more -digestible, contributions to the problems to which he was now, half -unwillingly, turning his mind.</p> - -<p>He took down a slim, ill-printed volume, bearing on the title-page the -name of Philip Hammond, and composed of essays which had first appeared -in the more serious reviews. Setting down his lamp on Penelope's deal -painting-table, he opened the little book with prejudice, read on with -increasing attention, and finally placed it back on the shelf with -respect.</p> - -<p>Even so, his lips curled as he remembered the only time he had seen the -writer. The two men had met by accident in Mrs. Robinson's London house, -and Wantley had been amused by Hammond's obvious—too obvious—devotion -to the beautiful widow of the man whose aims and whose ideals he had -known how to describe so well in this very book. For the hundredth time -Wantley asked himself in what consisted Penelope's power of attracting -such men as had been apparently Melancthon Robinson, as was undoubtedly -Philip Hammond, as had become—to give the clinching instance—David -Winfrith.</p> - -<p>The day before, when driving back to Monk's Eype from the place where he -had been spending a few pleasant days, he had passed the two riders, and -had seen them so deeply absorbed in one another's conversation that they -had ridden by without seeing him.</p> - -<p>For a moment, as he had driven by quickly in a dogcart belonging to his -late host, and therefore unfamiliar to Penelope and her companion, he -had caught a look—an unguarded, unmasked, passionate look—on -Winfrith's strong, plain face.</p> - -<p>What glance, what word on his companion's part, had brought it there? -That Winfrith should allow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> himself to be thus moved angered Wantley. He -set himself to recall very deliberately certain things that his mother, -acting with strange lack of good feeling, had told him, when he was -still a boy, concerning Lady Wantley's mother, Penelope's grandmother. -He wondered if Penelope <i>knew</i>. On the whole he thought not. But in any -case, who could doubt from whom she had had transmitted to her that -uncanny power of bewitching men, of keeping them faithful to herself, -while she remained, or at least so he felt persuaded, quite unaffected -by the passions she delighted in unloosing?</p> - -<p>In his own mind, and not for the first time, he judged his cousin very -hardly. And yet, after that evening, Wantley never thought so really ill -of her again, for, when he felt tempted to do so, he seemed to hear the -words which he had heard said that day for the first, though by no means -for the last, time: 'Why are you—what makes you—so unfair to -Penelope?'</p> - -<p>And even as he walked through the sleeping, silent house he reminded -himself, repentantly, that his cousin's love-compelling power extended -to what was already to him the best and purest, as it was so soon to be -the dearest, thing on earth.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> - -<blockquote><p>'La Passion, c'est l'ascétisme profâne, aussi rude que ascétisme -religieux.'—<span class="smcap">Anatole France.</span></p></blockquote> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Within two hours of his curious conversation with his cousin, Wantley -saw Mrs. Robinson and Cecily Wake start off, alone, for Shagisham.</p> - -<p>With his hands in his pockets, his head slightly thrown back, standing -in a characteristic attitude, the young man watched them drive away in -the curious low dogcart which had been designed by Penelope for her own -use. As he turned back into the hall an unaccountable depression seized -on him. The memory of his cousin's words concerning Cecily was far from -giving him pleasure. He felt as if in listening he had been treacherous, -not so much to the girl as to their own ideal relation to one another.</p> - -<p>It is surely a mistake to say, as is so often said, that uncertainty and -doubt are the invariable accompaniments of the beginning of a great -passion. Wantley had felt, almost from the first, as sure of her as he -had felt of himself, and yet his reverence for Cecily was great, and his -opinion of his own merits most modest.</p> - -<p>Death might come, and now he had become strangely afraid of death, but -Cecily, living, he knew would and must belong to him. He was so sure of -this, and he loved her so well as she was, that he had no desire, as -yet, to do that which would let all the world share his dear mysterious -secret, become witness of his deep content. And so, though Penelope had -been very gentle—indeed, save at one moment, very delicate in what she -had implied rather than said—Wantley<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> would have been better pleased -had the words remained unuttered.</p> - -<p>Then his mind went on to wonder why his cousin had seemed so distressed -and so unlike her restrained and, with him, always wholly possessed -self. What had signified her odd words, her pleading look, so full of -unwonted humility? Things were not going well with Wantley to-day, and -his vague discontent was suddenly increased by the recollection that -George Downing was leaving Monk's Eype.</p> - -<p>Since Downing's arrival Wantley had not once been down to the Beach -Room. Mrs. Robinson knew how to insure that her wishes, whatever they -might be, should be known and respected, and so, partly in obedience to -a word said by her regarding her famous guest's dislike of interruption, -partly because he had felt Downing's manner become more and more frigid -during the brief moments when the two men were obliged to place -themselves in the courteous juxtaposition of host and guest, the younger -had studiously avoided forcing his company on the elder.</p> - -<p>Now, remembering Penelope's words concerning the part he was to play in -the matter of introducing Downing to David Winfrith, he felt that he -might without indiscretion seek the other out.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Wantley was surprised by the warmth of his welcome. Downing seemed -really glad to have his solitude invaded, and a moment later his -visitor, sitting with his back to the broad window, at right angles to -the older man's powerful figure, was realizing with some amusement and -astonishment how carefully Penelope's old play-room had been arranged -with a view to its present occupant's convenience and even comfort.</p> - -<p>His cool, observant eyes first took note of the camp-bed, only partly -hidden by the splendid Chinese screen, never before moved from its place -in the great Picture Room of the villa; then of the strips of felt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> laid -down over the oak floor; of the comfortable chair in which Downing was -now leaning back—lastly, his glance rested on the wide writing-table, -covered with papers, note-books, and a map held flatly to the wind-swept -surface of the table by a small revolver.</p> - -<p>Wantley also perceived a pile of rugs, generally kept in the hall of the -villa, for which he had searched in vain a day or two before, when he -wanted something to wrap about the knees of old Miss Wake. This, then, -was where they had been spirited away!</p> - -<p>He charitably reminded himself that Persian Downing, in spite of his -straight, long figure, his keen eyes, his powerful chin and jaw, was no -longer a young man, and with much living alone had doubtless found time -to acquire the art of securing for himself the utmost physical comfort. -Wantley's admiration for him somewhat unreasonably declined in -consequence, and no suspicion that these little arrangements, these -little luxuries, might be the sole fruit of another person's intelligent -thoughtfulness even crossed his mind.</p> - -<p>They were both smoking—Downing an old-fashioned pipe, and his visitor -one of the small French cigarettes of which he always carried a store -about with him, and which had been the most tangible sign of his release -from thraldom, the great Lord Wantley's horror and contempt of smoking -and of smokers having been only equalled by his abhorrence of drinking -and of drunkards.</p> - -<p>The early afternoon light, reflected from the sea and sand outside, -flooded the curious cavernous room with radiance, throwing the upper -half of Downing's broad, lean figure in high relief. Wantley, himself in -shadow, looked at him with renewed interest and curiosity, and as he did -so he realized that there must have been a time when the man before him -would have been judged singularly handsome. Now the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> large features were -thin to attenuation—the brown skin roughened by much exposure to heat -and dust; the grey eyes, gleaming under the bushy eyebrows, sunken and -tired; while the thick moustache, streaked with white, hid the firm, -delicately modelled mouth, and gave an appearance of age to the face.</p> - -<p>'If you do not find the farm comfortable,' said Wantley, breaking what -had begun to be an oppressive silence, 'I hope you will return here for -awhile. There won't be a soul in London yet.'</p> - -<p>'Excepting my old friend, Mr. Julius Gumberg,' objected Downing. 'I -believe he has not been out of town for years, and I sometimes think -that in this, at any rate, he has proved himself wiser than some of his -fellows.'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Julius Gumberg,' said the other, smiling, 'has always seemed to me, -since I first had the honour of his acquaintance, to be the ideal -Epicurean—the man who has mastered the art of selecting his pleasures.'</p> - -<p>'True!' cried Downing abruptly. 'But you must admit that not the least -of his pleasures has always been that of benefiting his friends.'</p> - -<p>'But that, after all, is only a refined form of self-indulgence,' -objected Wantley, who had never been in a position so to indulge -himself.</p> - -<p>An amused smile broke over the other's stern mouth and jaw. 'That theory -embodies the ethical nihilism of the old Utilitarians. Of course you are -not serious; if you were, your position would be akin to that of the -Persian mystics who teach the utter renunciation of self, the sinking of -the ego in the divine whole. But then,' added Downing, fixing his eyes -on his companion, and speaking as if to himself—'but then comes the -question, What is renunciation? The Persian philosopher would give an -answer very different from that offered by the Christian.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Renunciation is surely the carrying out of the ascetic ideal—something -more actively painful than the mere doing without.' Wantley spoke -diffidently.</p> - -<p>'Undoubtedly that is what the Christian means by the word, but is there -not the higher degree of perfection involved in the French saint's -dictum?' Downing stopped short; then, with very fair, albeit -old-fashioned, accent, he uttered the phrase, '<i>Rien demander et rien -refuser.</i> Of course, the greatest difference between the point of view -held by the Persian sages and, say, the old monkish theologians is that -concerning human love.'</p> - -<p>Wantley leaned forward; he threw his cigarette out of the window. 'Ah,' -he said, 'that interests me! My own father became a Roman Catholic, an -act on his part, by the way, of supreme renunciation. I myself can see -no possible hope of finality anywhere else; but I think that, as regards -human love, I should be Persian rather than monkish.' He added, smiling -a little: 'I suppose the Persian theory of love is summed up by -FitzGerald;' and diffidently he quoted the most famous of the quatrains, -lingering over the beautiful words, for, as he uttered them, he applied -them, quite consciously, to himself and Cecily Wake. What wilderness -with her but would be Paradise?</p> - -<p>Her face rose up before him as he had seen it for a moment the day -before, when, coming suddenly upon her in the little wood, her honest -childish eyes had shone out welcome.</p> - -<p>Downing looked at him thoughtfully. 'Ah, no; the Persian mystic of -to-day would by no means assent to such simplicity of outlook. Jami -rather than Omar summed up the national philosophy. The translation is -not comparable, but, still, 'twill serve to explain to you the Persian -belief that renunciation of self may be acquired through the medium of a -merely human love;' and he repeated the lines:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'Though in this world a hundred tasks thou tryest,</div> -<div>'Tis love alone which from thyself will save thee;</div> -<div>Even from earthly love thy face avert not,</div> -<div>Since to the real it may serve to raise thee.'</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>'That,' cried Wantley eagerly, 'absolutely satisfies me, and strikes me -as being the highest truth!'</p> - -<p>Downing again smiled—a quick, humorous smile. 'No doubt,' he said -rather dryly, 'so thought the student who, seeking a great sage in order -to be shown the way of spiritual perfection, received for answer: "If -your steps have not yet trod the pathway of love, go hence, seek love, -and, having met it, then return to me." The theory that true love, even -if ill-bestowed, partakes of the Divine, is an essential part of the -Sufi philosophy.'</p> - -<p>'And yet,' objected Wantley, 'there are times when love, even if well -bestowed, may have to be withdrawn, lest it should injure the creature -beloved.'</p> - -<p>'So I should once have said,' answered Downing, leaning forward and -straightening himself in his chair; 'but now I am inclined to think that -that theory has been responsible for much wrong and pain. I myself, as a -young man, was greatly injured by holding for a time this very view. I -was attracted to a married woman, who soon obtained over me an -extraordinary and wholly pure influence. But you know what the world is -like; I cannot suppose that in these matters it has altered since my -day. It came to my knowledge that our friendship was arousing a certain -amount of comment, and so, after much painful thought and discussion -with myself, I made up my mind—wrongly, as I now believe—to withdraw -myself from the connection.' He added with a certain effort: 'To this -determination—come to, I can assure you and myself, from the highest -motives—I trace, in looking back, some unhappiness to her, and to me -the utter shipwreck of what were then my worldly chances. My withdrawal -from this lady's influence brought me<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> into contact with another and a -very evil personality. Now, had I been then, as I now am, a student of -Persian philosophy, I might be——'</p> - -<p>Downing stopped speaking abruptly. As he threw himself back, his great -powerful figure seemed to collapse. Wantley looked at him, surprised and -greatly touched by the confidence.</p> - -<p>'I will tell you,' resumed Downing, after a long pause, 'of another -Persian belief, to which I now fully adhere. The sages say that as God -is, of course, wholly lacking in <i>bukhl</i>—that is, stinginess or -meanness—it is impossible for him to withhold from any man the thing -for which he strives with sufficient earnestness; and this,' he added, -looking at his companion, 'I have myself found to be true. If a man -devotes all his energies to the pursuit of spiritual knowledge, he -becomes in time——'</p> - -<p>'Automatically holy,' suggested Wantley, smiling.</p> - -<p>'And capable,' concluded Downing, 'of accomplishing what we call -miracles.'</p> - -<p>'But to such a one surely human love would be denied, even in Persia?'</p> - -<p>'Undoubtedly, yes. But the man who has striven successfully on a lower -plane, whose object has been to compass worldly power and the defeat of -his enemies—to him human love is not only not denied, but may, as we -have seen, bring him nearer to the Divine.'</p> - -<p>'But meanwhile,' objected Wantley, 'love, and especially the pursuit of -the beloved, must surely stay his ambition, and even interfere with his -success?'</p> - -<p>'Only inasmuch as it may render him more sensitive to physical danger -and less defiant of death.'</p> - -<p>The young man had expected a very different answer. 'Yes,' he said -tentatively; 'you mean that a soldier, if a lover, is less inclined to -display reckless bravery than those among his comrades who have not the -same motive for self-preservation?'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> - -<p>'No, no!' exclaimed Downing impatiently; 'I do not mean that at all! All -history is there to prove the contrary. I was not thinking of -straightforward death in any shape, but of treachery, of assassination. -The man who loves'—he hesitated, his voice softened, altered in -quality—'above all, the man who knows himself to be beloved, is more -alive, more sensitive to the fear of annihilation, than he who only -lives to accomplish certain objects. The knowledge that this is so might -well make a man pause—during the brief moments when pausing is -possible—and it has undoubtedly led many a one to put deliberately from -himself all thought of love.'</p> - -<p>Wantley looked at him with some curiosity, wondering whether his words -had a personal application.</p> - -<p>'Now, take my own case,' continued Downing gravely. 'I am in quite -perpetual danger of assassination, and in this one matter, at any rate, -I am a fatalist. But should I have the right to ask a woman to share, -not only the actual risk, but also the mental strain? I once should have -said no; I now say yes.'</p> - -<p>Wantley was too surprised to speak.</p> - -<p>There was a pause, then Downing spoke again, but in a different tone: -'Oddly enough, the first time was the most nearly successful. In fact, -the person who had me drugged—perhaps I should say poisoned—succeeded -in his object, which was to obtain a paper which I had on my person. -Papers, letters, documents of every kind, are associated in my mind with -mischief, and I always get rid of them as soon as possible. Mr. Gumberg -has boxes full of papers I have sent him at intervals from Persia. I -have arranged with him that if anything happens to me they are to be -sent off to the Foreign Office. Once there'—he threw his head back and -laughed grimly—'they would probably never be looked at again. In no -case have I ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> about me any papers or letters; everything of the kind -is locked away.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; but you have to carry a key,' objected Wantley.</p> - -<p>'There you have me! I do carry a key. One is driven to trust either a -human being or a lock. I prefer the lock.'</p> - -<p class="space-above">Wantley, as he left the Beach Room, felt decidedly more cheerful. The -conversation had interested and amused him. Above all, he had been moved -by the recital of Downing's early romance, and he wondered idly who the -lady in question could have been, whether she was still living, and -whether Downing ever had news of her.</p> - -<p>During the whole of their talk there had been no word, no hint, of the -existence of the other's wife, who, as Wantley, by a mere chance word -uttered in his presence in the house where he had recently been staying, -happened to know, was even now in England, the honoured guest of one of -his uncle's old fellow-workers.</p> - -<p>He said to himself that there was a fascination about Downing, a -something which might even now make him beloved by the type of -woman—Wantley imagined the meek, affectionate, and intensely feminine -type of woman—who is attracted by that air of physical strength which -is so often allied, in Englishmen, to mental power. He felt that the man -he had just left, sitting solitary, had in his nature the capacity of -enjoying ideal love and companionship, and the young man, regarding -himself as so blessed, regretted that this good thing had been denied to -the man who had spoken of it with so much comprehension.</p> - -<p>Slowly making his way upwards from the shore, Wantley turned aside, and -lingered a few moments on the second of the three terraces. Here, in -this still, remote place, on this natural ledge of the cliff,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> guarded -by a stone balustrade which terminated at intervals with fantastic urns, -now gay with geranium blossoms, gaining intensity of colour by the -background of blue sky and bluer waters, he had only the day before, for -a delicious hour, read aloud to Cecily Wake.</p> - -<p>From his father Wantley had inherited, and as a boy acquired, an -exceptional love and knowledge of old English poetry, and, giving but -grudging and unwilling praise to modern verse, he had been whimsically -pleased to discover that to the girl Chaucer and La Fontaine were more -familiar names than Browning and Tennyson, of whose works, indeed, she -had been ignorant till she went to the Settlement, where, however, -Philip Hammond had soon made her feel terribly ashamed of her ignorance.</p> - -<p>Standing there, his thoughts of Cecily, of Downing, of Persian -mysticism, chasing one another through his mind, Wantley suddenly -remembered Miss Theresa Wake, doubtless still sitting solitary in her -hooded chair.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Cecily's aunt, whom he himself already secretly regarded with the not -altogether uncritical eye of a relation, was to Wantley a new and -amusing variety of old lady. Miss Theresa Wake had the appearance, -common to so many women of her generation, of having been petrified in -early middle age. A brown hair front lent spurious youth to the thin, -delicate face, and her slight, elegant figure was only now becoming -bent. It was impossible to imagine her young, but equally difficult to -believe that she would ever grow really old.</p> - -<p>The young man who aspired to the honour of becoming in due course her -kinsman, found a constant source of amusement in the fact that her -sincere, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>unaffected piety was joined to a keen, almost morbid, interest -in any worldly matter affecting her acquaintances. When with Miss Wake -it was positively difficult for a sympathetic person to keep from -mentioning people, and so, 'I think we shall have David Winfrith here in -a few minutes,' he said, when, having sought her out, he was anxious to -make amends for his neglect. 'Penelope and your niece will probably -bring him back. My cousin is very anxious that he should meet Sir George -Downing, who is leaving soon.'</p> - -<p>'Leaving soon? He will be greatly missed.'</p> - -<p>The remark was uttered primly, and yet, as Wantley felt, with some -significance. The phrase diverted him, it seemed so absurdly -inappropriate; for Downing had stood, and that to a singular degree, -apart from the ordinary life of the villa.</p> - -<p>But the old spinster lady was pursuing her own line of thought. 'I -suppose,' she said hesitatingly, 'that the Settlement would not be -affected should Penelope marry again? Of course, I am interested in the -matter on account of my niece.'</p> - -<p>Wantley looked at her, surprised. 'I don't see why it should make the -slightest difference, the more so that David Winfrith has of late years -taken a great part in the management of the Melancthon Settlement—in -fact, the place has been the great tie between them. I should not care -myself to spend the money of a man to whom my wife had once been -married, but I am sure Winfrith will feel no such scruple, and the -possession of the Robinson fortune might make years of difference to him -in attaining what is, I suppose, his supreme ambition. After all, and of -course you must not think that I am for a moment comparing the two men, -where would Dizzy have been without Mrs. Lewis?'</p> - -<p>'But what would Mr. Winfrith have to do with it?' inquired Miss Wake. -'Was he a friend of Penelope's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> husband? How could he influence the -disposal of the Robinson fortune?'</p> - -<p>It was Wantley's turn to look, and to be, astonished. 'I understood we -were speaking of Penelope's marrying again,' he said quickly, 'and I -thought that you, like myself, had come to the conclusion that she would -in time make up her mind to marry Winfrith. He's been devoted to her -ever since she can remember. Why, they were once actually engaged, and I -should never be surprised any time, any moment—to-day, for -instance—were she to tell us that they were to be married.'</p> - -<p>The old lady remained silent, but he realized that her silence was not -one of consent. 'Surely you were thinking of David Winfrith?' he -repeated. 'There has never been, in a serious sense, anyone else.'</p> - -<p>A little colour came to Miss Wake's thin, wrinkled cheeks, and she began -to look very uncomfortable. 'I was thinking of someone very different,' -she said at last, 'but you have made me feel that I was quite wrong.'</p> - -<p>An odious suspicion darted into the young man's mind. He suddenly felt -both angry and disgusted. After all this constant dwelling on other -people and their affairs must often lead to ridiculous and painful -mistakes, to unwarrantable suspicions. 'You surely cannot mean——' he -began rather sternly, and waited for her to speak.</p> - -<p>'I was thinking of Sir George Downing,' she answered, meeting his -perturbed look with one of calm confidence. 'Surely, Lord Wantley, now -that I have suggested the idea, you must admit that they are greatly -interested in one another? At no time of my life have I seen much of -lovers; but, though I have not wished in any way to watch Penelope and -this gentleman, and though I have, of course, said nothing to my niece -Cecily, it has seemed to me quite dear that there is an attachment. In -fact'—she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> spoke with growing courage, emboldened by his silence—'I -have no doubt about my cousin's feelings. Would not the marriage be a -suitable one? Of course there must be a certain difference of age -between them, but she seems, indeed I am sure she is, so very devoted to -him.'</p> - -<p>'I confess the thought of such a thing never occurred to me.'</p> - -<p>Wantley spoke slowly, unwillingly; and even while he uttered the words -there came to him, as in an unbroken, confirmatory chain, the memory of -little incidents, words spoken by Penelope, others left unsaid, her -altered manner to himself—much unwelcomed evidence that Miss Wake had -been perhaps clear-sighted when they had all been blind. He felt a -sudden pang of pity for his cousin, a feeling as if he had suddenly -seen, through an open door, a sight not meant for his eyes. For a moment -he deliberated as to whether he should tell Miss Wake of the one fact -which made impossible any happy ending to what she believed was true of -the relations between Mrs. Robinson and Sir George Downing.</p> - -<p>'I think I ought to tell you,' he said at length, 'that a marriage -between them is out of the question. Sir George Downing has a wife -living. They are separated, but not divorced.' There was a painful -moment of silence; then he added hastily: 'I know that my cousin is -fully aware of the fact.'</p> - -<p>Then, to his relief, Miss Wake spoke as he would have had her speak. 'If -that is so,' she cried,' I have been utterly mistaken, and I beg your -and Penelope's pardon. It is easy to make mistakes of the kind. You see, -I have lived so long out of the world.'</p> - -<p>There was a note of appeal in the thin, high voice.</p> - -<p>'But indeed,' said Wantley quickly, 'my cousin is very unconventional, -and your mistake was a natural one. I myself, had I not known the -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>circumstances, would probably have come to the same conclusion.'</p> - -<p>Their eyes met, and for a brief moment unguarded glances gave the lie to -their spoken words.</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> - -<p class="center">'On ne choisit pas la femme que l'on doit aimer.'</p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The Rectory at Shagisham had the great charm of situation. In his study -old Mr. Winfrith stood on the same level as the top of his church -steeple, and his windows commanded wide views of the valley where lay -the scattered houses composing his cure, of the low hills beyond, and of -the sea. The best had been done that could be done with the steep, -wind-swept garden, and the square, low rooms, which had seen little, if -any, alteration in forty years, opened out upon a lawn kept green with -constant watering.</p> - -<p>To Cecily the old-fashioned house, with its curious air of austere, -unfeminine refinement, was very interesting. She had never seen a -country clergyman at home, and her imagination had formed a picture of -Winfrith's father very different from the small, delicate-looking old -man who welcomed her and Mrs. Robinson with great warmth of manner, -while Winfrith himself showed almost boyish pleasure at the unexpected -visit. 'They must be very lonely here sometimes,' was Cecily's unspoken -thought, as the old clergyman ushered her with some ceremony into the -drawing-room, which had the curious unlived-in look so often seen in a -room associated, to those still living, with a dead woman's presence.</p> - -<p>Before passing out on to the lawn Mr. Winfrith<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> directed Cecily's -attention to a portrait which hung over the mantelpiece. It was that of -a brilliant-looking girl, dressed more or less gipsy-fashion, the -colouring of her red cheeks, so bright as to give the impression that -the sitter had rouged, being daringly repeated in a scarf twisted round -her dark hair. 'David's mother,' he said proudly. 'Do you not think -there is a great likeness between them?'</p> - -<p>Cecily looked doubtfully at the picture. 'Of course he is not nearly so -handsome'—Mr. Winfrith spoke rather plaintively—' but I assure you he -is really very like her. This portrait was painted before our marriage. -Lord Wantley—I mean Mrs. Robinson's father—thought it one of the best -ever painted by the artist'—Mr. Winfrith looked puzzled—' I forget his -name, though at one time I knew him quite well. I'm sure you would know -it, for he's a great man. He was often at Monk's Eype, and painted Lady -Wantley several times. But this was one of his early efforts, and I -myself'—the old man lowered his voice, fearing lest the stricture -should be overheard by his other guest—' much prefer his earlier -manner.' And then he led her out into the garden, and handed her over to -the care of his son, while he himself turned eagerly, confidingly, to -Penelope.</p> - -<p>David Winfrith at Shagisham, waiting on his old father, acting as -courteous host to his own and that dear father's guest, seemed a very -different person from the man who acted as mentor to the Melancthon -Settlement.</p> - -<p>Only the most unemotional, and, intellectually speaking, limited, human -being is totally unaffected by environment. Winfrith, when at home, not -only appeared another person to his London self, but he behaved, and -even felt, differently. At Shagisham he came under the only influence to -which he had ever consciously submitted himself—that of his simple and -spiritually minded father, a man so much<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> older than himself that he -seemed a survival from a long-past generation.</p> - -<p>Another cause, one known fully to very few beside himself, made him a -different man when at home. There, at Shagisham, he never forgot certain -facts connected with the early life of his parents—facts made known to -him in a letter written by his mother before her death, and handed to -him by his father when they had returned, forlornly enough, from her -funeral. And after the boy—he was sixteen at the time—had read and -burnt the letter, he had looked at the lovely valley, the beautiful old -church, and the pretty rectory, with altered, alien eyes.</p> - -<p>Had Winfrith followed his instinct he would never have come there again, -but he had forced himself to keep this feeling hidden from his father, -and many times, both when at college and, later, through his working -year, he took long journeys in order to spend a few brief hours with the -old man.</p> - -<p>But he had no love for the place where he had spent his lonely -childhood, and he did not like Shagisham any the better when he -perceived that he had become in the opinion of the neighbourhood which -had once looked askance at Mr. Winfrith and his only child, an important -personage, able to influence the fate of lowly folk seeking a job, and -that of younger sons of the great folk, bound, with less excuse, on the -same errand.</p> - -<p>Walking beside Penelope's young friend, he took pains to make himself -pleasant, and, happily inspired, he at last observed: 'And so you have -made friends with Lord Wantley? He's a very good fellow, and there's -much more in him than Mrs. Robinson is ever willing to admit. He might -be very useful to the Settlement.' Cecily said to herself that she had -perhaps misjudged her companion, and she determined that she would -henceforth listen to his criticisms of her schemes with more submission.</p> -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> - -<p>But what mattered to David Winfrith the young girl's good opinion? -Penelope's unexpected coming had put him in charity with all the world.</p> - -<p>Certain men are instinctive monogamists. For this man the world held no -woman but she whom he still thought of as Penelope Wantley. There had -been times when he would willingly have let his fancy stray, but, -unfortunately for himself, his fancy had ever refused to stray.</p> - -<p>Of late years he had been often thrown with beautiful and clever women, -some of whom had doubtless felt for him that passing, momentary -attraction which to certain kinds of natures holds out so great an -allurement. But Winfrith, in these matters, was wholly apart from most -of those who composed the world in which he had to spend a certain -portion of his time.</p> - -<p>Even now, while making conversation with Cecily Wake, he was longing to -hear what Penelope could be saying that appeared to interest his father -so much. Mrs. Robinson had taken the arm of the little old clergyman; -they had turned from the wide lawn and steep garden beyond, and were -looking at the house, Penelope talking, the other listening silently. -'No doubt,' said Winfrith to himself, 'they are only discussing what -sort of creeper ought to be added to the west wall this autumn!'</p> - -<p>At last he and his father changed partners, and when the latter, taking -charge of Cecily, had led her off to the sloping kitchen-garden, where -stood the well, the boring of which had been the old man's one -extravagance since he had first come to Shagisham, unnumbered years -before, Mrs. Robinson said abruptly: 'Whenever I see your father, David, -I can't help wishing that you were more like him! He is so much broader -and more kindly than you are—in fact, there seems very little of him in -you at all——'</p> - -<p>'If you are so devoted to him,' he said, smiling, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> rather nettled, -'I wish you would come and see him oftener. You know how fond he is of -you.' He added, but in a tone which destroyed the sentiment conveyed in -the phrase: 'In that one matter, at any rate, you must admit that he and -I are very much alike!'</p> - -<p>Something in the way he said the words displeased Mrs. Robinson. To her -Winfrith's deep, voiceless affection was as much her own, to do what she -willed with, as were any one of her rare physical attributes. The -thought of this deep feeling lessening in depth or in extent was even -now intolerable; and, while giving herself every licence, and arrogating -every right to go her own way, it incensed her that he should, even to -herself, allude lightly to his attachment. She answered obliquely, eager -to punish him for the lightest deviation from his usual allegiance.</p> - -<p>'I know I ought to come oftener,' she said coolly, 'but then, of course, -you yourself hitherto have always been the magnet—not, to be sure, a -very powerful magnet, for 'tis a long time since I've been here.'</p> - -<p>Winfrith reddened. Try as he would—and as a younger man he had often -tried—he could not cure himself of blushing when moved or angered. His -mother, to the very end of her life, had been proud of a beautiful -complexion.</p> - -<p>'I was just telling your father'—she gave him a strange sideway -glance—'the story of the traveller who, crossing the border of a -strange country, came upon a magnificent building which seemed familiar, -though he knew it to be impossible that he had ever seen it before. Then -suddenly he realized that it was one of the castles he had built in -Spain! Now, there, David,' said Mrs. Robinson, pointing with her parasol -to the old-fashioned house before them, 'is the only castle I ever built -in Spain, and I never come here without wondering what sort of dwelling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> -I should have found it.' As he made no answer, she turned and drew -nearer to him, exclaiming as she did so: 'Ah, que j'étais heureuse, dans -ces bons jours où nous étions si malheureux!'</p> - -<p>French was to Winfrith not so much a language as a vocabulary for the -fashioning of treaties and protocols, a collection of counters on whose -painfully considered, often tortuous combinations the fate of men and -nations constantly depended. It may be doubted therefore, whether, if -uttered by any other voice, he would have understood the significance of -the odd phrase in which his companion summed up the later philosophy of -so many women's lives. As it was, its meaning found its way straight to -his heart. He turned and looked at his companion fixedly—a long, -searching look. He opened his lips——</p> - -<p>But Penelope had said enough—had said, indeed, more than she had meant -to say, and produced a far stronger effect than she had intended to -produce.</p> - -<p>Mentally and physically she drew back, and as she moved away, not very -far, but still so as to be no longer almost touching him, 'You owe my -visit to-day,' she cried quickly, and rather nervously, 'to the fact -that Sir George Downing, the man they call Persian Downing, is anxious -to make your acquaintance. He and Ludovic have made friends, and I think -Ludovic wants to bring him over to see you.'</p> - -<p>'Do you mean that Sir George Downing is actually staying with you?' he -asked, with some astonishment. 'I had no idea that any of you knew him.'</p> - -<p>'We met him abroad, and he has just been staying a few days at Monk's -Eype. He wanted to finish an important paper or report, and we had the -Beach Room arranged as a study for him. But he is rather peculiar, and -he fancies he could work better in complete solitude, and so, on our way -back from here, Cecily and I are going to see if we can get him lodgings -at Kingpole Farm. But, David, he really is most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> anxious to meet you. He -says you are the only man in the new Government who knows anything about -Persia; one of the chapters in your book seems to have impressed him -very much, and he wants to talk to you about it.'</p> - -<p>As she spoke her eyes dropped. She avoided looking at his face. The bait -was a gross one, but then the hand which held it was so delicate, so -trusted, and so loved.</p> - -<p>'A friend of Wantley's?' he repeated. 'I wish I had known that before.'</p> - -<p>'I don't think the acquaintance has been a long one, but they seem to -get on very well together.' The words were uttered hurriedly. Penelope -was beginning to feel deeply ashamed of the part she was playing.</p> - -<p>Winfrith went on, with some eagerness: 'How extraordinary that Persian -Downing should find his way down here! He is one of the few people whom -I have always wished to meet.'</p> - -<p>Her task was becoming almost too easy, and with some perverseness she -remarked coldly: 'And yet I believe your present chief—I mean Lord -Rashleigh—refused to see him when he was in London?'</p> - -<p>'Refused is not quite the word. Of course, such a man as Downing has the -faults of his qualities. He arrived in town on a Tuesday, I believe; he -requested an interview on the Wednesday; and then, while the chief was -humming and hawing, and consulting the people who were up on the whole -matter, and who could have told him what to say and how far he could go -in meeting Downing—who, of course, has come back to England with his -head packed full of schemes and projects—the man suddenly disappeared, -leaving no address! Rashleigh was very much put out, the more so that, -as you doubtless know, our people distrust Downing.'</p> - -<p>Penelope was looking down, digging the point of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> parasol into the -soft turf at their feet. 'There was some story, wasn't there, when Sir -George Downing was a young man? Some woman was mixed up with it. What -was the truth of it all?'</p> - -<p>He hesitated, then answered unwillingly: 'The draft of an important -paper disappeared, and was practically traced from Downing's possession -to that of a Russian woman with whom he was known to have been on -friendly terms. But it's admitted now that he was very harshly treated -over the whole affair. I believe he had actually met the lady at a F.O. -reception! He may have been a fool—probably he was a fool—but even at -the time no one suspected him of having been anything else. The woman -simply and very cleverly stole the paper in question.'</p> - -<p>'I am sure he ought to be very much obliged to you for this kind version -of what took place.'</p> - -<p>'Well,' he said good-humouredly, 'I happen to have taken some trouble to -find out the truth, and I'm sorry if the story isn't sensational enough -to please you. But the consequences were serious enough for Downing. He -was treated with great severity, and finally went on to America. It was -there, at Washington, that he became acquainted with my uncle, and, -oddly enough, I have in my possession some of the letters written by him -when first in Persia. I shall now have the opportunity of giving them -back to him.'</p> - -<p>'And out there—in Persia, I mean—did you never come across him?'</p> - -<p>'Unfortunately, I just missed him. No one here understands the sort of -position he has made for himself—and indeed, for us—out there. It was -the one country, till he came on the scene, where we were not only -lacking in influence, but so lacking in prestige that we were being -perpetually outwitted. Downing, as I reminded Rashleigh the other day, -has always been pulling our chestnuts out of the fire. Of course,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> you -can't expect such a man to have the virtues of a Sunday-school teacher.'</p> - -<p>Penelope still kept her eyes averted from Winfrith's face, still -ruthlessly dug holes in her old friend's turf.</p> - -<p>'And when in Persia, in Teheran, what sort of life does he lead there?' -She tried to speak indifferently, but her heart was beating fast and -irregularly.</p> - -<p>But Winfrith, seeing nothing, answered willingly enough: 'Oh, a most -extraordinary sort of life. One of amazing solitariness. He has always -refused to mix with the social life of the Legations. Perhaps that's why -he acquired such an influence elsewhere. Of course, I heard a great deal -about him, and I'll tell you what impressed me most of the various -things I learned. They say that no man—not even out there—has had his -life attempted so often, and in such various ways, as has Persian -Downing. All sorts of people, native and foreign, have an interest in -his disappearance.'</p> - -<p>Penelope's hand trembled. The colour left her cheek.</p> - -<p>'How does he escape?' she asked. 'Has he any special way of guarding -himself from attack?'</p> - -<p>'If he has, no one knows what it is. He has never asked for official -protection, but it seems that from that point of view his G.C.B. has -been quite useful, for now there's a sort of idea that his body and soul -possess a British official value, which before they lacked. He's been -"minted" so to speak.'</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Robinson hardly heard him. She was following her own trend of -thought. There was a question she longed, yet feared, to ask, and though -desperately ashamed at what she was about to do, she made up her mind -that she could not let pass this rare, this unique, opportunity of -learning what she craved to know. 'I suppose that he really <i>has</i> lived -alone?' she asked insistently. And then, seeing that she must speak yet -more plainly: 'I suppose—I mean, was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> there anything against his -private character, out there, in Teheran?'</p> - -<p>A look of annoyance crossed Winfrith's face. He was old-fashioned enough -to consider such questions unseemly, especially when asked by a woman. -'Certainly not,' he replied rather stiffly. 'I heard no whisper of such -a thing. Had there been anything of the kind, I should, of course, have -heard it. Teheran is full of petty gossip, as are all those sorts of -places.'</p> - -<p>As they turned to meet old Mr. Winfrith and Cecily Wake, Penelope -thought, with mingled feelings of relief and pain, of how easy it had -all been, and yet how painful—at moments, how agonizing—to herself.</p> - -<p>The father and son were loth to let them go, and even after the old man -had parted from his guests David Winfrith walked on by the side of the -low cart, leading the pony down the steep, stone-strewn hill which led -to the village, set, as is so often the way in Dorset, in an oasis of -trees. As they rounded a sharp corner and came in sight of a large house -standing within high walls, surrounded on three sides by elms, but on -one side bare and very near to the lonely road, he suddenly said -'Good-bye,' and, turning on his heel, did not stay a moment to gaze -after them, as Cecily, looking round, had thought he would.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Penelope checked the pony's inclination to gallop along the short, -smooth piece of road which lay before them, and, when actually passing -the large house which stood at the beginning of the village, she almost -brought him to a standstill.</p> - -<p>Cecily then saw that the blinds, bright red in colour, of the long row -of upper windows—in fact, all those that could be seen above the high -wall—were drawn down.</p> - -<p>'Look well at that place,' said her companion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> suddenly, 'and I will -tell you why David Winfrith never willingly passes by here when he is -staying at Shagisham.'</p> - -<p>Till that moment Mrs. Robinson had had no intention of telling Cecily -anything about this place, or of Winfrith's connection with its solitary -occupant, but she wished to escape from her own thoughts, to forget for -a moment certain passages in a conversation, the memory of which -distressed and shamed her.</p> - -<p>To attain this end she went further on the road of betrayal, telling -that which should not have been told. 'It's a very curious story,' she -said, 'and David will never know that I have told it to you.'</p> - -<p>As she spoke she shook the reins more loosely through her hand, and gave -the pony his head.</p> - -<p>'I must begin by telling you that Mrs. Winfrith, David's mother, was -much younger than her husband, and in every way utterly unlike him. -Before her marriage she had been something of a beauty, a spoilt, -headstrong girl, engaged to some man of whom her people had not -approved, and who finally jilted her. She came down here on a visit, met -Mr. Winfrith, flirted with him, and finally married him. For a time all -seemed to go very well: they had no children, and as he was very -indulgent she often went away and stayed with her own people, who were -rich and of the world worldly. It was from one of them, by the way—from -a brother of hers, a diplomatist—that David got his nice little -fortune. But at the time I am telling you of there was no thought of -David. Not long after Mr. and Mrs. Winfrith's marriage, another couple -came to Shagisham, and took Shagisham House, the place we have just -passed. Their name was Mason, and they were very well off. But soon it -became known that the wife was practically insane—in fact, that she had -to have nurses and keepers. One of her crazes was that of having -everything about her red; the furniture was all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> upholstered in -bright-red silk, the woodwork was all painted red, and people even said -she slept in red linen sheets! Mrs. Winfrith became quite intimate with -these people. She was there constantly, and she was supposed to have a -soothing effect on Mrs. Mason. In time—in fact, in a very short -time—she showed her sympathy with the husband in the most practical -manner, for one day they both disappeared from Shagisham together.'</p> - -<p>'Together?' repeated Cecily, bewildered. 'How do you mean?'</p> - -<p>'I mean'—Penelope was looking straight before her, urging the pony to -go yet faster, although they were beginning to mount the interminable -hill leading to Kingpole Farm—'I mean that Mrs. Winfrith ran away from -her husband, and that Mr. Mason left his mad wife to take care of -herself. Of course, as an actual fact, there were plenty of people to -look after her, and I don't suppose she ever understood what had taken -place. But you can imagine how the affair affected the neighbourhood, -and the kind of insulting pity which was lavished on Mr. Winfrith. My -father, who at that time only knew him slightly, tried to induce him to -leave Shagisham, and even offered to get him another living. But he -refused to stir, and so he and Mrs. Mason both stayed on here, while -Mrs. Winfrith and Mr. Mason were heard of at intervals as being in -Italy, apparently quite happy in each other's society, and quite -unrepentant.'</p> - -<p>'Poor Mr. Winfrith!' said Cecily slowly. But she was thinking of David, -not of the placid old man who seemed so proud of his flowers and of his -garden.</p> - -<p>'Yes, indeed, poor Mr. Winfrith! But in a way the worst for him was yet -to come. One winter day a lawyer's clerk came down to Shagisham House to -tell the housekeeper and Mrs. Mason's attendants that their master was -dead. He had died of typhoid fever at Pisa, leaving no will, and having -made no <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>arrangements either for his own wife, or for the lady who, in -Italy, had of course passed as his wife. Well, Mr. Winfrith started off -that same night for Pisa, and about a fortnight later he brought Mrs. -Winfrith back to Shagisham.'</p> - -<p>Penelope waited awhile, but Cecily made no comment.</p> - -<p>'For a time,' Mrs. Robinson went on, 'I believe they lived like lepers. -The farmers made it an excuse to drop coming to church, and only one -woman belonging to their own class ever went near them.'</p> - -<p>'I know who that was,' said Cecily, breaking her long silence—'at -least, I think it must have been your mother.'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Penelope, 'yes, it was my mother. How clever of you to -guess! Mamma used to go and see her regularly. And one day, finding how -unhappy the poor woman seemed to be, she asked my father to allow her to -ask her to come and stay at Monk's Eype. Very characteristically, as I -think, he let mamma have her way in the matter; but during Mrs. -Winfrith's visit he himself went away, otherwise people might have -thought that he had condoned her behaviour.'</p> - -<p>She paused for a moment.</p> - -<p>'Something so strange happened during that first stay of Mrs. Winfrith's -at Monk's Eype. Mamma found out, or rather Mrs. Winfrith confided to -her, that she had fallen in love, rather late in the day, with Mr. -Winfrith, and that she could not bear the gentle, cold, distant way in -which he treated her. Then mamma did what I have always thought was a -very brave thing. She went over to Shagisham, all by herself, and spoke -to him, telling him that if he had really forgiven his wife he ought to -treat her differently.'</p> - -<p>'And then?' asked Cecily.</p> - -<p>'And then'—Penelope very shortly ended the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> story—'she—mamma, I -mean—persuaded him to go away for six months with Mrs. Winfrith. They -spent the time in America, where her brother was living as attaché to -the British Legation. After that they came home, and about five years -before I made my appearance, David was born.'</p> - -<p>'And Mrs. Mason?' asked Cecily.</p> - -<p>'Mrs. Mason has lived on all these years in the house we passed just -now. I have myself seen her several times peeping out of one of the -windows. She has a thin, rather clever-looking face, and long grey -curls. She was probably out just now, for she takes a drive every -afternoon; but she never leaves her closed carriage, and, though she can -walk quite well, they have to carry her out to it. She is intensely -interested in weddings and funerals, and, on the very rare occasions -when there is anything of the sort going on at Shagisham, her carriage -is always drawn up close to the gate of the churchyard. She was there -the day Mrs. Winfrith was buried. My father, who came down from London -to be present, was very much shocked, and thought someone ought to have -told the coachman to drive on; but of course no one liked to do it, and -so Mrs. Mason saw the last of the woman who had been her rival.'</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> - -<p class="center">'Est-ce qu'une vie de femme se raconte? elle se sent, elle passe, -elle apparait.'—<span class="smcap">Sainte Beuve.</span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>That Sir George Downing should spend the last days of his sojourn in -Dorset at Kingpole Farm, a seventeenth-century homestead, where, -according to local tradition, Charles II. had spent a night in hiding -during his hurried flight after the Battle of Worcester, had been Mrs. -Robinson's wish and suggestion. He had welcomed the idea of leaving -Monk's Eype with an eagerness which had pained her, though in her heart -she was aware that she had thus devised a way out of what had become to -them both a most difficult and false situation.</p> - -<p>Very soon after Downing's arrival at Monk's Eype Penelope had become -acutely conscious of the mistake she had made in asking him to come -there. After painful moments spent with him—moments often of -embarrassed silence—she had divined, with beating heart and flushed -cheek, why all seemed to go ill between them during this time of waiting -and of suspense, which she had actually believed would prove a -prolongation of the halcyon, dream-like days that had followed their -first meeting.</p> - -<p>This beautiful, intelligent woman, with her strange half-knowledge of -the realities of human life, and the less strange ignorances, which she -kept closely hidden from those about her, had often received, especially -in her 'Perdita' days, confidences which had inspired her with a deep -distaste of those ignoble shifts and ruses which perforce so often -surround a passion not in itself ignoble, or in any real sense impure.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p> - -<p>She had been glad to assure herself that in this case—that of her own -relation to Downing—nothing of the kind need sully the beginnings of -what she believed with all her heart would be a noble and lifelong -love-story. Accordingly, there had been a tacit pact as to the reserve -and restraint which should govern their relations the one to the other -during the few weeks of Downing's stay in England.</p> - -<p>When the time came they would leave together openly, and with a certain -measured dignity, but till then they would be friends, merely friends, -not lovers.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Robinson had not considered it essential, or indeed desirable, -that there should be no meeting in the interval, and she had seen no -reason why her friend's schemes should not have what slender help was -possible from the exercise of her woman's wits. Hence she had planned -the meeting with David Winfrith; hence she had asked Downing to become -one of her guests at Monk's Eype, and after some demur he had -reluctantly obeyed.</p> - -<p>During the days that had immediately followed his coming, days which saw -Downing avoiding rather than seeking his hostess's presence, Penelope -often pondered over the words, the first he had uttered when they had -found themselves alone: 'I feel like a thief—nay, like a -murderer—here!' Extravagant, foolish words, uttered by one whose -restraint and wisdom had held for her from the first a curious -fascination.</p> - -<p>Alas! She knew now how ill-advised she had been to bring him to Monk's -Eype, to place him in sharp juxtaposition with her mother, with her -cousin Wantley, even with such a girl as Cecily Wake. The very -simplicity of the life led by Mrs. Robinson's little circle of -unworldly, simple-minded guests made intimate talk between herself and -Downing difficult, the more so that feminine instinct kept few her -visits to the Beach Room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> - -<p>Now and again, however, a softened glance from the powerful lined face, -a muttered word expressive of deep measureless feeling, the feel of his -hand grasping hers, would suddenly seem to prove that everything was -indeed as she wished it to be between them, and for a few hours she -would feel, if not content, at least at peace.</p> - -<p>But even then there was always the haunting thought that some extraneous -circumstance—sometimes she wondered if it could have been any foolish, -careless word said by Wantley—had modified the close intimacy of their relation.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>There had been a week of this strain and strange chill between them, -when one night Penelope, feeling intolerably sore and full of vague -misgivings, suddenly determined to seek Downing out in the Beach Room. -It fell about in this wise. After the quiet evening had at last come to -an end, she went upstairs with Cecily and old Miss Wake, dismissed -Motey, and then returned to the studio, hoping he would come to her -there.</p> - -<p>But an hour wore itself away, and he did not come.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson went out on to the moonlit terrace, and for awhile paced -up and down, watching the lights in the villa being put out one by one. -She knew that her old nurse would not go to sleep till she, Penelope, -were safe in bed; and she felt, though she could not see them, Mrs. -Mote's eyes peering down at her, watching this impatient walking up and -down in the bright moonlight. But what would once have so keenly annoyed -her no longer had power to touch her. She even smiled when the candle in -Mrs. Mote's room was extinguished, and the blind carefully and -ostentatiously drawn down. She knew well that the old woman would sit -behind it, waiting impatiently, full<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> of suspicious anger, till she saw -her mistress return from the place whither she was now bound.</p> - -<p>As she went down the steps leading to the shore, Penelope, her eyes cast -down, pitied herself with the frank self-pity of a child deprived of -some longed-for happiness; she had so looked forward to these days with -Downing, spent in this beloved place, which she was about to give up, -perhaps never to see again, for his sake.</p> - -<p>At last, when standing on the strip of dry sand heaped above the wet, -glittering expanse stretching out to the dark sea, Penelope came upon -the circle of bright light, warring with the moonlit shore below, thrown -by Downing's lamp through the window of the Beach Room.</p> - -<p>The sight affected her curiously. For a moment she felt as if she must -turn back; after all, he was engaged upon matters of great moment, -perhaps of even greater moment to himself than the question of their -relation the one to the other. She suddenly felt ashamed of disturbing -him at his work—real work which she knew must be done before he went -back to town.</p> - -<p>But the window, through which streamed out the shaft of greenish-white -light, was wide open, and soon Downing heard, mingling with the surge of -the sea, the sound, the unmistakable dragging sound, of a woman's long -clinging skirt.</p> - -<p>He got up, opened the door, and, coming out took her in his arms and -drew her silently back with him into the Beach Room. Then, bending down, -his lips met and trembled on hers, and Penelope, her resentment gone, -felt her eyes fill with tears.</p> - -<p>A kiss, so trifling a gift on the part of some women as to be scarcely -worth the moments lost in the giving and receiving, is with other women, -indeed with many other women, the forerunner of complete surrender.</p> - -<p>In her thirty years of life two men only had kissed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> Penelope -Wantley—the one Winfrith, the other Downing.</p> - -<p>To-night there came to her with amazing clearness the vision of a -garden, ill-cared for, deserted, but oh! how beautiful, stretching -behind a Savoy inn in the mountainous country about Pol les Thermes. -There she and Downing, drawn—driven—to one another by a trembling, -irresistible impulse, had kissed for the first time, and for a moment, -then as now, she had lain in his arms, looking up at him with piteous, -questioning eyes. How long ago that morning seemed, and yet how few had -been the kisses in between!</p> - -<p>Suddenly she felt him loosen his grip of her shoulders; and he held her -away from himself, at arms' length, as deliberately, in the tone of one -who has a right to an answer, he asked her a certain question regarding -herself and Melancthon Robinson.</p> - -<p>She was pained and startled, reluctant to tell that which she had always -kept secret, and which she believed—so little are we aware that most -things concerning us are known to all our world—had never been -suspected. But she admitted his right to question her, and found time to -whisper to her secret self, 'My answer must surely make him glad'; and -so, her eyes lowering before his piercing, insistent gaze, she told him -the truth.</p> - -<p>But, as he heard her, Downing relaxed his hold on her, and with -something like a groan he said: 'Why did I not know this before? Why -should I have had to wait till now to learn such a thing from you?' And -as she, surprised and distressed, hesitated, not knowing what to say, he -to her amazement turned away, and in a preoccupied tone, even with a -smile, said suddenly: 'Go. Go now, my dear. It is too late for you to be -down here. I have work to finish to-night.' Then he opened the door, -and, with no further word or gesture of affection, shut her out in what -seemed for the moment utter darkness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> - -<p>But as she slowly began groping her way up the steps, sick at heart, -bewildered by the strangeness, by the coldness, of his manner, the door -of the Beach Room again opened, and she heard him calling her back with -a hoarse, eager cry.</p> - -<p>She hesitated, then turned to see his tall, lean figure filling up the -doorway, and outlined for a moment against the bright lamplit room, -before he strode across the sand to where she stood, trembling.</p> - -<p>Once more he took her in his arms, once more he murmured the words of -broken, passionate endearment for which her heart had hungered, only, -however, at last again to say, but no longer with a smile: 'Go. Go now, -my beloved—for I am only a man after all—only a man as other men are.'</p> - -<p>Then for some days Penelope had found him again become strangely cold -and alien. She had felt the situation between them intolerable, and -suddenly she had suggested the sojourn at Kingpole Farm. And on the eve -of his departure Downing again seemed to become instinct with the -mysterious ardour he had shown from the first moment they had met, from -the flash of time during which their eyes had exchanged their first -long, intimate, probing look.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Mrs. Mote had followed, with foreboding, agonizing jealousy, this -interlude of days in a drama of which she had seen the first, and of -which she was beginning to divine the last, act.</p> - -<p>It is not the apparently inevitable sin, so much as the apparently -avoidable folly, which most distresses those onlookers who truly love -the sinners and the foolish. During those still summer days the old -nurse felt she could have borne anything but this strange beguilement of -her mistress, by one whom the maid regarded as having outlived the age -when men make women happy. The sight of Mrs. Robinson, with whom, to -Motey's doting eyes, time had stood still,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> hanging on his words, having -eyes only for this man, who, though no longer young, yet seemed even -older than his age, struck the watcher as monstrous because unnatural.</p> - -<p>So far, Mrs. Mote had been unselfish in her repugnance for the -irrevocable step towards which she felt Penelope to be drifting, but of -late a nearer and more personal terror had taken possession of the old -woman. She was beginning to suspect that she herself was to have no part -in Mrs. Robinson's new life, and the suspicion drove her nearly beside -herself with anger and impotent distress.</p> - -<p>Many incidents, of themselves trifling, had instilled this suspicion in -her mind. Mrs. Robinson was trying to do for herself all the things that -Motey, first as nurse, and later as maid, had always done for her. -Sitting in her own room, next door to that of her mistress, and feeling -too proud and sore to come unless sent for, Mrs. Mote would hear the -opening and shutting of cupboards and drawers, the seeking and the -putting away by Penelope—this last an almost incredible portent—of her -own hat, veil, gloves, and shoes!</p> - -<p>Even more significant was the fact that of late Penelope had become so -considerate, so tender, of the old woman who had always been about her. -How happy a sharp, impatient word would now have made Mrs. Mote! But no -such word was ever uttered. Instead, Mrs. Robinson had actually -suggested that her maid should have a holiday. 'Me? A holiday? and what -should I do with a holiday?' Motey had repeated, bewildered, and then -with painful sarcasm had added, 'I suppose, ma'am, that is why you are -learning to do your own hair?'</p> - -<p>She had watched her enemy's departure for Kingpole Farm with sombre eyes -and sinking heart, wondering what this unexpected happening might -portend to her mistress.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> - -<p>The day after that which had seen Downing leaving Monk's Eype, Mrs. -Robinson had found her riding-habit, and also a short skirt she often -wore when driving herself, laid out with some elaboration. 'I have -everything ready,' had said the old nurse sourly, 'for there will be -many rides and drives now, I reckon.' And Penelope, forgetting her new -gentleness, had exclaimed angrily: 'Motey, you are intolerable! Put -those things away at once!'</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>In most people's lives there has come, at times, a sequence of days, -full of deep calm without, full of inward strife and disturbance within.</p> - -<p>The departure of Sir George Downing from Monk's Eype brought no peace to -the two women to whom his presence there had been of moment. Mrs. Mote -believed that his going heralded some immediate change in Mrs. -Robinson's life; as far as possible she never let her mistress out of -her sight, and the tarrying of Penelope from the villa an hour later -than she had been expected to do, more than once threw the old nurse -into a state of abject alarm. But Motey, during those still days, had -lost the clue to her nursling's heart and mind.</p> - -<p>For some days and nights after Downing had left her, and she had -deliberately denied herself the solace of his letters, Mrs. Robinson was -haunted by the thought—sometimes, it seemed, by the actual physical -presence—of her first love, David Winfrith.</p> - -<p>The memory of the hours spent by her with him at Shagisham constantly -recurred, bringing a strange mingling of triumph and pain. How badly she -had behaved to him that day! how treacherously! it might almost be said, -how wantonly! And yet, at the time, during that moment when she had come -close to him, and uttered those plaintive words which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> had so greatly -moved him, Downing for the moment had been blotted out of her memory, so -intense had been her desire to bring Winfrith back to his old -allegiance.</p> - -<p>Now, looking back at the little scene, she knew that she had succeeded -in her wish—but at what a cost! And in a few weeks, she could now count -the time by days, it would become the business of Winfrith's life to -forget her. She knew how his narrow, upright mind would judge her -action; with what utter condemnation and horror he would remember that -conversation held between them, especially that portion of it which -concerned Sir George Downing.</p> - -<p>The knowledge that Winfrith must in time realize how ill she had used -him that day brought keen humiliation in its train. 'I have been far -more married to him than I was to poor Melancthon!' she cried half aloud -to herself during one of the restless, unhappy nights, spent by her in -thinking over the past and considering the present; and the thought had -come into her mind: 'If I had married David, and then if he, instead of -Melancthon, had died, how much happier I should be to-day than I am -now!'</p> - -<p>But even as she had uttered the words, and though believing herself to -be the only creature awake in the still house, Penelope in the darkness -had blushed violently, marvelling to find herself capable of having -conceived so monstrous an idea.</p> - -<p>It added to Mrs. Robinson's unrest and disquiet to know, as she had done -through Wantley, now—oh, irony!—the only link between herself and -Kingpole Farm, that Downing and Winfrith had met more than once. The -interviews, or so she gathered from her cousin, had been, from Downing's -point of view, satisfactory, but she longed feverishly to know more—to -learn how David Winfrith had comported himself, what impression he had -made on the older man.</p> - -<p>It was significant that Penelope never gave a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> thought as to how Downing -had impressed Winfrith. To her mind the matter could not admit of -doubt—his personality must dominate all those with whom it came into -contact.</p> - -<p>Neither man knew of her relation, past or present, to the other. Still, -she felt a longing to be assured that all had gone well between them. It -added to her vague discomfort that Wantley, when telling her of what had -been the first meeting between the two men, had given her a quick, -penetrating look from out his half-closed eyes, and then had glanced -away in obvious embarrassment.</p> - -<p>Well, she would soon have to see Winfrith, for on him she counted—and -she never saw the refinement of cruelty involved—to make smooth, as -regarded certain material matters, the path before her.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson wished to begin her new life stripped, as far as might be -possible, of all that must recall to her that which had come and gone -since she was Penelope Wantley. She hoped that by giving up the great -fortune left by her husband, she might blot out the recollection, not -only of poor Melancthon Robinson, for whose memory she had ever felt a -certain impatient kindliness, but also of David Winfrith, to whom her -tie of late years had been so close, though of that she had told Downing -nothing.</p> - -<p>This intention of material renouncement had not been imagined in the -first instance by Penelope—the Robinson fortune had cost her so little -and had been hers so long! But Downing, during one of their first -intimate talks and discussions concerning the future, had assumed that, -on her return to England, she would at once begin arranging for its -dispersion, and she had instantly accepted the idea, and felt herself -eager to act on it. Indeed, she had said after a short pause, and it was -the first time that she had mentioned to this new friend and still -unfamiliar lover, the oldest of her friends and the most familiar of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> -her lovers, 'David Winfrith will help me about it all.'</p> - -<p>'The new Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs?' he had asked, and she had -answered quickly: 'Yes, his father is one of the trustees of the -Settlement, and he has helped me a good deal over it.'</p> - -<p>No more had then been said, and since her return to England Mrs. -Robinson had done nothing concerning the matter.</p> - -<p>But now she must bestir herself, see Winfrith, and that soon. He knew -all about her affairs, and she intended that he should help her to -hasten the inevitable formalities. As to what she was to say to him, how -to offer, to one so matter-of-fact and clear-headed, any adequate reason -for her proposed action, she trusted to her wit and to his obtuseness. -He had often found the courage to tell her that some adequate provision -should be made by her for the Melancthon Settlement, and that, as -matters stood, too much was left to her own conscience and her own -generosity. Well, she would now remind him of his unpalatable advice, -and tell him that at last she was about to follow it.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Penelope also found time, during the days which followed Downing's -departure, to think of her mother—to wonder, with tightened throat, how -Lady Wantley would meet the ordeal coming so swiftly to meet and -overwhelm her.</p> - -<p>Even with those whose thoughts, emotions, and consciences seemed -channelled in the narrowest grooves it is often difficult to foresee -with what eyes, both of the body and of the soul, they will view any -given set of circumstances. Lady Wantley had always seemed extremely -wide-minded, in some ways nebulously so; but this had been in a measure -owing, so Penelope now reminded herself, to the fact that she had lived -a life so spiritually detached from those about her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p> - -<p>Since her husband's death the mother's loyalty to her only child had -been unswerving, and she seemed to have transferred to Penelope the -unquestioning trust she had felt in Penelope's father.</p> - -<p>Old friends, including Mr. Julius Gumberg, had ventured to remonstrate, -and very seriously, when the lovely, impulsive girl had announced her -sudden engagement, after a strangely short acquaintance, to Melancthon -Robinson; but Lady Wantley—and her daughter, looking back in after -years, had often wondered sorely, with a shuddering retrospection, that -it had been so—had seemed quite content, quite certain, that her -beloved child was being Divinely guided.</p> - -<p>She had accepted, with the same curious detachment, the fact of -Penelope's widowhood, and during the years which followed had encouraged -her daughter to lead the life that suited her best, looking on with -indulgent eyes while Mrs. Robinson enjoyed what she always later -recalled as the 'Perdita' stage of her existence.</p> - -<p>This had been the period when the girl-widow, released from the bondage -into which she had entered so lightly, returned with intense zest to the -delightful frivolous world of which she had seen but little before her -marriage. For three or four years Mrs. Robinson enjoyed all that this -delicately dissipated section of society could give her in the way of -lightly balanced emotion and fresh sensation, and her mother had been -apparently in no wise shocked or surprised that it should be so.</p> - -<p>Then had followed a period of travel, when the young widow had seen -something of a wider world. Finally, Penelope had settled down to the -life of which we know—still, when she was in London, seeing something -of the gay, light-hearted circle of men and women who had once -surrounded 'Perdita' with the pleasant and not insincere flattery they -are ever ready<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> to bestow on any and every human being who for the -moment interests and amuses them. Mrs. Robinson had retained her place, -as it were her niche, among them. They still delighted in 'Perdita's' -beauty, and in her exceptional artistic gift; also—and she would have -felt indeed angered and disgusted had she known it—her reputed wealth, -which was by no means so great as was rumoured, played its part in -keeping up her prestige with a world which is apt to become at times -painfully aware of the value of money.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, David Winfrith was not loved among these men and -women who considered high living thoroughly compatible with—indeed, an -almost indispensable adjunct to—high thinking. Winfrith took a grim -pleasure in acting as kill-joy to certain kinds of human sport to which -they were addicted, and, worse than that, he positively bored them! And -so, when Mrs. Robinson, having drawn him once more into her innocent, -but none the less dangerous, toils, had again formed with him an -absorbing and intimate friendship, certain of her acquaintances were no -longer as eager to be with her as they had once been, and they -considered that their dear 'Perdita' was making herself slightly -ridiculous.</p> - -<p>Another reason why Mrs. Robinson found it impossible to divine how her -mother would regard what she was now on the eve of doing, was because -the younger woman knew well how her father would have regarded such a -union as that which she was contemplating.</p> - -<p>Lord Wantley had not been in the habit, as his wife had always been, of -looking at life and those about him with charitable ambiguity; and there -was no doubt as to how the great philanthropist, who had been in his -lifetime a pillar of the Low Church party, regarded the slightest -deviation from the moral law. Penelope now remembered with great -discomfort<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> and prevision of pain that concerning actual matters of life -and conduct Lady Wantley's 'doxy' had always been, so far as she knew -it, her husband's 'doxy.'</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'Ah! le bon chemin que le droit chemin!'<span class="s3"> </span></div> -<div class="right"><span class="smcap">Déroulède.</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Kingpole Farm was built at a time when loneliness was not feared, as it -has come to be, by the poor and by the workers of rural England, and, if -one can trust to outward signs, when country eyes were more alive than -they are now to beauty of surroundings, and to the uplifting quality of -wide, limitless expanses of land and sky.</p> - -<p>Sir George Downing had now been there more than a week, a time of entire -solitude, only broken by two long calls from David Winfrith. An old -bedridden man and his widowed daughter were the only inmates of the -farmhouse, and they troubled their lodger little. Accordingly, he had -had plenty of time both to work and to think, and, during the long -solitary walks which were his only recreation, he asked himself many -searching questions compelling truthful answers.</p> - -<p>Seeing Mrs. Robinson in her daily life at Monk's Eype had affected -Downing with curious doubt and melancholy, and had given him his first -feeling of uneasiness concerning their joint future. Till then he had -not thought of her as the centre of a world, each member of which would -be struck to the heart when they learnt what she was about to do. It was -characteristic of the man that he gave no thought as to how the matter -would affect himself. He <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>conceived that each human being has a right to -judge and decide for himself as to any given line of conduct, and he had -long felt absolved from any personal duty as regarded his own wife. -After their second parting he had offered her the entire freedom -afforded by an American divorce, but she had refused to avail herself of -it.</p> - -<p>More, after leaving London, and before going to Monk's Eype, Downing had -made a swift, secret journey to the place where he had learnt that Lady -Downing was staying with some evangelical friends. The two had met in -the parlour of a village inn, and each had been more amazed and moved -than either would have thought possible by the physical changes time had -wrought in the other.</p> - -<p>With perhaps an unwise abruptness, he threw himself on her mercy, -telling her the whole truth, and only concealing the name of the woman -with whom he was about to form a new tie.</p> - -<p>But Lady Downing had seen in his intention, in his proposed action, only -an added reason for standing firm in the matter of a public divorce. She -pointed out, in the gentle, reasonable tone which he felt was all that -now remained of the Puritan girl he had once known, that Christian -marriage is indissoluble. 'Your sin would be the same in either case,' -she said; 'but if I consented to what you now desire, I should be a -participant in your sin.'</p> - -<p>As he had not told Penelope of his intention of seeking out his wife, -there had been no reason to acquaint her with his failure.</p> - -<p>But during those lonely days at Kingpole Farm Downing regretted, with -bitter, voiceless lamentation, that he had failed in inducing his wife -to consent to what would have so straightened the way before him. For -the path which had seemed a few weeks before so clear and smooth, he now -saw to be strewn with sharp stones and obstacles, which he knew<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> would -hurt and wound the creature he had come to love with so jealous and so -absorbing a love, and who was about to give up so much for his sake.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>On the afternoon of the tenth day of his stay at Kingpole Farm, and not -long after he had seen the widowed daughter of his landlord go off for -the afternoon to see one of her gossips at Burcombe, the little town -which formed the only link between the farm and outer civilization, Sir -George Downing, standing by the window of his sitting-room, suddenly saw -the woman who now dwelt so constantly in his thoughts walking up the -lonely road, and instinctively his eyes travelled past her, seeking the -pony-cart and Cecily Wake.</p> - -<p>But the rounded edges of the hill remained bare, and Downing looked at -the advancing figure with longing eyes, with throbbing heart. It seemed -an eternity since they two had been really alone together, free from -probable interruption and from Mrs. Mote's suspicious, unfriendly eyes.</p> - -<p>Turning quickly away, he walked with impatient steps up and down the -old-fashioned farmhouse sitting-room, stifling the wish to go out and -meet her, there, on the solitary road. But her coming had been -unheralded. This was the first time she had come to him; hitherto it was -always he who had gone to her, and he felt that even in the matter of -moments she must choose that of their meeting.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson did not seem in any haste. Even when actually on her way -up the prim flagged path, edged with wallflower, which led to the door -of the farmhouse, she turned and looked long at the wonderful view -spread out below the narrow ledge where wound the rough road above which -she was standing.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she put her hand to her breast; she had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> walked too quickly up -the steep winding way from the hamlet where she had been compelled to -leave her pony-cart; and as she stood, looking intently, with enraptured -eyes, at the marvellous sight before her—for a great storm was -gathering over the vast plain lying unrolled below—the man who watched -her from the farmhouse windows likened her in his mind to Diana, weary -for a moment of the chase.</p> - -<p>Her tall figure was outlined against the lowering white and grey sky, -the short dun-coloured skirt was blown about her knees by the high, -stinging wind, while the closely buttoned jacket, reaching but just -below the waist, revealed the exquisite arching lines of her shoulders -and throat. Mercury, rather than Diana, was evoked by the winged, -casque-like headgear which remained so firmly wedded, in spite of windy -buffetings, to the broadly coiled hair.</p> - -<p>Like all beautiful women who are also intelligent, Penelope's outward -appearance—the very character of her beauty—changed and modified -according to her mood. There were times when body was almost wholly -subordinate to mind; days, again, when her physical loveliness had about -it a mature, alluring quality, like to that of a ripe peach.</p> - -<p>So perhaps had Downing envisaged her during those first days when he had -been drawn out of his austere, watchful self by a charm Circe-like and -compelling, when Mrs. Robinson had been engaged in the great feminine -game at which she was so skilful a player—that of subduing a heart -believed to be impregnable.</p> - -<p>But her opponent himself had only caught fire, in any deep unchanging -sense, when his Circe had suddenly revealed another and a very different -side to her nature.</p> - -<p>Just as an apparently trivial incident will often deflect the whole -course of a human career, so, in the more complex and subtle life of the -heart, a physical accident may quicken feeling into life, or destroy -the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> nascent emotion. Downing had not been long at Pol les Thermes when -he fell ill from a return of the fever which often attacks Europeans in -Persia, and Mrs. Robinson, after two long, dull days, during which she -had been bereft of the stimulating presence of her new friend—or -prey—took on herself the office, not so much of nurse as of secretary, -to the lonely man.</p> - -<p>It was then, when her mere presence had seemed to lift him out of a pit -of deep physical depression, that Downing had found her to be a far more -enduringly attractive woman than the brilliant, seductive figure who had -appeared before him as a ripe delicious fruit, with which he had known -well enough he must never slake his thirst. Her he could have left, and -gone on his way, sighing that such Hesperidean apples were not for him. -It was the softer, and, it must be said, the more intelligent and -companionable, woman who received, during those days when she was simply -kind, confidences concerning his present ambitions, and his schemes for -benefiting the country with which he had now so many links, as well as -that which had given him birth, and which was about to welcome him back, -him the prodigal, with high honour.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson would have been surprised indeed had she known how much -more it cost this friend she longed to turn into a lover to tell her of -the present fame than of the far-away disgrace. When he revealed to her -something of his hopes, of his plans, of what he intended to do when in -England, it meant that she had conquered a side of Downing's nature -which had been wholly starved since the great trouble which had ruined -his youth—that which longed for human intimacy and confidence.</p> - -<p>As he stood to-day looking at her from his window he felt a certain -surprise. Never had he seen her look quite as she did now—so girlish, -so virginal, so young, in spite of her thirty years of life. And truly -Penelope's present outward appearance—that of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> embodied -chastity—reflected, to quite a singular degree, her inward, instant -mood. For, though this visit to Kingpole Farm had been the outcome of an -intense longing to see Downing, and to be once more with him, she had -yet feared that seeking him out like this might seem overbold. Still she -had a good excuse, and one she could offer even to herself, namely, that -all manner of material matters had to be settled between them, -especially concerning her renouncement of the Robinson fortune.</p> - -<p>And yet, had Penelope believed in omens, she would surely have turned -back, for the few miles' drive had not been free of disagreeable -incident.</p> - -<p>First she had met the Winfriths, father and son, and she had been forced -to allow them to believe a lie, for she could not tell them whither she -was bound. Then, when some two miles from Kingpole Farm, and, -fortunately, not far from a blacksmith's forge, had come a mishap to one -of the wheels of her pony-cart, making further driving impossible, and -so she had gone on up the steep hill on foot, feeling perhaps -unreasonably ruffled and disturbed.</p> - -<p class="space-above">At last Downing saw her turn and walk up to the front-door. There was a -pause, and then she came in through the open door of his room, and -somewhat stiffly offered him her hand, still encased in a stout -driving-glove.</p> - -<p>So scrupulously did her host respect Mrs. Robinson's obvious wish to be -treated as a stranger, that he even avoided looking into her face as -they both instinctively walked over to where it was lightest—close to -the curtainless open window.</p> - -<p>Penelope had brought a packet of letters from Monk's Eype. 'I thought -they might be important. Pray read them now,' she said.</p> - -<p>Downing, eager to obey her, did so, while she, apparently absorbed in -watching the flying <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>storm-clouds scurrying over the broad valleys -below, was yet intensely conscious of his presence, and of how strangely -young he looked to-day—how straight, how lean, how strong, how much -more a man, in the same sense that David Winfrith was a man, than he had -appeared to be at Monk's Eype, pitted against the shadowless youth of -Cecily Wake, and even of Wantley.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, having slightly turned her head, thinking to see Downing -without appearing to do so, Penelope became aware that he was watching -her with a melancholy, intense look.</p> - -<p>Her heart began to beat unaccountably fast. She turned away hurriedly, -and again looked out over the vast panorama of land and sky lying -unrolled before them. Then she began talking quickly, and not very -coherently, of the matters about which she had come to consult him. Had -he anything to suggest, for instance, concerning the money arrangements -which must now be made about the Melancthon Settlement?</p> - -<p>'The Melancthon Settlement?'</p> - -<p>Downing concentrated his mind on the problems now confronting his -companion. He rose suddenly to look for a book of reference which he -knew contained details of the working of similar philanthropic schemes, -and which he had procured when in London. But Mrs. Robinson also sprang -to her feet, and with a nervous gesture put her hand on the back of her -chair.</p> - -<p>She watched his coming and going, and when he brought back the book, and -handed her a pencil and some sheets of paper, she again sat down.</p> - -<p>But a grim look had come over Downing's face. He came and stood by her, -for the first time that day he touched her, and she felt the weight of -his hand on her shoulder as he said quietly: 'Are you afraid of me, -Penelope?'</p> - -<p>She looked up quickly, furtively. How strange to hear him thus pronounce -her name! Like that Prince<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> and Princess in the French fairy tale, who -only called each other <i>mon cœur</i> and <i>ma mie</i>, such familiarities as -'George' and 'Penelope' had not yet been theirs.</p> - -<p>'Oh no!' she cried, and inconsequently added: 'I only thought that you -might consider my coming here to-day odd, uncalled for——'</p> - -<p>But actions speak louder than words. Downing felt cut to the heart. He -knew that he had deserved better things of her than that she should leap -to her feet in fear if he did but move. But as he turned away, perplexed -and angered, Mrs. Robinson was bent on showing her repentance. She came -near to him, and even took his hand. 'I have been so unhappy,' she said -simply, 'since you went away. Believe me, I am only content when we are -together.'</p> - -<p>Downing still looked at her with troubled eyes.</p> - -<p>Drawing his hand out of hers, he set himself to discuss the various -business arrangements connected with her renouncement of the great -fortune she was giving up for the sake of his good name and repute; and, -listening to all he had to say, Penelope was impressed by his -conscientiousness, by his feeling that she would of course feel bound to -see that no portion of the large sum in question should slip into -unworthy hands.</p> - -<p>'I am sure,' he said at last, 'that your friend Mr. Winfrith will advise -better than I, in my ignorance of the actual working of the Melancthon -Settlement, can hope to do.' He unfortunately added: 'Since I have seen -him, I have wondered whether he will stand our friend?'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson looked up quickly. 'No,' she answered very deliberately, -and Downing thought her oddly indifferent. 'I do not think David -Winfrith will have the slightest sympathy with me—with us. He is -exceedingly conventional.'</p> - -<p class="space-above">All at once a discussion, provoked by her, seemed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> to make the future -intimately near, especially to the man who suddenly found himself -answering questions, some childish and very frank in their expression, -about the life led by Europeans in Persia. Penelope, for the moment, -seemed to be looking forward to their joint existence as to a series of -exciting and romantic adventures.</p> - -<p>'Boxes not too large to go on mules? I thought camels always carried -one's luggage!' There was a touch of disappointment in her voice, but -before he could answer with the promise that she should have camels and -to spare—in fact, anything and everything she wanted, she had added: -'Two good English saddles,' and made a pencil note.</p> - -<p>'Nay, I will see to that!' said Downing quickly.</p> - -<p>Some of her questions were difficult to answer, for the questioner -seemed to forget—and, seeing this, Downing's heart grew heavy within -him—that her position among the other women of her own kind and race -out there would be one full of ambiguity.</p> - -<p>Not even his great power, the fear with which he was regarded, could -save her, were she to put herself in the way of it, from miserable and -petty insult.</p> - -<p>Hastily he turned the talk to his own house in Teheran. He had made no -attempt, as do so many Europeans, to alter the essentially Persian -character of his dwelling, and he lingered over the description of his -beautiful garden, fragrant with roses and violets, traversed by flowing -rivulets, cooled by leaping fountains. Penelope's face darkened when a -word was said concerning Mrs. Mote, or, rather, of the native badgee, or -ayah, who would, for a while at least, take her old nurse's place. 'I am -sure,' said he, rather awkwardly, 'that in time you will want an English -maid, especially at Laar'; and then he told her, not for the first time, -of the life they would lead when summer came, in tents, Persian fashion, -far above the pleasant hill villages, always avoided by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> Downing, where -the British, Russian, and French colonies have their gossip-haunted -retreats near the city.</p> - -<p>The thought of her old nurse reminded Mrs. Robinson that it was growing -late. She explained that at Burcombe she would be able to hire some kind -of conveyance to take her back to Monk's Eype, and as she watched -Downing preparing for the two-mile walk, she said solicitously: 'I -wonder if I ought to let you come with me? The rain may keep off till we -get down there, but you may have a terribly wet walk back, and, if you -fall ill here, I cannot come and be with you as I was at Pol les Thermes.'</p> - -<p>As she spoke she looked at him, and her look, even more than her words, -moved Downing as a man is wont to be moved when the woman he loves -becomes suddenly and unexpectedly tender. 'Is it likely that I should -let you go alone?' he said, rather gruffly. 'You told me once you are -afraid of thunder. Well, I think we are going to have thunder, and very soon.'</p> - -<p>But now his visitor seemed in no hurry to leave the curious, rather dark -room, with its old-fashioned furnishings. 'I wonder when we shall meet -again,' she said a little plaintively.</p> - -<p>But Downing made no answer. Instead, he flung open the door, preceded -her down the darkened passage, and then, or so it seemed to Penelope, -almost thrust her out on to the flagged path.</p> - -<p>Why this great haste, this sudden hurry to be quit of the farmhouse? As -yet there was no rain, and doubtless the high wind would keep off the -storm till night. In the last hour—nay, it was not even an hour since -she had felt the weight of Downing's hand laid in reproach on her -shoulder—her mood had indeed changed. Mrs. Robinson had been reluctant -to come in, but now she was very loth to go.</p> - -<p>There came a time in Penelope's life when every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> feeling she had ever -possessed for Downing—and, looking back, she had to tell herself that -she had loved him with every kind of love a woman may give a man—became -merged in boundless and awed gratitude, and when her thoughts would -especially single out this storm-driven afternoon and evening. But now -Mrs. Robinson felt aggrieved by his reserve, surprised at his coldness, -and, standing there on the flagged path, waiting while her companion -spent what seemed to her much unnecessary time in securely fastening the -door behind them, she felt very sore, and inclined to linger unduly.</p> - -<p>And so, as he came quickly towards her, Downing saw a curious look on -her face that caused his own expression suddenly to change. A light -leapt into his grey eyes, but Mrs. Robinson had turned pettishly away. -'I must stop a moment,' she said; 'the laces of my shoe have come -untied.'</p> - -<p>The wind was rising swirling clouds of dust below, but Downing caught -her words, and understood the mingled feelings which had prompted their -utterance. Quickly passing her, he knelt on the lowest of the steps -which led from the flagged path to the road, tied her shoe-laces, and -then, after glancing up and down the deserted road, he bent over and -kissed lingeringly, first one and then the other, of the wearer's feet.</p> - -<p>Then he sprang up, and, for a moment, he looked at her deprecatingly, -but Penelope, mollified by what she took to be an act of unwonted -humility and homage, laughed and blushed as she let him put her hand -through his arm.</p> - -<p>They walked down the hill in silence. The wind was still rising, large -drops of rain began to fall at intervals, and yet, for the first time -that afternoon, Mrs. Robinson felt wholly content. There was something -in her nature which responded to wild weather, and, but for the lateness -of the hour, she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> would have liked so to make her way through wind and -beating rain back to Monk's Eype.</p> - -<p>At last they found themselves on a level, monotonous stretch of road. To -the right, rising beyond a piece of rough, untilled ground, in the -centre of which stood a grove of high trees, lay the straggling little -town of Burcombe, and Mrs. Robinson looked doubtfully at the long, -rain-flecked road before them. 'If we make our way across, and go -through the grounds of Burcombe Abbey,' she said, indicating the grove -of trees, 'we should get to the town far sooner than by going round this -way. I think the place is let this summer, but if the storm becomes -worse, we might take shelter in one of the out-buildings, and send some -one for a carriage.'</p> - -<p>The first flash of lightning, the first real rush of rain, hastened -their decision. Downing looked down with a feeling of exultation at his -companion; her face was bent before the wind, but her voice was full of -strength and a certain joyous cheer. Still, when the lightning lit up -for a moment the lonely expanse of brown heath and rough ground about -them, he felt her involuntary shudder, and she held closer to him.</p> - -<p>Soon they had passed through a broken palisade into the comparative -shelter afforded by the high trees which surrounded and embowered the -remains of what had once been a famous Cistercian monastery. It was good -to be out of the storm, under one of the arched avenues which bordered a -straight dark pool, covered with still duck-weed, stretching before -them.</p> - -<p>As yet the rain had not had time to penetrate the canopy of green leaves -shutting out the grey sky, but the path along which Downing was hurrying -Penelope was already strewn with branches, some of dangerous size, and, -had he not held her strongly, more than once she would have slipped and -fallen. He saw that their wisest course would be to return to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> the open -ground they had left, but the knowledge that some kind of shelter lay -before them, if they could only reach it safely, made him keep the -thought to himself.</p> - -<p>If—if indeed! For there came a sudden rending, as it were, of earth and -water, an awful blinding flash; and then—in the interval between the -lightning and the crash of thunder—one of the tall trees on the -opposite side of the now rain-swept water fell with a heavy thud right -across the pool, its green apex settling down but a few yards in front -of the wayfarers.</p> - -<p>With a wholly instinctive gesture Downing flung both arms round his -companion, and in the face of each the other read the unspoken, -anguished question, 'Is this, then, to be the end, the solution, of our -strange romance, of our difficult problem?' But Mrs. Robinson shook her -head, with a sudden gesture signifying no surrender, and they pushed -blindly on, treading on and over the wood and leaves carpeting the way -before them.</p> - -<p>The avenue ended abruptly with a flight of steps cut in the steep green -bank of what at first Downing took to be another deep pool, dark with -weeds and studded with strange rocks. So vivid was this impression that -he stayed his own and Penelope's feet, while his eyes sought for a way -round to a curious building, not unlike the remains of an old mill, -which he saw opposite, and which promised the looked-for shelter.</p> - -<p>But gradually, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the twilight, he saw -that what he had taken for a sheet of still water was a stretch of -grass, smooth as a bowling-green, from which rose jagged pillars, and -uncouth, green-draped ruins, portions of the foundations of the old -abbey, while to the right, bordered by gaunt trees, a bare space -surrounded by low walls showed the site of what had been a vast medieval -church.</p> - -<p>The two, standing there, were struck by the look<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> of dreadful desolation -presented by the scene, the more desolate, the more God-forsaken, by -reason of the fantastic-looking house which stood the other side of the -deep depression containing the abbey ruins. Silently, no longer arm in -arm, they went down the green steps, and made their way through what had -been the cells and spacious chambers, the guest-rooms and the broad -refectory, of the great monastery.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson and Downing had sheltered but a moment in the porch of the -old-fashioned house, which doubtless incorporated some portion of the -monastic buildings, when the heavy, nail-studded door suddenly opened, -revealing a roomy vaulted hall.</p> - -<p>An old man, evidently a self-respecting and respected butler, stood -peering out into the semi-darkness, and as he did so invited them rather -crossly to come in.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson stepped back into the wind and rain, for she felt in no -mood to confront a stranger. But the man repeated with some asperity: -'You are, please, to come in. Those are my mistress's orders. Now, don't -be keeping me in this draught!'</p> - -<p>At last, very reluctantly, they accepted his rather tart invitation, but -when they stood side by side in the lamplight before him, the old -manservant's tone altered at once. 'I beg your pardon, sir, but we do -get such tramps about here, and my mistress, she's that kind! One of the -maids saw you and the lady just after we thought one of the ruins had -been struck by lightning——'</p> - -<p>'I think the storm is dying down. If we may sit here in the hall for a -few moments, I am sure we could then go on quite well.' Mrs. Robinson -spoke with a touch of impatience. She felt greatly annoyed, and looked -at Downing imploringly. Surely he must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> realize how unpleasant it would -be if she were suddenly brought face to face with some London -acquaintance. But Downing seemed for the moment to have no thought of -her: he stood looking fixedly at the old man, trying to remember if he -could ever have been here before. The atmosphere of the house, even the -butler's impassive face, seemed familiar; but since he had been in -England his memory had played him many queer tricks.</p> - -<p>He sighed heavily, and the words Penelope had uttered a few moments -before at last penetrated his brain. 'Yes,' he said, rousing himself, -'the storm is passing by, and we must go on to Burcombe without delay.'</p> - -<p>'But my mistress particularly wished to speak to <i>whoever</i> it was, sir.' -The man spoke urgently.</p> - -<p>'This is intolerable,' muttered Penelope; then aloud: 'But we are -neither of us fit to be seen by anybody. I am sure your mistress will -excuse us.'</p> - -<p>'My mistress will not <i>see</i> you, ma'am'—the old man's tone was a -rebuke—'for she is blind.'</p> - -<p>He did not wait to hear any more objections, but turning, suddenly -opened a door on his right.</p> - -<p>Penelope shrugged her shoulders. What an unsatisfactory, odious day this -had been! But even so she motioned Downing to take off his old -rain-sodden cloak, anxious that he at least should look well before this -strange woman. Ah! but she was blind!</p> - -<p>The door which the old man had just opened, and as he thought carefully -closed, swung back, and the two standing outside saw into a pretty room, -of which the uneven oak floor was sunk below the level of the hall. They -heard, with some discomfort, the murmur of voices, and then the words, -uttered in the clear, rather mincing intonation affected by a certain -type of old-fashioned servant: 'But I'm quite positive that it is, -ma'am. The minute the gentleman stept<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> in with the young lady I said to -myself, "Why, surely this is our Mr. Downing!" When he went away I'd -already been some years in Mr. Delacour's service, ma'am, and of course -I knew him quite well. I don't say he's not changed——'</p> - -<p>But as Penelope was looking for a way of escape, if not for Downing, -then most certainly for herself, the open door of the bright, gay little -sitting-room suddenly framed a slight, almost shadowy, figure of which -even Mrs. Robinson, standing there at bay, felt the disarming, pathetic -charm.</p> - -<p>There is often about a blind woman, especially about one who was not -born blind, a ghost-like serenity of manner, and even of appearance.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Delacour's voice still had its soothing, rather anxious quality, -but she spoke with restraint and dignified simplicity to the two -strangers, concerning one of whom she had just been told such an -amazing, and to her most moving, fact. 'Will you come in and rest?' she -said; 'I fear you must have gone through a terrible experience.'</p> - -<p>As they were entering the room, Downing suddenly stumbled—he always so -adroit, so easy in his movements—and Penelope, herself no longer -afraid, but feeling curiously soothed and comforted in this quiet, -gentle atmosphere, saw that he was terribly moved, his face ravaged with -contending feelings to which she had no clue. She looked away quickly, -but Downing seemed unaware of her presence, incapable of speaking.</p> - -<p>The two women talked together. Mrs. Robinson told of the tree struck by -lightning, of their danger, and still Downing did not, could not, speak.</p> - -<p>'Tell me,' said Mrs. Delacour at last—and her voice, in spite of her -determination, of her prayer, that it should not be so, trembled a -little—'is it true that George Downing is here? We once had a friend, a -very dear friend, of that name, and my old servant is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> convinced that it -was he who came in just now out of the storm.'</p> - -<p>Again there was silence. Mrs. Robinson looked at him reproachfully. Why -did he keep this gentle, kindly woman in suspense? Could it be for her, -Penelope's sake? But Downing suddenly held up his hand; he did not wish -the answer to come from any lips but his own—'Yes,' he said hoarsely, -'I am George Downing, come back, as you said I should come back, Mrs. -Delacour!'</p> - -<p>And then, or so it appeared to Penelope, a strange desire seized the -other two to make her go away, to leave them to themselves. No word was -said revealing Mrs. Robinson's identity, but there was a question of the -long drive to Wyke Regis. Mrs. Delacour offered her carriage, Downing -went to order it, and so for a moment the other two were left alone -together. Penelope tried to speak indifferently, but failed; she felt a -wild, an unreasoning jealousy of this sightless, white-haired woman with -whom she was leaving the man she loved.</p> - -<p>Did Mrs. Delacour, with the strange prescience of the blind, divine -something of what was passing in the other's mind? All she said was, -'Mr. Downing—or is it not Sir George now?—was with my husband, one of -his younger colleagues, at the Foreign Office, and we saw him -constantly. I fear this meeting must recall to him many painful -circumstances.'</p> - -<p>A moment later, as Downing was putting her into the carriage, unmindful -of the old man standing just inside the hall, Penelope drew him with her -into the darkness: 'Say that you love me!' she whispered, and he felt -her tears on his lips; 'say that you cannot bear to let me go!'</p> - -<p>And then she was comforted, for 'Shall I come with you?' he asked -urgently, no lack of longing now in his low, deep voice; 'let me go back -and tell her that I cannot let you go alone!'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> - -<p>But again Penelope felt suddenly afraid—of herself, perhaps, rather -than of him. 'No, no!' she said hurriedly; 'it would be wrong, unkind, -to your old friend—to Mrs. Delacour.'</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'But there's one happy moment when the mind</div> -<div>Is left unguarded, waiting to be kind,</div> -<div>Which the wise lover understanding right,</div> -<div>Steals in like day upon the wings of light.'</div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The absence of Mrs. Robinson from the villa, even for only a few hours, -afforded a curious relief, a distinct lightening of the atmosphere, to -all those—if one important exception be made, that of Mrs. Mote—whom -she had left at Monk's Eype on the afternoon of her expedition to -Kingpole Farm.</p> - -<p>Penelope's unquietude of mind had gradually affected all her guests. -Even her mother, the person of whom she saw least, had become dimly -aware that all was not as it should be, and, while not in any way as yet -connecting her daughter with Sir George Downing, she regarded him as an -evil and alien influence.</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley had taken an intuitive, unreasoning dislike to the -remarkable man whose presence she realized her daughter would have -wished her to regard as an honour; and though she was quite unaware of -it, a word ventured by Mrs. Mote very early in Downing's stay at Monk's -Eype had contributed to this feeling of discomfort and suspicion.</p> - -<p>Like most gifts, that of intuition can be cultivated, and Lady Wantley -had done all in her power to increase and fructify that side of her -nature. The mere<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> presence of Downing in the same room with herself made -her feel as if she was suddenly thrust amid warring elements, and her -mind became shadowed by the suspicion that this man, when a dweller in -the Eastern country famed immemorially for the potency of its magic, had -foregathered with spirits of evil. That his going had not lifted the -clouds which seemed to hang so darkly over the whole of the little -company about her, Lady Wantley regarded as a proof that her suspicions -were well founded, for to her thinking it is far easier to evoke than to -lay demoniac influences.</p> - -<p>These thoughts, however, she kept to herself, and no knowledge that in -her mother Downing had a watchful antagonist came to increase Mrs. -Robinson's nervous unrest.</p> - -<p>During those same days following Downing's departure from Monk's Eype, -Mrs. Robinson and Wantley left off sparring, and Penelope would debate -uneasily whether it was his own affairs—or hers—which had so much -altered her cousin's manner, and made him become, to herself, more -kindly and considerate than she had ever before known him. But the young -man kept his own counsel. He and old Miss Wake never referred to the -conversation they had held the day Penelope and Cecily had driven over -to Shagisham; each, however, was aware that the other had felt relieved, -perhaps unreasonably so, to see Persian Downing leave Monk's Eype.</p> - -<p>Sometimes Wantley was inclined to think that Miss Wake had been utterly -misled, and then, again, some trifling circumstance would make him fear -that she had been right.</p> - -<p>The doubt was sufficiently strong to convince him that this was no -moment to speak—upon another matter—to Cecily Wake: In London, amid -the impersonal surroundings of the Melancthon Settlement, he would -pursue and bring to a happy ending<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>—nay, to an exquisite beginning—his -and Cecily's simple romance. But in the meanwhile he saw no reason for -denying himself the happiness of being with her every moment of the day -not given up by her to Penelope.</p> - -<p>Once, when they were thus together, Cecily had said a word—only a word, -and in defence of a toy fund organized by a great London -newspaper—concerning her own giftless childhood and girlhood.</p> - -<p>There had been no kind relatives or friends to remember the convent-bred -child. Miss Wake's Christmas present had always been something useful -and, indeed, necessary, and Cecily, remembering, pleaded for the useless -doll and the unnecessary toy.</p> - -<p>Wantley, while pretending to be only half convinced, was composing in -his own mind a letter to the old servant who kept for him his few family -relics, his father's books, his mother's lace and simple jewels. Even -now, or so he told himself, the girl walking by his side, talking with -the youthful energy and certainty of being right which always both -amused and moved him, was herself sufficiently a child to enjoy a gift, -especially an anonymous gift, by post.</p> - -<p>And this was why the young man, usually so ready to grumble at the -inscrutable ways of Providence, hailed his cousin's departure, for what -she had announced would be a long afternoon's expedition, as a piece of -amazing good fortune.</p> - -<p>Each day a man rode over from the villa to Wyke Regis to fetch the -contents of the second post, and to-day the letters had come, by Mrs. -Robinson's orders, rather earlier than usual. Wantley lingered about in -the hall while the bag was being opened by Penelope. There were several -letters addressed to Downing, and these he saw, with a slight pang, were -quickly put aside with Penelope's own. Two parcels,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> both small, both -oblong in shape, were addressed in an uneducated handwriting to 'Miss -Cecily Wake,' and, puzzled, he peered down at them curiously.</p> - -<p>Then Wantley watched his cousin start off on her lonely way, while she -noted, with discomfort, that he asked no questions as to her -destination. The hour that followed was spent by him in walking up and -down the terrace, in reading the day's paper, which he thought had never -been so empty of interesting news, and in wondering why Cicely did not -come downstairs. He also asked himself, with some anxiety, what there -could possibly be in the second parcel that had arrived for her that -day. He thought he knew all about the contents of the first, and it -seemed odd that on the same day there should have come two....</p> - -<p class="space-above">At last a happy inspiration led him to the studio, and there he found -the girl sitting, various of her treasures—for, like a child, she was -fond of bearing about with her her favourite possessions—spread out on -Penelope's painting-table.</p> - -<p>Physical delicacy is too often associated in people's minds with -goodness, but, as a matter of fact, to be good in anything but a very -passive sense almost always requires the possession of health. It was -because Cecily Wake had brought from her convent school unbroken -strength of body, and a mind which had never concerned itself with any -of the more painful problems of life, that she proved so valuable a -helper to Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret. Thanks to her perfect physical -condition, she was always ready to start off, at a moment's notice, on -the most tiring and the most dispiriting expeditions. Her feet seemed -never weary, her brain never exhausted, and, though she was sometimes -disappointed when things went wrong, she was always ready to start again -with unabated vigour to try and set them right.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p> - -<p>To Cecily Wake heaven and hell, the world and purgatory, were all -equally real, matter of fact, and to be accepted without question. She -knew nothing of the hell which people may make for themselves, and only -now, since she had been at Monk's Eype, had she realized that it is -possible to find a very fair imitation of heaven on this earth.</p> - -<p>Cecily's hell was very sparsely peopled, and that entirely with -historical characters. As to those who fill the dread place, they were, -to her thinking, an ill-sorted company, and probably very few of those -about her, while believing the numbers to be much greater, would have -included those whom she believed to be there. Judas, Henry VIII., the -man who tortured the little Dauphin in the Temple, the Bishop who -condemned Joan of Arc to be burnt—they, she thought, must surely all be -there. But, as regarded the world about her, Cecily was quite convinced -that, like William of Deloraine, 'Between the saddle and the ground, -they mercy sought and mercy found.'</p> - -<p>This little analysis of Cecily Wake's character and point of view is -necessary to explain one of the two gifts which had come to her by the -second post—that with which Wantley had not only had nothing to do, but -which had caused him some searching of heart, for he had been afraid -that it might be the outcome of one of those misunderstandings, those -misreadings of orders, which affect and annoy men so much more than -women.</p> - -<p>But the girl knew quite well from whom had come the six woolwork -table-napkin rings, although the only indication of the sender had been -the words, written on a piece of common note-paper</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'This is from a friend</div> -<div>Who loves you no end.'</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>She required no signature to tell her that the sender was a certain -Charlotte Pidder, with whom, more than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> a year before, Cecily, for a few -days, had been thrown into the most intimate, and it might be said -affectionate, contact.</p> - -<p>I am writing of a time when there was but one half-penny evening paper -in London, and when original, or even unusual, contributions were -regarded askance by editors. To the office of that paper came one day a -most remarkable letter, setting forth the sad case of a Cornish girl -who, having come up to London, and having there met with what the poor, -with their apt turn for language, term a 'misfortune,' had found it -impossible thenceforward to make an honest living. The writer explained -very simply his efforts on her behalf, but added that his resources had -come to an end, and that the mere fact that he was a man much in her own -class of life made those whom he sought to interest in her case look on -him, as well as on her, with suspicion. The editor of the evening paper -sent for the writer, convinced himself of the truth of his story, and -then printed the letter.</p> - -<p>The effect of its publication was instantaneous and extraordinary. To -that newspaper office letters poured in from all parts of the country, -some of the writers simply offering money, others expressing themselves -as willing to adopt the girl, while many were anxious to give her work -at a reasonable wage. These last were regarded by both the editor and -the girl's workman friend as being alone worthy of consideration.</p> - -<p>Then came the difficult question of how a choice among these would-be -employers was to be made, and the editor bethought himself of the -Melancthon Settlement. Very soon he had laid upon Mrs. Pomfret the whole -responsibility of how and where fortunate Charlotte Pidder should find a -home. Together Philip Hammond, Cecily Wake, and Mrs. Pomfret looked over -the letters. They finally weeded out twelve for further consideration, -and the interchange<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> of further letters brought the number down to four.</p> - -<p>To the one who appeared to be the most sensible of these generous folk, -Mrs. Pomfret despatched Charlotte Pidder, only to have her sent back the -next day with a curt note to the effect that the good Samaritan could -not think of taking into her service a girl whose hair was short and -curly like a man's! This experience taught wisdom to the three people on -whom Charlotte's fate depended, and so it was decided that, before the -girl was sent off to another would-be benefactor, Cecily Wake should go -and spy out, as it were, the hospitable land.</p> - -<p>This is no place to tell the tale of Cecily's experiences, some -grotesque and some sinister. Soon a day came when she and Mrs. Pomfret -were compelled to look over again the letters which they had at first -rejected, and finally after a long journey by train and tram to a -comparatively poor neighbourhood, Cecily found two human beings, good, -simple-hearted, tender-minded folk, with whom there seemed some hope -that Charlotte Pidder would find a peaceful haven, and work her way back -to self-respect and some measure of happiness. It was arranged that her -'days out' should be spent at the Settlement, and she formed a deep, -dumb attachment to the girl, only a year or two older than herself, whom -she had seen take so much trouble on her behalf, and who had treated her -during those anxious days with such kindly, unforced sympathy and -consideration.</p> - -<p>These napkin-rings, with their red and blue pattern worked in Berlin -wool, represented many hours of toil, and Cecily, knowing this, was -meditating a letter of warm thanks to the sender, when Wantley walked -into the studio and looked questioningly at the table. At once he saw -the sheet of paper with its rudely-written lines. He looked quickly at -the girl, and then remarked: 'Victor Hugo once said that every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> kind of -emotion could be expressed in doggerel, and now I am inclined to think -he was right. But I like the poetry better than the present.'</p> - -<p>Cecily covered the poor little cardboard box with a sudden protective -gesture. 'I like them very much,' she said stoutly. 'The person who made -them for me has very little spare time, and it was very good of her to -take so much trouble. But I have had another present to-day—one you -will like better.'</p> - -<p>Wantley's hand went up to his mouth; he even reddened slightly. But -Cecily was not looking at him. Her hands were busy with the -old-fashioned fastening of a flat red-leather case. At last the little -brass hook slipped back, she lifted the lid, and there, lying on a faded -white satin pad, lay two rows of finely matched, though not very large, -pearls.</p> - -<p>The sight affected the two looking down at them very differently. To -Wantley the little red case brought back a rush of memories. He saw -himself again a little boy, standing by his pretty, fair mother's -dressing-table, sometimes allowed as a great treat to fasten the quaint -diamond clasp round the slender neck. Cecily simply flushed with -pleasure, and she felt full of gratitude to the kind giver, about whose -identity she felt no doubt.</p> - -<p>'Only the other day,' she said, smiling, 'Penelope noticed that I had no -necklace, nothing to wear in the evening—and now you see what she has -had sent me!'</p> - -<p>'Penelope? Then, do you think these pearls are a gift from my cousin?'</p> - -<p>'Of course they are! Who else would think of giving me anything of the -kind?'</p> - -<p>'Cannot you imagine any other'—Wantley's voice shook a little in spite -of himself—'any other person who might wish to give you pleasure?'</p> - -<p>Cecily looked up puzzled. He came round and stood by the table on which -lay the two gifts received by her that day. Very deliberately he took up -one of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> Mrs. Robinson's soft lead-pencils, and then wrote across a torn -piece of drawing-paper,</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'This is from a lover</div> -<div>Who will love you for ever,'</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>and laid it down so that it covered the pearls. 'You see,' he said, -'this is not, as was the other gift to-day, friendship's offering. But, -still, the words I have written there are meant quite as sincerely. -These pearls belonged to my mother. They were given to her by my father -on the first anniversary of their wedding-day, and I know how happy it -would have made her—have made them both—to think that you would wear them.'</p> - -<p>He spoke quickly, and yet after the first moment, with great gravity. As -Cecily made no answer, he added: 'You will not refuse to take them from me?'</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>The old nurse had watched Penelope drive off alone that afternoon with -deep misgiving and fear, for she was quite sure that her mistress was -bound for Kingpole Farm.</p> - -<p>Motey had soon become aware that Mrs. Robinson received no letters from -Downing, and this, to a mind sharpened by jealousy and semi-maternal -instinct, only the more indicated the closeness and the thorough -understanding between them, and showed, or so the maid believed, that -all their plans as to the future were already arranged.</p> - -<p>Again and again she had been on the point of attacking her mistress, of -asking Penelope to confirm or to deny her suspicions, and many a night, -while lying awake listening through the closed door to Mrs. Robinson's -restless movements, always aware when her nursling was not asleep, Mrs. -Mote would make up long homely phrases in which to formulate her appeal. -But when daylight came, when she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> found herself face to face with -Penelope, her courage ebbed away, and she became afraid—for herself.</p> - -<p>What if anything said by her provoked a sudden separation from her -mistress? More than once in the last ten years Motey and Mrs. Robinson -had come to moments of sudden warfare, when the younger woman's -affection for her old nurse had been sorely tried, and yet on those -occasions, as Mrs. Mote was only too well aware, no feeling even -approaching that which now bound Penelope to Sir George Downing had been -in question.</p> - -<p>Sometimes the old woman told herself that she was a fool, and that her -terrors were vain terrors, for the actual proofs of what she feared was -about to happen were few.</p> - -<p>Again and again, during Mrs. Robinson's brief absences from the villa, -Motey had sought to find—what?</p> - -<p>She hardly knew.</p> - -<p>Never had Penelope, careless as she had always been hitherto of such -things, left one of Downing's letters about in her room, or, forgotten, -in a pocket. In the matter of her searching, the old nurse was troubled -by no scruples. She would have smiled grimly had some accident made -known to her how some of the people about her would have regarded this -turning out of pockets, this trying of locked places with stray keys.</p> - -<p>Poor Motey! She felt like a mother whose child has been given a packet -of poisoned sweets, and who knows that they must be found at all costs -before evil befalls. But so far her unscrupulous seeking had yielded -little or nothing to confirm what she was fast coming to believe an -absolute certainty—namely, that Penelope was on the eve of forming with -Downing what both intended should be a lifelong tie.</p> - -<p>Many little incidents, deepening this conviction, crowded on her day by -day, as it grew increasingly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> clear that Mrs. Robinson was silently -preparing for some great change in her life. The maid marvelled at the -blindness of Penelope's mother, of Wantley, even of Cecily Wake—how -could they help noting that Penelope never now spoke of the future, that -she made no plans, as she was so fond of doing, for the coming winter?</p> - -<p>Then, late in the afternoon which saw Mrs. Robinson at Kingpole Farm, -Motey at last found something which provided, to her mind, undoubted -proof. This was a formal business letter from a great London firm, -celebrated for the perfection of its Eastern outfits, and it contained -answers to a number of questions evidently written by one contemplating -a long sojourn in Teheran.</p> - -<p>Penelope, before starting out that afternoon, had shown considerable -annoyance at having mislaid a paper she wished to take with her. She had -made no secret of the fact, and both she and Motey had searched for the -envelope all over the large room. After her mistress had left, Mrs. Mote -had continued the search, and she had at last found this letter, laid -under some gloves which Penelope had at first intended to take, but had -rejected in favour of a thicker pair.</p> - -<p>The maid carried off this, to her, most sinister sheet of paper into her -own room, and as the evening closed in, and Penelope did not come back, -she saw in it, or rather in her mistress's desire to take it with her -that day, an indication that perhaps Mrs. Robinson had gone, not -intending to return, and that she might be at this very moment on her -way, and not alone, to London.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Suspense has been described as the most terrible of the many agonies the -human heart and mind are so often called upon to endure.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mote, sitting in the twilight watching the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> gathering storm, -listening in vain for the soft rumble of the little pony-cart, felt as -if actual knowledge that what she feared had happened would be -preferable to this anxiety.</p> - -<p>More than once she got up and stood by one of the long narrow windows in -the broad passage which commanded a view of the winding road, cut -through the down, on which Penelope, if she ever came back, must appear. -But Mrs. Mote was in no mood to pass the time of day with the upper -housemaid, who would soon be coming to light the tall argand lamp in the -corridor, and so at last she retreated into her room, there to remain in -still wretchedness, convinced that Penelope had indeed gone, though her -ears still remained painfully alive to the slightest sound which might -give the lie to her dread.</p> - -<p>It was eight o'clock. Already someone, probably Wantley, had ordered -dinner to be put back half an hour, when the deep, soft-toned -dressing-bell rang in the hall.</p> - -<p>The maid listened dully to the comings to and fro up and down the -staircase; there was an interval of silence; and then the door of her -room suddenly opened, and Lady Wantley's tall figure was outlined for a -moment against the dim patch of light afforded by the corridor window -opposite.</p> - -<p>'Surely your mistress did not intend to stay out so late to-night?' The -voice was full of misgiving and agitation.</p> - -<p>The old servant stood up; a curious instinct of loyalty to Mrs. Robinson -seemed to impel her to say no word of her great fear. And yet she felt -it not fair that Lady Wantley should be left in complete ignorance of -what, if she, the old nurse, were right, would soon be known to the -whole household.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps my mistress is not coming back to-night; perhaps she intended -to go on to London from Kingpole Farm,' she said in a curious, -hesitating tone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p> - -<p>'From Kingpole Farm?' Lady Wantley advanced into the room. She turned -and closed the door into the passage, and then seemed to tower above the -stout little woman who stood before her in the twilight.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mote had taken up a corner of the black apron she always wore, and -she was twisting it up and down in her fingers, remaining silent the -while.</p> - -<p>'Motey, what do you mean?' Lady Wantley spoke with a touch of haughty -decision in her voice.</p> - -<p>'What led you to suppose for a moment that my daughter has gone to -Kingpole Farm? That, surely, is where Sir George Downing is staying!'</p> - -<p>Then Mrs. Mote lost her head. She was spent with trouble, sick with -suspense, and exasperated by Lady Wantley's clearly-conveyed rebuke. -After all, Penelope was as dear—ay, perhaps dearer—to herself, the -nurse, as to the mother who had had so little of the real trouble -entailed by the rearing of her child. Was it likely that she, Motey, -would say anything reflecting on the creature whom she loved so well, -for whose honour she had often shown herself far more jealous than Lady -Wantley had seemed to be, and whom she had saved, or so she firmly -believed, from so many pitfalls?</p> - -<p>'What made me think of it?' she repeated violently. 'Why, I <i>know</i> she's -there! She wasn't likely to keep away any longer! Oh, my lady, how is it -you've not seen, that you haven't come to understand, how it is with -her? I should have thought that anyone who cared for her, and who isn't -blind, must surely know, know that——'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mote's voice fell almost to a whisper as she added, throwing out -her hands: 'She <i>do</i> like him; it's no good my saying anything else! Why -didn't his lordship let her have Master David? He was the one for her; -she's never liked anyone so well till just now.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then the speaker turned and nervously struck a match, lighting one of -two tall candles standing on the chest of drawers behind her.</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley's face looked very grey and drawn in the yellow light, but -it was set in stern lines. 'Hush!' she said: 'you forget yourself, -Motey,' and you are making a great mistake. If you refer to Sir George -Downing'—she brought out the name with a certain effort—'you cannot be -aware of what is known quite well to your mistress, for she herself told -me that he is married. His wife, who is an American lady, once came to -see your master.'</p> - -<p>There was a long silence. Lady Wantley was waiting for the other to make -some sign of submission, but the old servant only gave the woman who had -been for so many years her own mistress a quick, furtive look, full of -mingled pity and contempt, of fierce personal distress and impatience.</p> - -<p>'Were they together then?' she said at last, and with apparent -inconsequence she added; 'Does your ladyship remember Mrs. Winfrith, and -what happened to her?'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley deigned no answer to Motey's questions. 'I know that you -love my daughter,' she said slowly, almost reluctantly; but the servant, -with a quick movement, shrank back, and her look, her gesture, forbade -the other—the more fortunate woman who had borne the child Motey loved -so well—to intrude on the nurse's relation to that child.</p> - -<p>'Love her!' Motey was repeating to herself, though no words passed her -lips, 'why, I'd give my body and soul for her, which is more than you -would do!' But Mrs. Mote mis-estimated the mother-instinct in the woman -who was now standing opposite to her.</p> - -<p>Then, quickly, vehemently, the old nurse told of what she knew and what -she feared with so great a dread, and the story which Lady Wantley -heard, still standing, in dead silence, though it might have seemed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> -very unconvincing to a lawyer, brought absolute conviction to Penelope's -mother.</p> - -<p>She was told in Motey's rough, expressive words of that first meeting in -the great Paris station, when Mrs. Robinson, as if hypnotized by this -singular-looking man, then a complete stranger, had accepted from him a -real service, thus opening the door to an acquaintance which, with -scarce any interval, had ripened into an absorbing passion. The maid -recalled her own dawning suspicions, her powerlessness to stay the -feeling which had seemed suddenly to overpower her mistress, her vain -attempts to persuade Penelope to leave Pol les Thermes. Then the silent -listener heard of the journey back, with Downing in close attendance, of -Mrs. Mote's hope that this was the end of the affair, finally of the -nurse's dismay when she discovered that he was actually coming to Monk's Eype.</p> - -<p>The story the more impressed Lady Wantley because it was the first time -she had received such confidences. She did not know, and Mrs. Mote saw -no reason to enlighten her, that Penelope had always been fond of -passing adventure, and she would have been astonished indeed had she -known that, just at first, her daughter's vigilant companion had -troubled but little about her mistress and Sir George Downing. Mrs. Mote -had so often seen Penelope come forth, apparently unscathed, from -romantic encounters, from long sentimental duels, in which the woman had -always been an easy victor.</p> - -<p>At last the nurse had said all there was to say. She had even shown Lady -Wantley the letter which she regarded as such absolute evidence of what -she feared, when again the door suddenly opened, and the two within the -room started, or so it seemed to themselves, guiltily apart, as Mrs. -Robinson, travel-stained and weary, and yet scarcely dishevelled, and -with a bright colour in her cheeks, stood before them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> - -<p>'I had an accident,' she said, rather breathlessly. 'The left wheel came -off the pony-cart. That made me late, the more so that I was caught in -the great storm which you do not seem to have had here.'</p> - -<p>As she spoke she was glancing sharply from her mother to her maid. 'Were -you afraid? I fear you have both been very anxious.' She added, 'I -should have wired from Burcombe, but as I drove through I saw that the -post-office was shut.' Again, as she spoke, she looked from the one to -the other, and said rather coldly, 'But it's not so very late, after -all.' Then she passed through into her own room, and Motey silently -followed her.</p> - -<p class="space-above">That same night Wantley was sitting up, fully an hour after every one -else had gone up to bed, smoking and reading, when Lady Wantley came -into the room, which, as far as he knew, had never been entered by her -since it had been set apart for his own use.</p> - -<p>The young man rose, and tried to keep the surprise he felt out of his -face. For a moment—a very disagreeable moment—he wondered if she had -come to speak to him about Cecily Wake.</p> - -<p>The great Lord Wantley had had a strong prejudice against Roman -Catholics, and it was, of course, quite possible that his widow might -consider herself bound to protest against the idea of a marriage between -his successor and a Catholic girl. But he soon felt reassured on this -point.</p> - -<p>In a few moments he learnt that Lady Wantley had sought him out for a -very different reason. 'I have to see Mr. Gumberg on urgent private -business,' she said, 'and I have come to ask you if you will accompany -me to London to-morrow morning. It is all-important that we should go -quite early.'</p> - -<p>'Certainly,' he said quickly; 'I will arrange everything.'</p> - -<p>'Everything is arranged,' observed Lady Wantley<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> very quietly. 'I have -ordered the carriage for seven, and I have written a note to Penelope -explaining my absence, but I have not mentioned the name of the person I -am going to see. To do so was not necessary, and I beg that you also -will keep it secret.'</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'When Man and Woman are agreed, what can the Kazi do?'</div> -<div class="right"><i>Indian Proverb.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Lady Wantley, as she journeyed up to town, tended very kindly by her -companion, who possessed the power the normal man often lacks of making -any woman in his charge feel comfortable and at ease, thought intensely -of her coming interview with Mr. Julius Gumberg. She had a sincere -belief in his worldly wisdom, and a vague conviction—not the less real -in that she could not have given any reason for her feeling—that the -power of his guile, combined with that of her prayers, would succeed -where either alone might fail. Thus had she persuaded herself in the -long watches of the night, while debating whether she should go to town -and entreat her old friend's help.</p> - -<p>In spite of what the censorious may say and believe, there is no chasm, -among the many which yawn round our poor humanity, on the brink of which -there is so much hesitation, and drawing back at the last moment, as on -that where the leap involves a loss of moral reputation.</p> - -<p>Even in the course of what had been a very sheltered life, Lady Wantley -had become aware of many such averted tragedies, of more than one -arrested flight, of more than one successful conflict against tremendous -odds—tremendous because the victory had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> remained with one whose own -heart had been traitor to the cause.</p> - -<p>But her intuitive knowledge of her daughter's character warred with any -hope that Penelope, having once made up her mind, would draw back. The -mother was dimly aware that the barrier must be raised from the outside, -and that the appeal must be made in this case to the man, and not to the -woman.</p> - -<p>So little like her father in most things, Mrs. Robinson had inherited -from him a quality which his critics had called 'obstinacy,' and his -admirers 'exceptional steadfastness of character.' Opposition had always -strengthened Lord Wantley's power of performance, and, as his wife -remembered only too clearly, in Penelope's early love affair it had been -David Winfrith, and not the impulsive, headstrong girl, who had given -way before the father's stern and inexorable command.</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley was one of those fortunate people—more often to be found -in a former generation than in our own—to whom their human possessions -appear to be well-nigh perfect. In her eyes Mrs. Robinson was the most -beautiful, the most gifted, the most generous-hearted, of God's -creatures; and though she reluctantly admitted to herself that her -daughter lacked spiritual perfection, the mother believed that in time -this also would be added to her beloved child. Even now it did not occur -to Lady Wantley that Penelope might be, in this matter, herself to -blame. Instead, she reserved the whole strength of her condemnation for -Sir George Downing, and she was on the way to persuade herself—as, -indeed, she did in time come to do—that, in order to accomplish his -fell purpose, this strange man had used unholy Eastern arts to snare -Penelope, the fair guerdon for whom such a fighter as Persian Downing -might well be willing to risk body and soul.</p> - -<p>Wantley, as he lay back in the railway-carriage, his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> eyes half closed, -holding a French novel open in his left hand, looked at the figure -sitting opposite to him with a good deal of sympathy and curiosity. He -knew a little, and guessed much more, concerning that which had brought -about this hurried journey. But he wondered how Lady Wantley's eyes had -been opened to a state of things none seemed to have suspected save Miss -Wake. Indeed, as regarded himself, his cousin's odd, altered manner had -been so far the only confirmation of Theresa Wake's suspicion.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, after all, Lady Wantley had reason to fear something tangible, -definite. If so, if Penelope was contemplating any act of open folly, -then, so said Wantley to himself, her mother was well advised to seek -the help of such a man as was Mr. Julius Gumberg.</p> - -<p>This curious journey, taken at such short notice and so secretly, -reminded Wantley of other and very different journeys taken by him as a -boy and youth in Lady Wantley's company—Progresses (he recalled with a -smile his mother's satirical word) during which Lord and Lady Wantley -had headed a retinue consisting, not only of courier, secretary, maids, -valets, and nurses, but also of humble friends in need of rest and -change, while he, Ludovic Wantley, had been the only 'odd man out' of -the party.</p> - -<p>Those days had not been happy days, but his heart involuntarily softened -as he looked at his companion and saw the worn face, the sunken eyes. -They made him realize how greatly Lady Wantley had aged and altered -during her years of widowhood.</p> - -<p>In her husband's lifetime she had been a singularly lovely and gracious -figure, of curiously still demeanour and abstracted manner, treated with -an almost idolatrous devotion by those about her. In those far-away days -his aunt—for so he had been taught to call her—had always worn, even -when on long, dusty Continental journeys, pale lavenders, soft greys, -and ivory<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> whites, each of her garments being fashioned in a way which, -while scrupulously simple, yet heightened the quality of her physical -beauty, and set her apart as on a pinnacle of exquisite and spotless -womanliness.</p> - -<p>Wantley remembered the kind of sensation which the great English milord -and his lady naturally created in the little-frequented French and -German towns selected by them for sometimes prolonged halts.</p> - -<p>To-day, as he sat opposite to her, there came over him with -extraordinary vividness the recollection of one such sojourn in a -Bavarian village overhung by an historic castle, the owner of which had -invited Lord Wantley and his whole party to spend a day there. The young -man recalled with whimsical clearness each incident of what had been an -enchanting episode—the hours spent in the green alleys of a park of -which the still canals, stone terraces, and formal statuary recalled, as -they were meant to do, Versailles, for the place had been designed in -those far-off days when France and the French ideal of life still ruled -the German imagination.</p> - -<p>He remembered the fair-haired German girl whose gentle presence had for -him dominated the scene, her shy kindliness, the contrast between her -good English and his own and his cousin's indifferent German; and then -the feeling with which he had heard some passing words—a brief question -and a briefer answer—exchanged between the hospitable Prince and the -noble philanthropist: 'A charming lad—doubtless your eldest son?' And -the quick answer, 'No, no! quite a distant kinsman.' The words had -rankled, and over years.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Lady Wantley had never been to London in August, and so she had thought -to find a town deserted, save for the consoling oasis of St. James's -Place.</p> - -<p>She looked through the windows of the four-wheeled cab, also an utterly -unfamiliar form of conveyance,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> with a feeling of alarm and discomfort. -'How many people there seem to be left in London!' she said at last, -rather nervously.</p> - -<p>'You need not fear that you will see any one that you know,' Wantley -answered dryly. 'Still Mr. Gumberg is not the only Londoner who stays in -London through the summer. The difference between himself and his -fellow-townsmen is that he chooses to remain, and that they must do so.'</p> - -<p>No other word was said during the long, slow drive, spent by Wantley in -wondering whether he would find his club open, and how, if not, he -should dispose of himself during Lady Wantley's interview with Mr. -Gumberg. But for the parting for a whole day from Cecily Wake, he would -have enjoyed rather than otherwise this strange expedition, for he had -been flattered and touched by the confidence reposed in him.</p> - -<p>As the cab finally turned down St. James's Street, he took the hand, -still soft and of perfect shape, which lay nearest to his on Lady -Wantley's knee. 'We are nearly there,' he said. 'I will see you into the -hall, and then go off for an hour.'</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg was one of those who early school themselves to wait on -life. Sitting in the pretty, gay morning-room, which opened upon a -stately little garden—designed in the days when Italy was to the -cultivated Englishman what the England of to-day is to the travelled -American—he was rarely disappointed, even in August, as to what the day -would bring forth.</p> - -<p>Few afternoons went by but some acquaintance journeyed westward from the -City to ask his advice concerning matters of business moment. In the -hottest summer weather foreigners of distinction would find their way to -St. James's Place, bearing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> letters of courteous introduction, couched -in well-turned phrases, of which the diction, even in France and -Austria, will soon be a lost art. And then, again, friends passing -through town would remember the old man, and hasten to spend with him an -idle hour, bearing with them a budget of the news he loved to hear.</p> - -<p>But it was the day bringing forth the utterly unexpected that renewed -Mr. Julius Gumberg's grip on life. It was then that he felt he was still -taking part in the world's affairs, for the unexpected, in his case, -almost always meant an appeal connected with one of those byways of -human life in which he still took so vivid and so practical an interest.</p> - -<p>To the old worldling a call from Lady Wantley had always been something -of an event, and this over fifty years of their two lives. He respected -her reserve, he admired her reticence, and, while himself so deeply -interested in those about him, he yet delighted in the company of the -one woman of his acquaintance whom he knew to have ever regarded the -soul and the future life as of such infinitely more moment than the body -and the pleasant world about her.</p> - -<p>She was herself quite unaware of the peculiar feeling with which her old -friend regarded her, and ignorant that on the rare occasions of her -visits to St. James's Place no other visitor was welcome, or, indeed, -tolerated. Still, at this painful, anguished moment of her life some -subtle instinct caused her to turn to one with whom, in many ways, she -had so little in common. She felt secure of his sympathy, and had -implicit trust in his discretion; indeed, her belief in him extended to -the hope that he would suggest a way by which Penelope should surely be -saved from what the mother, full of pain and shrinking terror, could not -but regard as a most awful fate.</p> - -<p>The interview began badly. The gay little garden room, which still kept -something of the insouciant,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> roguish charm of the famous -eighteenth-century beauty from whose executors Mr. Julius Gumberg had -originally purchased the house, formed an incongruous background to the -shrunken figure, the parchment-coloured face, the hairless head, always, -however, covered with a skull-cap, of Lady Wantley's old friend.</p> - -<p>Gilt-rimmed, tarnished mirrors destroyed the sense of solitude, and -seemed to Mr. Gumberg's visitor to reflect shadowy witnesses and mocking -eavesdroppers of her shame and distress.</p> - -<p>So strong was this impression that Lady Wantley doubted whether she had -been well advised in coming. She felt inclined to get up and go away; -and something of what was passing in her mind was divined by her host.</p> - -<p>When the first long pause between them became oppressive, the old man, -lifting himself somewhat painfully from his chair, rang the bell which -always stood at his elbow. 'We shall be more at ease, and less likely to -be disturbed upstairs,' he said briefly.</p> - -<p>He was extremely curious to know what had brought Lady Wantley to town, -what could be the matter concerning which she had evidently come to -consult him; but he was too experienced a confessor to hasten -confidences by a word.</p> - -<p>The comfort of no human being, save that of his present visitor, could -have made Mr. Julius Gumberg show himself, as he was about to do, and -for no tangible reason, at a disadvantage—that is, so weighted with -physical infirmity as to be compelled, when walking upstairs, to seek -the assistance of his manservant's arm and guiding hand. His acute, -well-trained intellect had remained so keen, and his powers of -transacting business had diminished so little, that he felt, with a -bitterness none the less intense because so gallantly concealed, the -humiliations attendant on advancing age.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p> - -<p>Accordingly, when quiet, careful Jackson came in answer to his master's -summons, her host impatiently motioned Lady Wantley to precede him up -the narrow stairs which connected the garden room with the octagon -library, where Mr. Gumberg always received his friends in winter and in -spring, and which appeared better suited to the receiving of confidences -and the giving of advice than did the room below.</p> - -<p>Once there—once, as it were, settled against his own familiar -background, leaning back in his leather armchair, his man dismissed, his -visitor seated opposite him in the pretty, comfortable chair always -drawn forward when the old man was honoured by the visit of a fair -friend—Mr. Gumberg felt rewarded for the late stripping of himself of -personal dignity, for he perceived, by certain infallible signs, that -now she would tell him all that was in her mind.</p> - -<p>With scarce any preamble, Lady Wantley plunged into the middle of her -story. In disconnected, but clearly worded, phrases, she told of her -more than suspicion, of her certainty, of the coming peril. But, whereas -she spoke of Downing by name, describing his action with a Biblical -plainness of language which startled her old friend, she concealed the -name of the woman in the case, beseeching Mr. Gumberg's intervention and -advice on behalf 'of one known to you, but whose name I beg you not to -inquire or try to discover.'</p> - -<p>It was with eager, painful interest and growing excitement that the old -man, his hand held shell-like to his ear, heard in silence the story she -had come to tell. She had not spoken many words, and had used but little -of the innocent craft to which she was so unaccustomed, before Mr. -Julius Gumberg knew only too well the name of the woman for whom Lady -Wantley was entreating his advice and help.</p> - -<p>At last, when she had said all there was to say, she looked at her old -friend dumbly, appealingly; and it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> was rather in answer to that look -than to any word uttered by her that he said:</p> - -<p>'Were you anyone else, I would respect your wish to conceal this lady's -name. Nay, more: were she other than who she is, you should leave me -to-day believing that you had been successful in hiding from me the name -of your friend. But, Lady Wantley, I care for you.' He paused, then -feelingly added: 'I have cared for you all, too well, during nearly the -whole of my life, to tolerate this fiction. What you have come to tell -me is indeed news, and painful news, to me, but Sir George Downing -himself told me, during the few days he was here, that he was acquainted -with Penelope, and that he had met her abroad this spring.'</p> - -<p>And having thus cleared the decks for action, he remained silent for a -few moments, his domed head sunk on his breast, thinking deeply.</p> - -<p>George Downing and Penelope Wantley? Amazing, incredible, and most -sinister conjunction! Why, the affair must have been going on—nay, the -coming catastrophe, this mad scheme of going away together to form a -permanent alliance, 'offensive and defensive' (the old man would have -chuckled but for the poignant wretchedness of the face now hidden in -Lady Wantley's hands) must have been hatching—when Downing was with him -here, in St. James's Place!</p> - -<p>He cast his mind back; he tried to remember a conversation held in this -very room only two or three weeks ago. But Mr. Gumberg had come to a -time of life when it is more easy to recall conversations of half a -century old than words uttered yesterday.</p> - -<p>He had indeed been blind, 'amazing blind, and stoopid, stoopid, -stoopid!' so he exclaimed to himself, vexed that no suspicion of the -truth should have crossed his mind while Downing had been asking him -those eager, insistent questions concerning Mrs. Robinson and the -Wantley family.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p> - -<p>And now? Well, now that the house was well alight they came and asked -him, Mr. Gumberg, how to extinguish the flames. This was not the first -time—no, not by many—that the old man had been required to lend his -aid in such a case, and, as a rule, he always advised that the fire be -left to burn itself out. The counsellor's long experience had taught him -that such flames always did burn out if left severely alone—if no fuel, -in the shape of lamentations and good advice, were added by the incautious.</p> - -<p>But this matter of Downing and Mrs. Robinson was more complicated than -most. Pursuing his favourite metaphor, the old man said to himself that -here was no flimsy thatch of straw which, when the embers were cold, -could be restored, patched up again, on the old walls. Rather was -Penelope like to one of those old-world frigates, proudly riding the -sea, all afire and aglow, a wonderful sight to those safe on shore, but -of whose splendour there would remain nothing but a shapeless, -indescribable hulk, when all she bore had been burnt to the water's edge.</p> - -<p>Sitting there, turning about in his still agile mind the story, as just -told him in bare outline, he reminded himself that Mrs. Robinson, though -a powerful, wilful creature, was not the stuff out of which have been -fashioned the great, steadfast lovers of the world.</p> - -<p>'Why, if all were well—if she became the man's wife ten times over—she -would never be content to spend her whole life in Teheran!' he muttered; -and then more loudly: 'No, no; we must find a way out!'</p> - -<p>One question he longed to ask of Lady Wantley, for he felt that on the -true answer much depended that would modify his judgment, and guide his -opinion, as to what the immediate future must bring. But Mr. Gumberg was -old-fashioned; his code as to what could, or rather what could not, be -said to a lady was strict and meagre. Accordingly, he felt it -impossible<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> to put to this revered and trustful friend the question he -longed to utter. Still, there might be a way round. He asked abruptly: -'How much of the six months—I don't think it was more—did Penelope -actually spend at the Settlement? I mean, of course, between her -wedding-day and poor young Robinson's death?'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley hesitated. She cast her mind back, then answered -reluctantly: 'She was often away during the four months—it was only -four months. But, then, that was utterly different.' A faint colour came -into the mother's pale cheeks. 'Penelope did not care for poor -Melancthon as she seems to care, now——'</p> - -<p>'I know! I know!' The four words were snarled out rather than spoken. -'Nun and monk, that was the notion! No doubt you're right: there was -nothing to keep her there, after all!'</p> - -<p>He was so concerned with the problem filling both their minds for the -moment he forgot his usual punctiliousness of speech, but to Lady -Wantley there came a certain fierce comfort from his amazing frankness. -She felt that he knew, that he understood, the unusual difficulty of the -case, and in answer to his next words, 'I had actually forgotten all -that for the moment, but of course it complicates matters devilishly!' -she nodded her head twice in assent.</p> - -<p>'You see them together,' he went on abruptly. 'Does she seem'—sought -for a word, weighed one or two, rejected them, and finally chose -'bewitched?'</p> - -<p>And then—but this time so much to himself that his listener heard no -word of it—he added: 'Lucky George! Eh? Lucky George!'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley bent forward. Her grey eyes shone with excitement and -anger. 'Yes, bewitched—that's the right word! Sir George Downing has -bewitched my poor unhappy child. One who was there, our old nurse—you -remember Mrs. Mote?—declares that she altered completely from the -moment they first met.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> Why, she hasn't known him three months, and yet -he's persuaded her to contemplate this thing—this going with him——'</p> - -<p>She stopped speaking abruptly, choked with the horror of the thought, -and then slowly added: 'I know—at least, I think I know—that you do -not believe, as I believe, in the active, all-devouring power of the -Evil One.' Her voice sank, but Mr. Gumberg caught the muttered words, -'Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring -lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg smiled a queer little enigmatical smile. 'The old nurse was -there, you say? She never left her mistress, eh?' He waited, and looked -hard at Lady Wantley. But no gleam of comprehension of his meaning came -into her worn eyes. 'What does she think? what does the old nurse say to -it all?'</p> - -<p>Again Lady Wantley covered her face with her hands. 'She's known it all -longer than I have. She's in agony—agony, for she feels surer every day -that the child means to go away with him—soon—at once—if we cannot -devise some means of stopping them.'</p> - -<p>'I take it that you have said nothing to your daughter—to Penelope—as -yet?'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley raised her head, and he saw for a moment her convulsed, -disfigured features. 'No, I have said nothing. I cannot speak to her on -such a matter as this. Besides, she would not tolerate it. But you, dear -friend——'</p> - -<p>She suddenly rose from her chair, a tall, imposing figure, then moved -closer to him, and looked imploringly down into the wrinkled, impassive -face. 'I have thought that you, perhaps, would consent to speak to Sir -George Downing? I know it is asking much of your old friendship for us.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg coughed. He moved uneasily in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> chair. 'In such a -matter,' he began, 'one man can scarcely interfere with another man's -business. Supposing I do as you wish, can we expect Downing to draw back -now, if she—Penelope—has made up her mind to go on? Would you have him -put on her so mortal an affront?'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley only looked at him bewildered. Such sophistry was not for her.</p> - -<p>'But from the point of view of Sir George Downing's own life and -career,' she said falteringly, 'I understand—indeed, Penelope herself -has told me—that the one object of his life for many years past has -been to rehabilitate himself. Could you not point out to him how greatly -this would injure him with those whose good opinion he wishes to retain? -Think of what all my husband's old friends and colleagues will feel;' -and he saw that her hands were trembling.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg looked at Lady Wantley consideringly. He was surprised that -she had brought herself to think over the matter from so practical a -point of view. She had again sat down, and was gazing at him in a -collected, earnest manner.</p> - -<p>'He has weighed all that, depend upon it,' he said shortly. 'No, no! -with such a man as George Downing one must appeal to something higher -than self-interest. We must realize—it's no use blinking the fact—that -we are now dealing, or attempting to deal, with a feeling none the less -strong because you and I happen to have no sympathy with it—or perhaps -I should say, as regards myself, have outlived it.'</p> - -<p>He waited a moment, then concluded deliberately:</p> - -<p>'In your place, Lady Wantley, I should make a personal appeal to -Downing. Choose a time when Penelope is out of the way, and tell him the -truth—that he does not know her as you know her, and that, even putting -aside other and more obvious reasons which should make him pause, you -are sure that she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> would not be happy in the life he has to offer her. -Lastly, and most urgently, appeal to him for time. Time,' repeated the -old man, with a certain solemnity—'time smooths out many crooked -things. But why should I try and prompt you? You will know what to say -better than I could tell you. And Downing, take my word for it, is not -the man to seize an unfair advantage. Ask him to go away, alone, to give -her more time for consideration. Such a serious business as they -apparently both regard it—and most creditable it is to both of them -that they should do so,' he added in a half-aside—'should not be -settled in a hurry. Why, a few weeks ago each didn't know the other -lived, and now nothing short will content them but the spending of their -whole lives together! Though I have but little belief in its being of -any use, I will comply with your request that I should write to him. As -to what I say when I do write, you must leave that to me; but be sure -that I will do my best.'</p> - -<p>'You will write to him? Oh, how can I thank you adequately, my -friend—my good friend!'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley's eyes filled with grateful tears, and a stifling weight -seemed lifted from her heart. She felt that she had accomplished that -which she had come to do, and she paid no heed to the admonition, 'Don't -count too much on my influence with Downing.'</p> - -<p>They both stood up, Mr. Gumberg leaning his left hand on his stick, -while the other clasped hers in kindly, mute farewell.</p> - -<p>'Do you remember,' she asked, rather shyly, 'your first visit to -Oglethorpe, when I was a little girl? My mother, my dear, dear mother, -was so interested in you. I remember she said you were such a -well-behaved and intelligent youth. Of course, I know you came again -when we were both older, but when I see you I always think of our first -meeting. I saw no young folk at all in those years.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> - -<p>'No,' said Mr. Gumberg, a little stiffly, 'I have forgotten nothing. -Your parents, both then and later, were very kind to me, and I have -always felt grateful for my reception at Oglethorpe.' He hesitated a -moment, and then added, with an odd little old-fashioned bow over the -hand he still held: 'And also for that in later days, at Monk's Eype and -at Marston Lydiate.'</p> - -<p>'Ah yes,' she said, 'I know how sincere a friendship my husband felt for -you. But, as I said just now, I myself prefer to associate you in my own -mind with my own home—with my dear father and mother.'</p> - -<p class="space-above">When Lady Wantley had left him, and after the house had settled down -again into its usual summer stillness and silence, Mr. Gumberg, acting -on a sudden impulse, did that which he lived to regret—though only, it -must be admitted, when in a cynical mood—to the end of his life. Slowly -he made his way to the mahogany cupboard where he kept some of his -choicest treasures, including the rarer of his unframed prints. From -there he extracted a small portfolio, and returning to his armchair, he -propped it up on the sloping desk at his elbow. For a few moments his -fingers fumbled with the green silk strings, and he turned over the -contents with eager hands.</p> - -<p>'The Lady and her Pack.' Mr. Gumberg peered musingly at the curious -rudely-coloured design. He wondered half suspiciously whether it was -only his fancy that detected a certain similarity between the -horsewoman, sitting so squarely and so gallantly on her huge roan, and -the lady who had just left him. Both figures—that of Rosina Bellamont -and that of Lady Wantley—had about them a certain dauntlessness, a look -of high courage.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gumberg hastily turned the little print about. He took up a -magnifying-glass, and carefully read through the notes with which the -reverse side was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> covered, and which, in addition to names and dates, -gave a number of more intimate particulars concerning the various -human-faced hounds composing the pack.</p> - -<p>Then, with a certain deliberateness, he lighted the little red taper -with the help of which he always sealed his letters, and, holding what -had been the most valued of his minor treasures over the flame, Mr. -Gumberg watched it vanish into the flickering air above the taper. But -during the rest of that afternoon and evening his eyes often turned -towards the little tear-bottle, brought to him by a friend from Rome, -where he had carefully placed the pinch of brown ash which was all that -now remained of 'The Lady and her Pack.'</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'Ah, dear, but come them back to me!</div> -<div>Whatever change the days have wrought,</div> -<div>I find not yet one lonely thought</div> -<div>That cries against my wish for thee.'</div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>There are moments in the life of almost every human being when the sands -seem to be running out, when even the most careless, the least -scrupulous, feels a pang at the thought of all that has been left -undone, and, even more, of all that must be left unfinished and -incomplete. If the knowledge comes in the shape of a positive warning -that death is at hand, and will have to be faced in three months, in six -months, in a year, then the wise man sets his house in order as best he -can, and leaves the rest to God, or to that ordered chance in which so -many now believe as a substitute for Divine Providence. But when, as -perhaps more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> often happens in this strange, complicated world, a human -being has deliberately so set the hour-glass of his life that the sands -run out far more quickly than they were ever meant to do, and when the -last grain will bring, not death, but some astounding change in life, -dividing the what has been from the what will be more painfully than -would death itself; then the sense of responsibility, maybe the simple -fear of what may befall, is apt to make even the strongest nature quake.</p> - -<p>Penelope had come to such a moment. She had so set her hour-glass that -now the sands were running out with what appeared to be relentless -haste, while the time left to her was beginning to seem so short, and -the things to be done in that same short time so many. She did not -waver, or rather she was not aware that, had it been possible, she would -perhaps have wavered. Instead, she was only conscious of a desire to -hasten on—to see everything cleared out of her way. One matter which -had never before troubled her now gave her much anxious thought—she -longed to retain, as far as might be possible, the good opinion of the -few people who really loved her.</p> - -<p>And so it was with a mind deeply troubled that she stood waiting for -Winfrith, not in the studio, where every time she entered it everything -reminded her more and more of the life she was leaving, but in the high, -narrow room which corresponded on the ground-floor to Mrs. Mote's -bedroom above, and where still remained traces of the time when it had -been the study of Penelope's father—in a very real sense a workroom, -for there a great worker had spent many solitary hours.</p> - -<p>On the ugly, substantial writing-table, so placed that the writer -commanded the whole of the wonderful view of the terraced gardens, the -irregular cliff-line, and the broad seas spread out below, Mrs. Robinson -had placed a number of documents tied up with red tape, also two small -black despatch-boxes, each stamped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> with the initials M. W. R. These -preparations for what she intended should be a short business interview -gave her courage. As she waited, nervously conscious that Winfrith was -now, what he so rarely was, a few minutes late, she turned and walked up -and down the narrow room, longing for the door to open and let him in, -longing even more for the moment when it should open and let him out.</p> - -<p class="space-above">At last the man she waited for came in smiling. One of those instincts -which tell only a half-truth made him aware that the news he brought -would greatly gratify her. 'Sir George Downing has won all along the -line,' he said boyishly, while shaking hands. 'We are going to send him -the man he wants. He ought to be very much obliged to you.' He added, -with the touch of condescension which—from him to her—always teased -and yet always touched Penelope, 'The great man owes you far more than -he knows. How odd that he should have met you, and so have come across -me! He is even more worth meeting than I had expected,' he concluded -hesitatingly. 'I wonder why there is still so strong a prejudice against him.'</p> - -<p>'Give a dog a bad name,' she said indifferently, and then turned the key -in the lock of the door. Penelope had inherited from her methodical -father an impatience of interruption. 'Sit down here at the table,' she -commanded, 'and now let us put aside Sir George Downing and his affairs, -for just now I am more interested in my own. Do you remember the exact -terms of the deed—I know you have seen it—in which were arranged all -the money matters connected with the Settlement?'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' he answered at once, 'I remember the terms quite well. The -buildings are left in trust, and my father is one of the trustees; but -the income remains entirely in your hands. You could withdraw all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> -supplies to-morrow, or, to put it in another way, you could spend all -your income, and so have to pay the claims of the Settlement out of -capital. I always thought it a very bad arrangement.' He spoke with a -certain sharpness, as if the discussion were distasteful to him.</p> - -<p>Penelope looked up with some anger, and 'My husband trusted me -absolutely,' she said rather proudly.</p> - -<p>The man sitting opposite to her reddened darkly. He always disliked to -hear Penelope mention Melancthon Robinson; the slightest allusion to the -founder of the Settlement, when made by her, roused a violent primeval -instinct, which insisted on recognition of his own original claim to the -beautiful, elusive creature with whom his relations had now been for so -long lacking in sincerity. 'That's nonsense,' he said harshly. 'He had -no right to do such a thing with a girl of two-and-twenty.'</p> - -<p>'One-and-twenty,' she corrected quickly.</p> - -<p>He went on, avoiding her eyes, but his voice lowering, losing its -harshness, in spite of himself. 'It was a most unfair responsibility to -put upon you. However intelligent and businesslike,' he added, 'however -trusted and worthy of trust——'</p> - -<p>It was Penelope's turn to redden. 'I do not say I was, or am, worthy of -such a trust,' she said rather coldly. 'You know, or perhaps you have -forgotten, that I thought my cousin would help me. He refused, and it -was because you, David, were so good to me then'—Penelope leant -forward; she put her hand, her slender, ringless left hand, on his -sleeve for a moment, and the blue eyes which met his in quick appeal -seemed darker, softer than usual—'because you have always been good to -me, that I now ask your advice. It is for the last time——'</p> - -<p>Winfrith suddenly focussed his mind into close attention. Very slowly, -hardly conscious of what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> he was doing, he moved the chair on which he -was sitting further away from hers, and set a guard on his face.</p> - -<p>There had been a time, shortly after the renewal of their intimacy, when -David Winfrith had schooled himself, with what he thought was easy -philosophy, to hear the announcement of Penelope's remarriage. But -curiously soon, and Mrs. Robinson had watched with mischievous interest -the different workings of his mind, the young man had seen reason to -assure himself that his new-found friend would do wisely to remain free -as himself from all sentimental entanglements, while yet always able to -benefit by his superior masculine sense and knowledge, both of the world -and of affairs.</p> - -<p>Soon also he had come to fear for her, and this quite honestly, the -fortune-hunters with whom he felt rather than knew her to be, in those -early days, encompassed. A word denying any intention of remarriage—and -it was a word which Penelope, at that time of her life and even for long -after, could have uttered with all sincerity—would have made Winfrith -easy in his mind; but the word was never uttered. Mrs. Robinson had had -no desire to let the nearest, in a sense the dearest, and in any case -the most faithful and trustworthy of her mentors, feel too great a sense -of security.</p> - -<p>And so their strange relationship had remained, and that over years, a -source of pleasant confidence and sentimental amusement to the woman, of -subtle charm and ever-recurring interest to the man.</p> - -<p>When he turned restive, as sometimes though rarely happened, Penelope -dealt out the rope with no niggard hand, or, better still, provoked -something tantamount to a quarrel, followed in due course by the -inevitable healing reconciliation.</p> - -<p>But not even his interest in Mrs. Robinson's affairs—for so he -described, even to himself, the feeling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> which dominated him—had ever -caused Winfrith to neglect his own work, or the public business with -which he was concerned; and this divided allegiance, as he sometimes -suspected, caused her more real annoyance than his frequent and frank -criticisms of her actions, and his tacit refusal to join in the pretty -flatteries of her other friends. As Penelope had learnt with anger, -there were times and seasons when even the most imperious note, the most -urgent appeal, could not bring him to her side. But while this state of -things had irked her greatly, especially in the early days of the -renewal of their friendship, she had always been aware that any ordinary -pleasure or personal concern was always flung aside, counted as nothing -to the delight of being with her and of acting as her confidential -adviser and friend.</p> - -<p>To-day, while looking into his plain face, aware of the sternness of the -strong jaw, the ugly peculiarity of an exceptionally long upper lip, -Penelope's heart contracted with sudden tenderness as she evoked the -memory of the long years during which they had known one another with so -deep, so wordless, an intimacy.</p> - -<p>For a moment there was silence between them. Then he said, rather -sharply: 'Well, what is it you want me to do? Of course I will give you -the best advice in my power, and not, I hope, for the last time.'</p> - -<p>As he spoke he stood up and placed himself with his back to the window, -and for a moment Penelope saw the heavy, broad-shouldered figure -outlined against the sea and sky, his face—and this vaguely relieved -her—being in complete shadow. But she turned away, looked straight -before her as she said quickly, her voice full of defiant decision: -'Yes, I want to ask your advice, and more, to beg you to help me about a -certain matter.' She paused, and added: 'I have made some notes on a -piece of paper. I think I laid it down before you came in.'</p> - -<p>Winfrith wheeled round, and looked at the table<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> against which he had -been leaning. On coming into the room he had paid no attention to -Penelope's preparations for their interview, but now, as he became aware -of the odd little bundles of lawyer's letters, each tied together with -tape, and of the despatch-boxes, inscribed with the initials M. W. R., -he felt amused, and even a little touched. 'These look quite old -papers,' he said kindly. 'Perhaps you forgot to bring your notes in here -with you, or—wait a moment—what is that you are holding in your hand?'</p> - -<p>She frowned with annoyance. 'How stupid I am!' But the little episode -relieved the tension between them; and, as a child might have done to a -play-fellow, she suddenly put out her hand, and, taking his, pulled him -down beside her on the long, low, leather-covered couch. 'I want to -speak to you about a really serious business, and I know—at least, I am -afraid—that you will disapprove of what I want to do, and that you may -try and make me alter my mind.'</p> - -<p>She spoke nervously, with a new, a gentler, note in her voice. A blessed -peace stole into Winfrith's heart; he chased the dread which had for the -moment possessed him, and it was in his usual tone, with his usual -half-bantering manner, that he asked the reproachful question, 'Why did -you say that—I mean, as to this being the last time? Surely I have not -deserved that you should say such things to me!'</p> - -<p>'No, indeed—indeed you have not!' And the hurried humility with which -she spoke might well have re-awakened his premonition of coming pain and -parting. 'But you will soon understand what I meant, when I have -explained everything.'</p> - -<p>Again there was silence between them; but Winfrith, her last words -sounding in his ears, feeling her dear nearness, though he had moved -somewhat away from where she had placed him, was in no haste to hear her -confidences. Secretly he pledged himself not to scold her—indeed, to -listen patiently, and to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> help her, however unpractical and foolish the -scheme for which she sought his help.</p> - -<p>At last Penelope, paler than her wont, her voice tremulous, lacking its -usual hard, bell-like quality of tone, spoke, and to some purpose: 'I -have made up my mind to do what you have always wished—that is, to -endow the Settlement. Though what you said just now about my husband and -his arrangements made me angry, I know it was true. He ought not to have -left me such power.'</p> - -<p>Winfrith felt relieved but bewildered, and straightway he blundered. -'Certainly something of the kind ought to have been done long ago, but -you always opposed it. You——'</p> - -<p>'I suppose I have the right to change my mind, to be guided by -circumstances? Besides, I am tired, utterly tired, of the responsibility -as well as of the Settlement.' She looked at him fixedly for a moment. -'I know what you would like to say; that I have had nothing to do with -it, in a real sense, for many years past. But that is false; no day goes -by without my receiving some tiresome letter or letters. Whenever any of -the "Settlers"'—Winfrith had never before heard her use the -contemptuous term—'fall out, and they are always falling out——'</p> - -<p>'That at least is untrue,' he interrupted.</p> - -<p>'Yes, they do—they do! And when they do, then they write to me to patch -up the quarrel!'</p> - -<p>She paused, then went on in a more measured voice: 'And there are other -things! How would you like it if, when acting the part of a traitor to -your party, you were always being praised for your loyalty? <i>I</i> am a -traitor to all that the Settlement represents. I hate—no, I do not -hate, I despise—the wretched human beings to whom poor Melancthon gave -up his life. I don't think they are worth the trouble expended on them. -When I come into personal contact with them, of course I am sorry, so I -am for the ants when Brown<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> Bess puts her foot on an ant-hill! And to -you, David, I have never pretended otherwise. Of course I recognise that -in so feeling I am almost alone. Some of the people I have most cared -for, my father'—she hesitated and added more gently—'you yourself, -feel quite otherwise.'</p> - -<p>Then breaking off short, she glanced down at the paper she held in her -hand, and Winfrith saw with some surprise that it was covered with -neatly pencilled notes. 'But, after all, I own no apology for what I -feel to any human being, and so now let us consider the practical side -of the matter. Apart from the question of the endowment, I wish -arrangements to be made by which Cecily Wake can carry out her -experiment—I mean her co-operative cheap food idea.'</p> - -<p>Winfrith bit his lip. This, then, was the new scheme? He had never liked -Cecily Wake; perhaps—but of this, of course, he was totally unaware—he -was irritated by the girl's enthusiastic affection for Penelope, so much -more unobtrusive and sincere than that of some of those whom he also -unconsciously regarded as his rivals. Then, again, Cecily, like himself, -had the power, in spite of her youth, in spite even of a certain -childishness of which the bloom had not been rubbed off in the two years -spent by her in working at the Settlement, of obtaining her own way, and -of imposing her own point of view on others. Finally, he had the average -Englishman's distrust of Roman Catholicism, and naturally suspected the -motives of a convent-bred girl.</p> - -<p>As to the proposed scheme, it was in some ways childish, in others -revolutionary. In her dreams Cecily Wake had seen the squalid -neighbourhoods about the Settlement each rejoicing in its own huge cheap -and pure food emporium. To Winfrith the idea was little less than -absurd, and to be, from every point of view, deprecated and discouraged; -so he now<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> nerved himself, without any great difficulty, to opposition.</p> - -<p>'Miss Wake's scheme, from what I can make of it,' he said coldly, 'would -not only require the outlay of a considerable amount of capital, but, -what is more serious, could not but disorganize local trade.'</p> - -<p>Penelope frowned. 'I know, I know! You've said all that to me before. As -to the money required, of course there will be plenty of money. You have -never liked Cecily; but still, even you must admit that she has done -very well, and, after all, both Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret agree -that something of the kind she suggests is badly needed. I remember that -I myself, in old days, always considered that we thought far too much of -our protégés' minds and morals, and far too little of their bodies; and -I know I heartily sympathized with the poor wretches who, when they -discovered that there were to be no more doles, broke all the windows of -good Mr. B.'</p> - -<p>Winfrith vehemently disagreed, but it was an old quarrel between them, -and he refused to be drawn.</p> - -<p>'To return to the main question,' he said quietly, 'it seems to me to be -entirely one of money. If you endow the Settlement, as I understand you -mean to do—that is, adequately—your own income will be greatly -lowered, and even so large, so immense a fortune as that left you by -your husband'—he brought out the word with a gulp—'will be seriously -affected. You know sometimes, as it is, you have not found matters very -easy.'</p> - -<p>He hesitated, for here he felt on delicate ground. The way in which -this, to him, dearest of women, dowered with apparently such simple -personal tastes, so over-spent her large income as to find it difficult -sometimes to meet the claims of the Settlement, had been to him for -years a matter of profound astonishment.</p> - -<p>'Well, I shall have to manage better in future.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> She sighed a little -wearily. 'As you said just now the money was really left to me in -trust;' and, when Winfrith made a gesture of negation, she said, 'Well, -most of it was.' And then, with complete change of tone, she said -slowly, 'And now I intend to be shut of it all.'</p> - -<p>As he looked at her, perplexed, she added: 'You don't know the -expression? Ah well, if you had ever lived at the Settlement, even for a -short time, you would be quite familiar with it, for there women are -always longing to be "shut" of things—principally, of course, of their -husbands and babies. But seriously, David, what I want you to tell me -and to help me to do concerns the practical side of this great -renouncement.'</p> - -<p>There had come again into her voice, during the last few moments, the -satirical ring he dreaded and disliked. 'We will take all your -remonstrances and reproaches as said'—she softened the discourtesy of -her words by the touch for a moment of her hand on his arm. 'And I want -it all done at once—within the next few weeks.'</p> - -<p>Winfrith smiled, not unkindly. 'So I should suppose,' he said quietly; -'but of course that will be quite impossible.'</p> - -<p>'But you have often helped me to get things done quickly,' she cried -urgently, 'and it really is most important that these changes and new -arrangements should be made now, as soon as possible.'</p> - -<p>Winfrith laughed outright. He wondered for a moment, with a certain -complacency, whether any man, however foolish and lacking in knowledge -of business, could be found to propose so absurd a thing as this clever, -and sometimes so shrewd, woman had done.</p> - -<p>'Why all this haste?' he asked good-humouredly. 'I'll tell you what we -had better do; I will draft a letter, for you to copy, to your lawyers. -In this letter we will explain that you wish the arrangements -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>concerning the Settlement, embodied, I believe, in your will, to be -carried out now, in your lifetime; further, you will tell them prettily, -in your own words, that you wish the whole thing settled as soon as -possible. They will then go into the whole matter, and let you know what -can be done, and how long it will take to do it.'</p> - -<p>He waited a moment, then continued: 'Now about Miss Wake's scheme. I -should suggest its being tried at first on a small scale. I understand -she has reduced her demands'—he could not keep his prejudice against -Penelope's young friend out of his voice—'to what she calls "a pure -milk depôt." Some time ago I did consult a doctor I know on that point, -and I admit he thought it a good idea. This portion of her scheme need -not cost a great deal of money, and though, of course, it will put all -the milkmen against you, as you personally won't be there when their -boys come and break the windows of the Settlement, I don't know that -that much matters!'</p> - -<p>He waited for her answer. These discussions, which had at intervals -taken place for many years past between Mrs. Robinson and himself always -amused him and bored her, the more so that, after a spirited struggle on -her part, he generally got his own way.</p> - -<p>But to-day Penelope was not in fighting trim. 'You don't understand,' -she said at length, and in a voice so low that he had to bend forward to -hear her words. 'This is only a part of what I want you to do for me. -You referred just now to my will. Supposing that I died suddenly—that I -was killed out riding, for instance; you, as my executor, would have to -see to almost everything, to undertake almost all the arrangements I -want you to get done for me now, during the next few weeks.'</p> - -<p>Winfrith turned and looked at her keenly. She met his gaze -unflinchingly; but the colour had gone from her face, the proud mouth, -which he had once<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> kissed so often, and which he had once refused to -kiss (did Penelope ever remember, too? he wondered; he never forgot) was -trembling, and her eyes met his in questioning, shrinking distress at -the pain she felt herself about to inflict.</p> - -<p>And then suddenly he realized, with a feeling of sharp revolt and -anguish, that that which he had sometimes thought of as being possible, -but which during recent years had gone into the background of his -mind—for he was a much-occupied as well as an unimaginative man—had -come upon him. He saw that he was going to lose her, that their old -relationship was even now severed, and that this was in very truth her -last and supreme call on him for help.</p> - -<p>But there was no perceptible change in his voice, as he said very -quietly: 'Please read me your notes: then I shall understand more -clearly what you want done; and once I understand, I will do all in my -power to see that your wishes are carried out.'</p> - -<p>She bowed her head, and Winfrith listened with dismay and increasing -astonishment as Mrs. Robinson explained the scheme, evidently well and -carefully thought out, by which she proposed to renounce and distribute -the whole of the immense fortune which had been left to her by -Melancthon Robinson.</p> - -<p>As she spoke, as she read on from her notes, her voice regained -something of its sureness of accent; and glancing frequently at the -paper she held in her hand, she elaborated the various points, showing -more real knowledge of the problems which confront the modern -philanthropist than Winfrith would have thought possible.</p> - -<p>Then came the sudden, the agonizing, conviction that in this matter -Penelope had been helped by some other and more practical mind than her -own; and, as this fact became clear, he set his teeth, and forced -himself to remember that the man, whoever he might<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> be, who had inspired -this great renunciation could be no fortune-hunter.</p> - -<p>'Of course, you can guess,' she said at last—for his silence made her -uneasy—'why I am doing all this. I have as yet told nobody; but my life -henceforth will be spent abroad, and'—again she hesitated -painfully—'the person whose wishes I am now bound to consult absolutely -agrees with me, and approves of what I am going to do about Melancthon's -money.'</p> - -<p>He brushed aside her last words, and brought himself to consider her -material interests, and so, 'You realize what all this means?' he said -at length. 'If these arrangements are carried out, your income, in the -sense you now understand the word, will be wholly absorbed—gone.'</p> - -<p>'I am retaining everything my father left to me, with the exception of -this place,' she said quickly.</p> - -<p>'With the exception of this place?' he repeated with dismay. 'Do you, -then, mean to sell Monk's Eype?'</p> - -<p>'No, no! how could you think of such a thing?' A tone of profound -dejection crept into her voice. 'What I mean is that, before going away, -I intend to hand Monk's Eype over to Ludovic. He was not fairly treated -by my father; but, even as it is with him, he could afford to keep up -the villa and the gardens as they should be kept up, and I am sure he -will always make my mother welcome, should she care to come here from -time to time.'</p> - -<p>The accent of pain in her voice again stung Winfrith into protest. 'Are -you sure that you are acting wisely? Of course, I know that it is none -of my business.' And as she made a quick dissenting gesture: 'If it -is—if you will allow it to be my business, then let me say that in this -matter of your fortune you are about to take a great risk, and one which -you might bitterly regret later on,' he added deliberately, 'and for -which you might in time be reproached.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p> - -<p>But as he uttered these last words a sudden change came over Penelope's -face. Winfrith had evoked another, a more intimate—ay, and a more -eloquent—presence, and as she answered, 'Ah no! I need never be afraid -of that,' a strange radiance came over her face, softening the severity -of the lines, veiling the brightness of her blue eyes.</p> - -<p>Winfrith rose quickly from where he was sitting; he felt an impulse to -wound, to strike, and then to flee. 'Men alter,' he said—'men and -women, too. You and I——' Then he drove out the jealous devil which had -possessed him for a moment, and asked: 'Well, I suppose that is all you -wanted to see me about for the present? If you will give me your notes I -will go into the matter; and if, as I understand, your marriage is to -take place very soon abroad'—he waited for a moment, but there came no -word of assent—'that will, of course, be a sufficient reason for -pushing on everything as quickly as possible.'</p> - -<p>He added, with an air of studied indifference: 'May I ask how long you -wish your engagement to be kept secret? Do you, for instance, object to -my father being told?'</p> - -<p>Then he looked down at her, and what he saw roused every generous -instinct, banished unworthy jealousy, and even dulled his bitterness. -When had he last seen Penelope weeping? Years and years before, on the -day of their parting, when they were still boy and girl lovers. But then -her tears had come freely, like those of a child distressed; now no -sound came from the bowed figure save long, shuddering sobs. Again he -sat down by her. 'My dear,' he said, deeply troubled, 'what is it? What -can I do for you?'</p> - -<p>'You were so unkind,' she whispered, and he saw that she was trembling, -'you were going away—so coldly.' Then, almost inaudibly, she added: 'I -did not think you would care so much.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> - -<p>She unclasped the hands in which her face had been hidden, and held them -out to him. For a moment he took them in his, crushed the fingers wet -with tears, and then let them go. 'Of course I care,' he said at length. -'You would not have me not care. We have been friends so long, you and -I.' He stopped abruptly; the memory of many meetings, of many partings, -became vivid and intolerable.</p> - -<p>They both stood up, and again he made an effort over himself. Once more -he took her hands in his, and held them tightly, as he said: 'But you -must not distress yourself about me; men have worse things to bear. -Think of what happened to my father.' And his voice shook for the first -time. Never before, not even as a boy, had Penelope heard him allude to -his parents' tragic story. And now this word, meant to comfort her, and -perhaps himself, cut her to the heart. Soon he would learn, only too -surely, the ironic parity which was to lie between his own and his -father's fate.</p> - -<p>For a moment she shrank back, then moved swiftly nearer to him; and it -was with her arms about his neck, her face looking up into his, that he -heard the eager tremulous words: 'David, before you go I want to say -something—to tell you, so that you may remember afterwards when I am -gone, that till now there has never been anyone else—never, -never—anyone but you!' Her head sank on his breast as she added slowly, -almost reluctantly: 'Things were not as you, perhaps, think they were -between poor Melancthon and myself. We agreed before our marriage that -it was only to be a partnership.' As she felt his arms tighten round -her, she again lifted her face, and asked: 'Are you shocked? Do you -think it was wrong? Motey (no one else ever guessed) thought it very -wicked.'</p> - -<p>'Then you were—you have always been mine!' he cried; and, as she shrank -back, he holding her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> fast to him, 'Tell me,' he asked, 'should I have -had a chance, another chance, during all those years?' He added, perhaps -guided by some subtle instinct of which he was ashamed, for as he spoke -Penelope felt him relaxing the strong grip of the arms which had held -her so closely, 'Is there any chance—now?'</p> - -<p>She shook her head. Through a blistering veil she saw the set grey face -of the man who had loved her so well and long, and for whom she also had -cared, if less well, quite as long. 'You had your chance, such as it -was, at first,' she said, 'when we were both so young, when I was -foolish and you were so wise.' His face contracted at the sad irony in -her voice. 'I know now, I even knew then, that my father forced you to -act as you did; but I was angered, disappointed, with you and in you. I -had thought—I think even Motey expected—that you would have wanted to -run away with me. Gretna Green seemed a very real place in those days.' -She smiled dolorously. 'If you had been a little stronger or a little -weaker, perhaps even a little less reasonable, I should have run away -with you, for at that time—ah, David, I was in love with Love, and you -were Love.'</p> - -<p>'Then I only once forfeited my chance?' he again asked urgently. 'During -all these past years it never came again?'</p> - -<p>For a moment Penelope hesitated; then, as she lied, she again pressed -closer to him, and again the tears ran down her cheeks. 'It never came -again,' she repeated. 'But you know, you will always remember when I am -gone, that you were the only one, the only one.'</p> - -<p>'Is that quite true?' he asked slowly.</p> - -<p>'Absolutely true.' She spoke eagerly, defending the truth as she had not -been called upon to defend the lie. 'We have had our happy years, -David—your years, my dear. You always seemed quite content——'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Did I?' he said bitterly. 'Ah well, now comes the turn of the other -man!'</p> - -<p>Penelope started back, wounded and ashamed. She put her hand over her -eyes. For a moment they both felt an intangible, but none the less -reproachful, presence between them.</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon,' he said hurriedly. 'I should not have said that. -Forgive me.'</p> - -<p>'It was my fault,' she answered coldly. 'I brought it on myself—I know -you had great provocation.'</p> - -<p>There was a painful moment of silence. 'I think I must leave you now,' -she said at length, 'I will write to you to-morrow. I do not think our -meeting again would be of any use. We should both say'—her voice -quivered—'and perhaps do, things we should regret later.' She held out -her hand, her head still averted, wishing her anger, her disappointment, -with Winfrith to endure.</p> - -<p>But suddenly he drew her again, this time resisting, into his arms. 'We -can't part like this,' he whispered urgently. 'Forgive the brutish thing -I said! I promise I will never so offend again—I swear I will respect -him—the man you love, I mean.' To keep her another moment in his arms -he abased himself yet further. 'You must not be afraid that I shall -quarrel with your choice. Surely we can remain friends—he shall have no -reason to be jealous of me.'</p> - -<p>But punishment came swift and sure. Again he felt her shrink from him, -again he felt another presence between them, and the jealous devil, so -lately laid, once more took possession of his soul.</p> - -<p>He thrust her away. 'I had better go now,' he said hoarsely. 'It's no -use. You were right: we had better not meet again.'</p> - -<p>And as Penelope, swept with infinite distress, compelled, mastered, by -impulses the source of which was wholly hidden from herself, came once -more near to him, again took his hand in hers, looked up mutely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> into -his face, he said roughly, 'No, no! keep your kisses for the other man; -I will not rob him any more!' and, fumbling for a moment with the key in -the lock, was gone.</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> - -<blockquote><p>'For a pinte of honey thou shalt here likely find a gallon of gaul, -for a dram of pleasure a pound of pain, for an inch of mirth an ell -of mone: as Ivie doth an oke, these miseries encompass our life.'</p></blockquote> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>After her return from Kingpole Farm that night of stress and storm, -Penelope felt strangely, terribly forlorn. Those about her seemed -changed. She gradually became aware that she was being watched, -considered anxiously, by her mother, by Wantley, even by Miss Wake. -Cecily alone among them seemed as she had always been, but even she, or -so Mrs. Robinson suspected, had gone through some experience which she -was keeping secret from the woman who knew herself so well and loyally -loved by her.</p> - -<p>As the time grew near when Miss Wake and her niece were to go back to -town, leaving Penelope alone with her mother and with her cousin, there -came over Mrs. Robinson an overmastering desire to recall Downing to -Monk's Eype; she longed for the protection which would be afforded her -by his presence. She also wished him to confirm her in the conviction -that the time had come when Lady Wantley should be told of what they -were about to do.</p> - -<p>For the first time the gravity, the irrevocable nature, of the step she -was taking came home to Penelope's mind, to her heart—especially after -her agonizing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> interview with Winfrith—and even to her conscience, for -she acknowledged a duty to her mother.</p> - -<p>During these days of suspense Mrs. Robinson became 'gey ill to live -with,' and the two who suffered most from her moods were Mrs. Mote and -Cecily Wake. Penelope half suspected her old nurse of treachery, and -sometimes she would give her a peculiar, and Motey felt it to be also a -terrible, look. The old servant was a brave woman, but during that time -of silent, fearful waiting her spirit often quailed, and she sometimes -bitterly regretted having spoken to Lady Wantley.</p> - -<p>To Cecily her friend's capricious moods were a source of pained -bewilderment. Penelope no longer drew, no longer painted, no longer, -indeed, did anything but walk and drive. She seemed to have a fear of -solitude, and yet the girl was the only companion whom she tolerated.</p> - -<p>Sometimes the two would drive in the broad, low pony-cart for hours, -with scarce a word said on either side. At other times Mrs. Robinson -would talk with her wonted impetuosity and sharp decision of many things -and people of moment to Cecily. She would refer to her brief married -life at the Settlement, even to her childhood and David Winfrith. Then -would come bitter, slighting words concerning those whom the speaker -knew to be dear to her listener, sarcastic references to enthusiastic -Philip Hammond and large-minded, kindly Mrs. Pomfret; even—then Cecily -Wake's heart would whisper that this was surely cruel—her cousin -Wantley would be ruthlessly dissected, and his foibles held up to scorn.</p> - -<p>There would come moments when Penelope again was kind, when she would -say a word implying that Cecily Wake was her best, her most intimate, -friend; but this was now often followed by a sentence which seemed to -tell of an approaching break in their friendship, of coming separation.</p> -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p> - -<p>Soon the two, the woman and the girl, were at utter variance the one -with the other, and Cecily suffered almost as keenly as did Penelope. It -seemed to her only too clear that Mrs. Robinson grudged her, and -disapproved of, Wantley's love. What else could mean her strange, -obliquely stabbing phrases?</p> - -<p>Cecily's mind often reverted to that most moving, sacred hour when -Wantley had given her his mother's pearls, when he had told her, dryly -and yet tenderly, of how truly he loved her. He had said—she remembered -the words, and, so remembering, often let her eyes fall before those of -her friend—'Unless you particularly wish to do so, I should prefer that -you say nothing—just now, at once—to Penelope. Wait till I have spoken -to your aunt, till we are both in London, till we are ready to tell all -the world.' And, of course, she had assented, while yet feeling sure of -Mrs. Robinson's real sympathy.</p> - -<p>But now Cecily felt sure no longer, and over her heart there came -something very like despair. How could she, Cecily Wake, who owed so -much—nay, her very acquaintance with Wantley—to Penelope, go against -her in so serious a matter? Cecily had retained the clear conscience, -free of all casuistry, of a child. She knew that she loved Wantley with -all her heart, that her feeling for him was no longer under her own -control; but she also knew that she could never marry him in direct -opposition to the wishes of the one human being to whom she regarded -herself as indebted for all which made life worth living.</p> - -<p>And so her happiness became quite overshadowed with misgivings and -hesitations, of which she said nothing to her lover.</p> - -<p>This reticence was made easy by Wantley's own conduct. With a -punctiliousness which did him honour, he scorned to take any advantage -of their hidden understanding. For many reasons he had preferred that -their formal engagement should take<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> place, and be publicly announced, -in London. Meanwhile, he felt infinitely content, and in no haste to -provoke the elder Miss Wake's tremulous, incredulous satisfaction, or to -receive his cousin's ironical congratulations.</p> - -<p>There are moments in almost every life when a man feels himself lifted -far above his usual plane of thought and feeling, when he knows he is -happily adrift from familiar moorings.</p> - -<p>Such a moment had now come to Wantley. He would ask himself, with a -certain exultation of heart, whether it were possible that a time could -come when he would feel any nearer, ever more intimately linked, to his -beloved, to this young and still mysterious creature, the tips of whose -fingers he had not even kissed, and who, as he well knew, and was glad -to know, lived in a spiritual sense in a world so far removed from that -in which he had always dwelt.</p> - -<p>He trembled at his own good fortune, and would fain have propitiated -that sportive Fate which lies in wait for those to whom Providence has -been too kind. So feeling, he told himself that he should not grudge -Penelope the present companionship of Cecily. He divined something of -his cousin's unhappiness and unrest, though far from suspecting their -intensity, and so the gradual shadowing of Cecily's face was attributed -by him to her hourly contact with one who was obviously ill at ease and -sick at heart.</p> - -<p class="space-above">On the last day of Theresa Wake's stay at Monk's Eype, Mrs. Robinson -quite unexpectedly and most capriciously, or so it seemed to the older -lady, expressed a sudden wish that the aunt and niece should stay on for -another two or three days.</p> - -<p>So eager was Penelope to compass the matter that she actually sought out -Miss Wake in the early morning before she was up and dressed. 'Pray, -Cousin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> Theresa, stay on a little longer! Do not go to-morrow. This is -the sixth—stay on till the ninth. We are all leaving on Saturday.' She -added, after a scarcely perceptible pause: 'Sir George Downing is coming -back to-day.'</p> - -<p>But Miss Wake's answer was very decided, and not very gracious in -expression. Was it fancy that made Mrs. Robinson feel that the few words -were uttered very coldly? 'No; we cannot alter our plans at this late -hour, Mrs. Pomfret is expecting Cecily back to-morrow evening. We must -certainly leave in the morning, and you will be able to spare us very well.'</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>There came a time when Wantley often debated painfully as to why he had -lent himself to the bringing back of Downing to Monk's Eype, and when he -was glad to remember that he had said a word of protest to his cousin. -Penelope had chosen him to be her messenger; his had been the task of -taking her invitation to Kingpole Farm.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson had tried to treat the matter with Wantley as of no -moment. He had listened in silence, and then reluctantly had said: 'I -will go if you really wish it, but I think you are not acting wisely;' -only to be disarmed by the look of suffering, almost of despair, which -had met his measured words.</p> - -<p>And so he had taken the letter which had summoned Downing to her side. -'I beg you to come back for two or three days,' she wrote. 'Things have -not been going well with me. I need your help. I feel that before -leaving here I ought to inform my mother of my—of our—intentions.'</p> - -<p>In later life Wantley sometimes recalled that last visit to Kingpole -Farm.</p> - -<p>During the long solitary drive he had wondered uneasily if he was -expected—if this little episode<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> had been arranged between Mrs. -Robinson and the man with whom he was beginning to believe his cousin -was indeed more closely connected than he liked to think possible. But -at once he had seen that Downing knew nothing—that he, Wantley, had not -been expected, indeed, was not welcome. Downing struck him as aged, -sombre, perhaps even defiant, as he held out his lean brown hand for -Penelope's note. While reading it he had turned away, treating his -visitor with scant ceremony, then had said briefly, 'I understand I am -to come back with you—now—to-day?' And Wantley had as shortly -assented.</p> - -<p>Perforce—this also he later remembered time and again—Wantley was -present at the meeting of Penelope and Downing.</p> - -<p>The two men found her standing by the open door, her tall figure -outlined against the hall, the sunny terrace, the belt of blue sea -beyond. She was looking out landward, shading her eyes—sunken, -grey-lidded with much sleeplessness, perhaps with tears—from the bright -light.</p> - -<p>Without waiting for the high phaeton to stop, Downing had sprung out, -and striding forward had taken her two hands in his. For a moment they -seemed unaware of Wantley's presence; they exchanged no conventional -word of greeting. Then, slowly, and with a deep sigh, Penelope withdrew -her hands from the other's grasp, and observed, quite collectedly, that -the Beach Room had been arranged, as before, to serve as study for her -guest.</p> - -<p>A moment later she had turned and gone, out through the hall, on to the -terrace, leaving her cousin to play once more the part of host—but this -time of reluctant host—to Persian Downing.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It was night. Wantley's light alone burnt brightly on the lower floor of -the villa. The group of five people—for Lady Wantley had not come down -to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> dinner—had broken up curiously early, Downing retreating to the -Beach Room, Miss Wake upstairs, while Penelope, Cecily, and Wantley -himself, after a short walk through the dark pine-wood, had also -separated.</p> - -<p>For awhile he tried to read and smoke, but soon he put down his book, -and lay back in the large, deep chair, and thought of what he should do -if——</p> - -<p>Wantley had a great dislike to interfering in other people's -business—in fact, he prided himself on never offering unasked advice, -on never spoiling a game in which he was not taking a hand.</p> - -<p>Well, what he was now doing savoured of interference. Still, it was his -business, and his only, if he chose to outstay from bed his -fellow-guests. After all, he had a perfect right to sit up on this, the -last night of Cecily Wake's stay at Monk's Eype—the young man's face -softened; on this, the first night of Downing's return—his face grew -stern, his eyes alert.</p> - -<p>If Downing, coming up from the Beach Room at one or two in the morning, -met Penelope—well, scarcely by appointment, but by accident—in the -studio, would it not be better for them both to be aware that he, -Wantley, was there sitting up, almost next door? To make them aware of -it might be a certain difficulty, but that could be managed if he now -got up and left the door of the smoking-room ajar. He did so, treading -softly across the matted floor.</p> - -<p>A sudden sound made him start, but it was only a shutter, not, as he had -thought, a door opening and closing.</p> - -<p>Again he took up his book—a much annotated French edition of the -Confessions of Saint Augustine—and he lighted another cigarette. It was -now only eleven. There were hours to be got through, and if—as he -believed had sometimes occurred before—Sir George Downing elected to -stay in the Beach Room<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> all night, then he, poor Wantley, must yet keep -his bargain with himself, and sit doggedly on.</p> - -<p>There was always one most disagreeable possibility—that which, to tell -the truth, he really feared—namely, that Penelope might be seized with -the idea of going down to the Beach Room, of seeking out Downing there. -If he heard her coming down the silent house; if he heard her opening -the door which led from the hall on to the terrace, then certainly he -would, and must, break his cherished rule of non-interference. But the -thought that this ordeal perhaps lay before him did not add to the -pleasure of his vigil.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>At half-past eleven Wantley heard that which he had feared to hear, the -sound of steps coming down the marble staircase. He got up from his -chair, very slowly, very reluctantly. There came the murmur of low -voices, and the listener's ear caught Cecily's low, even tones answering -Penelope's eager, whispering voice.</p> - -<p>'What a relief,' the voice was saying—'what a relief to get away from -upstairs—from Motey next door! Here we shall be quite alone——' Then, -with surprise, but no annoyance: 'Why, there's a light in Ludovic's -smoking-room! But he's very discreet. He would never intrude on a -dressing-gown conference.'</p> - -<p>And the voices swept on, past the door ajar, on into the short passage -which led to the studio.</p> - -<p>Wantley sat down again with a very altered feeling. He was ashamed of -his former fears, and at that moment begged his cousin's pardon for -suspicions which he trusted she would never know he had entertained.</p> - -<p>Cecily asleep, dreaming sad dreams, had suddenly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> wakened to see -Penelope standing by the side of her bed.</p> - -<p>The tall, ghostlike figure, clad in a long pale-grey dressing-gown, held -a small lamp in her hand; and, as the girl opened her eyes, bent down -and whispered, 'I could not sleep, and so I thought we might have one -last talk. Not here—for we might wake Cousin Theresa; not in my -room—for there Motey can hear every word—but downstairs in the studio, -if you are not afraid of the cold.'</p> - -<p>And so they had made their way through the unlighted house, Cecily's -smaller figure wrapped in pale blue and white, her fair hair spread over -her shoulders, looking, so her companion in tender mood assured her, -like one of Fra Angelico's heavenly visitants.</p> - -<p>When in the studio, Penelope put the lamp down on her painting-table and -drew the girl over to the broad couch where Cecily had sat down and -waited for her, just a month ago, on the afternoon of her first day at -Monk's Eype. The knowledge of how happy she had then been, of how -beautiful she had thought this room, now full of dim, mysterious -sadness, came back to the girl with a pang of pain. She looked round -with troubled eyes, but Mrs. Robinson, an elbow on her knee, her chin -resting in her left hand, caught nothing of this look, for she was -staring out through the dark uncurtained window, absorbed in her own -thoughts.</p> - -<p>At last she slowly turned her head.</p> - -<p>'Cecily,' she said, and her voice sounded curiously strained, 'you must -have thought me odd of late, and even sometimes not kind. And yet, my -dear, I love you very well.'</p> - -<p>'I know,' said Cecily, speaking with difficulty; 'I have understood.'</p> - -<p>'You have understood?' Mrs. Robinson looked at her with quick suspicion, -and her face hardened. 'Do you mean that my affairs have been -discussed?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> What have you heard? What have you understood?'</p> - -<p>'Your feeling as to Lord Wantley—and myself.' Cecily's voice sank, but -she spoke very steadily, a little coldly. Surely Penelope might have -spared her this utterance.</p> - -<p>But the other had heard the slow, reluctant words with a feeling of -remorse and relief.</p> - -<p>'Why, Cecily!' she cried, and as she spoke she put her arm round the -girl's shoulders, 'did you think—did you believe, that I could feel -anything but glad? Why, when I first saw how things were going, I could -hardly believe in Ludovic's good fortune.' She added, half to herself, -'in his good taste! You are a thousand times too good for him; but he -knows that well enough. Of course, I knew he had spoken to you; but as -you did not tell me——' There was a note of reproach in Penelope's -voice. 'How strange, how amazing, that you should have understood me so -little! For the last few days,' she sighed a sharp, short sigh, 'my only -really happy, comfortable moments have been spent in thinking of you and -of Ludovic.'</p> - -<p>She stopped speaking abruptly, but kept her arm round the girl's -shoulder. Cecily had time to wonder why she herself felt so far from -content; surely the kind words just uttered should have filled her with -joy and peace?</p> - -<p>'Tell me,' she said, and as she spoke she fixed her eyes imploringly on -her companion's face, taking unconscious note of Penelope's rigid mouth -and stern, contracted brows—'do tell me why you are so unhappy! I would -not ask you if I did not care for you so much.'</p> - -<p>'Am I unhappy? Do I seem unhappy?' Mrs. Robinson looked fixedly at the -questioner as if really seeking an answer. She got up suddenly, walked -to the end of the long room and back, then came and stood before Cecily.</p> -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Well, Cecily, I will tell you, for you deserve to know the truth. I am -unhappy, if indeed I am so, because I am about to do a thing of which -almost everyone who knows me—in fact, I might say everyone who knows -me—will disapprove. Also, it is a thing which will separate me from all -those I love and esteem, both in a material sense—for I am going very -far away—and in a spiritual sense.'</p> - -<p>Penelope sank down on her knees, and placed her hands so that they -clasped and covered those of Cecily Wake. 'In your heaven, my dear, -there may be found a place for me—after a long stay, I imagine, in -purgatory; but there will be no room in mamma's heaven, especially not -in that where she believes my father to be. David Winfrith also will -consign me to outer darkness, and that of a very horrible kind. Still I -would give up willingly all hope of future heaven, Cecily, if only I -could conciliate them here—if only they would sympathize with what I am -about to do.'</p> - -<p>Cecily looked down on the lovely face turned up to hers with a feeling -of pity and terror. 'What do you mean?' she said. 'I am sure you would -never do anything which would make your mother love you less.'</p> - -<p>'I believe there are people'—Penelope was speaking quietly, as if to -herself—'to whom what I am going to do would appear to be perfectly -right, and, indeed, commendable. But then, you see, I do not know those -people, so the thought of them brings no comfort.'</p> - -<p>She waited a moment, rose from her knees, and again sat down on the -couch. She felt ashamed of her emotion, and forced herself into -calmness, her voice into measured tones: 'I am going away with Sir -George Downing, back with him to Persia, to Teheran. We hope to be -always together, never apart till death takes one of us. I have even -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>promised him that I will not return to England, excepting, of course, -with him.'</p> - -<p>'But I thought, I understood——' Cecily looked anxiously at her friend.</p> - -<p>'You think rightly, you have understood the truth. Sir George Downing -has a wife. They have been married many years, and separated almost as -many.'</p> - -<p>'But if he is married,' said Cecily slowly, 'how can you go away with -him like that?'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson thought Cecily strangely dull of understanding. 'Surely -you have heard of such occurrences?' she said impatiently.</p> - -<p>'Oh, yes,' answered the girl, and her eyes filled with tears, which ran -down her cheeks unheeded. 'You mean St. Mary Magdalen, Penelope? And -others, later——'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Robinson again got up. 'Surely,' she cried, 'you can understand how -it is with me? You love Ludovic—supposing that you suddenly heard, now, -that he was married—what would you do?—how would you feel?'</p> - -<p>But Cecily, looking at her in dumb, agonized distress, made no answer.</p> - -<p>'You are too kind to say so, but I know quite well what you would do. -You would go away, and never see him again. It might kill you, but you -would never do what you believed to be wrong.'</p> - -<p>'Wrong for him, too,' the girl said, with difficulty.</p> - -<p>'Well, I am not good, like you. If I had hesitated—and Cecily, believe -me, I never did so, not for a moment—it would have been owing to mean, -worldly considerations——'</p> - -<p>'Do you, then, love him so very much?'</p> - -<p>'Ah, my dear! Listen, Cecily, and I will tell you of our first meeting. -It was in the Gare de Lyon, when we—Motey and I—were on our way to Pol -les Thermes. I lost my purse, and he came forward, offered to lend me -what I needed. Should I'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>—Penelope's voice altered, became curiously -introspective, questioning—'should I have taken money from a stranger?' -And then as Cecily looked at her, amazed, 'I tell you that from the -moment our eyes met we <i>knew</i> one another in a more real sense than many -lovers do after years of communion. My unhappiness the last few days has -come from his absence, from the knowledge, too, that we are both to be -tormented, as I am now being tormented—by you.' And, as Cecily made a -gesture of protest, 'Yes, my dear, by you! Why, he has also been -attacked by old Mr. Gumberg, of all people in the world!'</p> - -<p>Penelope laughed nervously. She took the girl by the arm, and silently -they retraced their footsteps through the quiet house—the silence -broken at intervals by Cecily's long sighing sobs.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Some moments later, Wantley, going up to bed with uneasy mind, for he -had heard the sound of Cecily's distress, met his cousin face to face. A -white cloak concealed her figure, and a black silk hood her resplendent hair.</p> - -<p>They looked at one another for a moment. Then very deliberately he -spread out his arms, barring the way. 'You cannot, shall not go down to -the Beach Room!' he whispered.</p> - -<p>'I must, and shall!' she said. 'You do not understand, I must see -him—you can come and wait for me if you like.'</p> - -<p>But Wantley was merciless. He looked at her till her eyes fell before -his—till she turned and slowly went up before him, back into her room.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'O mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps, levons l'ancre.</div> -<div>Le pays nous ennuie, O mort, apparaillons.'</div> -<div class="right"><span class="smcap">Baudelaire.</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'J'ai vécu: c'est à dire j'ai travaillé, j'ai aimé, j'ai souffert.'</div> -<div class="right"><i>Old French Epitaph.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The next morning Cecily Wake and her aunt left Monk's Eype. Strange, -unhappy morning! during which Mrs. Robinson alone preserved her usual -indifferent, haughty serenity of manner, though she also, when her face -was in repose, looked weary and sad.</p> - -<p>Wantley had found Penelope and her two guests, all three cloaked and -hatted, sitting at the pretty breakfast-table laden with early September -fruit and flowers. His half-suggestion that he should drive the -travellers to the distant junction where they were to catch the fast -train to town was at once negatived by Penelope. 'I am going with them,' -she said shortly, 'and I shall have business at Burcombe which will keep -me till the afternoon.'</p> - -<p>Wantley bit his lip. What sort of day would he, Lady Wantley, and -Downing, spend together? He felt angry with his cousin for having -exposed them to such an ordeal. Then the elder Miss Wake asked him some -insignificant question concerning the journey which lay before her, and -he began speaking, going on, as it seemed to himself, aimlessly and -endlessly, hardly waiting for the old lady's vague, nervous answers, -while intensely, agonizingly, conscious of Cecily's quiet figure -opposite, of her pale face and stricken eyes.</p> - -<p>At last the meal which had seemed to him so <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>interminably long came to -an end, and they all went into the hall, where Lady Wantley was walking -slowly up and down, waiting to bid farewell to her kinswomen, and -looking, as the young man saw with a certain resentment, quite -unconscious of the storms which had passed over the little company of -people now gathered about her.</p> - -<p>As Mrs. Robinson placed herself in the carriage, by the side of her old -cousin, she turned to Wantley, and said deliberately, as if giving -challenge: 'Sir George Downing will lunch in the Beach Room. He leaves -to-night, and of course I shall be back before he starts.'</p> - -<p>Wantley made no answer. He was engaged in drawing the rug across -Cecily's knees; as he did so he felt her hand quiver a moment under his, -and there came over him an eager impulse to go with her, to comfort -her—above all, to shut himself off with her from all this tragic -business, which apparently neither he nor she could affect or modify.</p> - -<p>Penelope again spoke. 'You, Ludovic, will of course lunch with mamma?' -He answered: 'Yes, of course, of course!' Looking straight at his -cousin, he could not help adding: 'No one shall disturb Sir George -Downing till your return.' And then—not till then—a wave of colour -reddened Penelope's oval face from brow to chin.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>And so they had gone, and Wantley, turning away, back into the hall, -felt a great depression—a feeling of utter weariness—come upon him. It -was with an unreasonable and unreasoning irritation that he saw Lady -Wantley walking slowly, with her peculiar leisurely grace of movement, -into the great Picture Room, there to take up her accustomed position by -the ivory inlaid table on which lay her books and blotting-pad.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p> - -<p>'People when they reach that age,' he said to himself, 'have their -emotions, their feelings of love and pride, mercifully deadened.' But, -all the same, fearing what she might say to him, he did not follow her, -but instead, slipping his hands into his pockets, and pushing his straw -hat down over his eyes, made his way out of doors.</p> - -<p>But there, in the clear September sunshine, cooled by the keen sea-wind, -he felt, if anything, even more ill at ease. Every flagstone of the -terrace, every bend of the path leading down to the pine-wood and to the -ilex-grove, reminded him of delicious moments spent with Cecily. He felt -a pang of sharp self-pity, blaming Penelope, even more blaming -Providence, for the spoiling of his idyl. 'After last night,' he said to -himself, 'Cecily will never again be quite the same, bless her!' And so, -walking very slowly, his eyes bent on the ground, he gave himself up -actively to dislike and condemnation of his cousin.</p> - -<p>Wantley was an intensely proud man. Perhaps because he had nothing -personally to be proud of, he took the more intense, if not very -justifiable, pride in his unsullied name, in his respectable lineage, -even in the fine traditions left by his predecessor. From boyhood he had -acted according to the theory, 'If I do nothing good or worthy, I will -yet avoid what is evil and unworthy.' And to this not very exalted ideal -of conduct he had remained faithful.</p> - -<p>True, Penelope, whatever his griefs against her, would give him and the -world no right to despise her. Condemn her wrong-headedness, her -selfishness, he was free to do; but he knew well enough how far heavier -would have been his condemnation had he discovered that his cousin had -become in secret Downing's mistress. But the knowledge that this would -never have been possible, brought to-day but scant consolation; indeed, -Wantley found it in his heart to wish that Penelope had been more akin -to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> some of the women whom he and she had known, and to whose frailties -she had always extended a haughty tolerance.</p> - -<p>Yet he told himself that he understood her point of view. After all, she -was her own mistress, in the matter of herself owing none but that same -self a duty. But this was not so—ah no, indeed!—in the matter of her -name and of her good repute: those belonged not only to her own self, -but also to others, some dead, some living, and some—so Wantley now -reminded himself—to come.</p> - -<p>In happier, more careless days, when he had been so discontented and -dissatisfied with the way his life had shaped itself, the young man had -lamented his small circle of friends and acquaintances, and he had -envied his contemporaries their school and college friends; but now, -to-day, it seemed to him that he knew and was known to all the -world—that is, to the world whose good opinion he naturally valued.</p> - -<p>He looked into the future, and realized with shame and anger what would -be said by the kind and by the unkind, by the evil-mind and by the -prudish, in the boudoirs and in the smoking-rooms, when it became known -that Mrs. Robinson, Penelope Wantley—the Perdita of a younger, idler -hour—had 'gone off' with Persian Downing!</p> - -<p>Then he thought, with bitter amusement, of how this same news would be -received by the good people—and, on the whole, he had to admit that -they were good people—who had circled round his uncle and aunt in the -days when he himself was a moody, neglected youth, and Penelope a lovely -and engaging, if wayward, child.</p> - -<p>The motley crowd of pietists, some few eccentric, the majority intensely -commonplace, who had attended year after year the religious conferences -which had made the name of Marston Lydiate known to the whole religious -world, would doubtless think it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> their duty to address letters of -sympathy and of condolence to Penelope's mother, even—hateful -thought!—to himself.</p> - -<p>Then his mind turned once more to his cousin. What sort of life would be -Penelope's after she had cut herself adrift from her own world? How -would this proud, spoilt woman, who had always kept herself singularly -apart from all that was unsavoury, endure the slights which would -inevitably be put on one who, however much the fact might be cloaked and -disguised, could never be the wife of her companion?</p> - -<p>Penelope was not a child, to adapt herself to new conditions. Would -strange, self-centred Persian Downing compensate her for all she was -about to lose? Would this maker of great schemes, this seer of visions, -forget himself, in order to be everything to her? For a few moments -Wantley, leaning on the low wall which separated the ilex-grove from the -cliff overhanging the sea, thought only of Penelope, and of what her -life would be if this tragic affair shaped itself in the way that he -believed to be now inevitable.</p> - -<p>The day he had accompanied her to town, during the long railway journey -back to Dorset, Lady Wantley had spoken to him mysteriously as to advice -proffered by Mr. Gumberg. She had seemed to think that if all else -failed he, Wantley, should speak to Sir George Downing, but to this he -had in no way assented.</p> - -<p class="space-above">He turned, and slowly made his way through the pine-trees. The day—nay, -even the morning—had to be lived through, and his thoughts were -intolerable company—so much so, indeed, that he felt he would prefer to -go and find Lady Wantley, and stay with her a while, although he was -aware that she would in all probability urge him to interfere. The -knowledge that he would have to tell her he could not and would not do -so smote him painfully.</p> - -<p>Downing and Penelope were not children whose<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> wayward steps could be -stayed, with whom at last force could replace argument. A braver than he -might well hesitate to face the contemptuous indignation of the -eccentric, powerful man, for whom Wantley even now felt kindliness and -respect, reserving, unjustly enough, his greatest blame for the woman.</p> - -<p>No, no! If Lady Wantley besought his intervention, he must tell her that -in this matter he could not hope to succeed where Mr. Gumberg had -apparently failed.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>As Wantley walked along the terrace in front of the villa, past the -opened windows of the Picture Room, he saw Lady Wantley sitting in her -usual place. But there was about her figure, especially about her hands, -which clasped and unclasped themselves across her knee, an unusual look -of tension and emotion.</p> - -<p>Wantley turned, and drew nearer to the window which seemed to frame the -still graceful figure. But she remained quite unconscious that she was -being watched. He saw that her lips were moving; he heard her speaking, -as she so often did, to herself; and there came to him the conviction -that she had been down to the Beach Room, that she had seen Downing, -that she had made to him an appeal foredoomed to failure.</p> - -<p>A keen desire to know whether he guessed truly, and, if so, to know what -had actually taken place, warred for a moment with the young man's -horror of a scene, and especially of a scene with Lady Wantley in one of -her strange moods.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she raised her voice, and he heard clearly the words, uttered -in low, intense tones, and as if in answer to an invisible questioner: -'But if a man come presumptuously upon his neighbour to slay him with -guile, thou shalt take him from My altar, that he may die.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> - -<p>'It must have been horribly painful,' said the listener to himself. He -began to pity Downing.</p> - -<p>Familiarity had bred in Wantley, not contempt, but a certain indulgent -pity not far removed from contempt, for what he and Mrs. Robinson, -seeing eye to eye in this one matter, regarded as Lady Wantley's -peculiar and slightly absurd religious vagaries. Dimly aware of this -attitude, of this lack of respect for what were to herself vital truths, -Lady Wantley, when in their presence, exercised greater self-control -than either of them ever guessed.</p> - -<p>But now, for the moment, she was in no condition to restrain herself; -and though, as he opened the door of the Picture Room, she looked round -for a moment, she still continued talking aloud in apparently eager -argument with some unseen presence. 'Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath -triumphed gloriously. The horse and his rider hath He thrown into the sea.'</p> - -<p>She spoke with increasing excitement, and with what seemed to the hearer -a strange exultation.</p> - -<p>He stopped short, and, retracing his footsteps, closed the door. It had -always been tacitly agreed between himself and his cousin that -Penelope's household should hear as little as was possible of Lady -Wantley in these, her wilder moods.</p> - -<p>Again he went towards her. As he did so, she stood up and advanced to -meet him. Her pale face was on a level with his own; her grey eyes were -dilated. Something had stirred her far more deeply than she was wont to -be stirred by material things. She looked, Wantley thought, inspired, -exhilarated, as one might look on emerging triumphantly from some awful -ordeal.</p> - -<p>As he gazed at her there came to him the hope, the almost incredulous -hope, that she—the mother—had prevailed; that her words, even if -winged with what seemed madness, had been so eloquent as to convince -Downing that what he was about to do was an evil<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> thing, one out of -which no good could come to the woman he loved.</p> - -<p>'Then you have seen him?' he asked in a low voice, and, as he spoke, he -took Lady Wantley's hand in his own.</p> - -<p>She made a scarcely perceptible movement of assent. 'Thy right hand, O -Lord, has become righteous in power. Thy right hand, O Lord, has dashed -in pieces the enemy.'</p> - -<p>Her voice faltered, and her tall figure swayed forward.</p> - -<p>'Sit down,' he said quickly, 'and tell me what happened. Were you able -to make any impression on his mind?'</p> - -<p>But as she sank back into her chair she answered vaguely, and her head -fell forward on her breast. 'You ask me what happened?' She waited a -moment, and then added, with what seemed a cry: 'He said, "The woman -tempts me, and I shall eat!"'</p> - -<p>'I do not think that he can have said that to you,' said Wantley gently. -'Think again. Try and remember exactly what he did say.'</p> - -<p>'It was tantamount to that,' she answered, lifting her head and looking -at him fixedly. 'He—he admitted I spoke the truth, yet declared he owed -himself to her.' She hesitated, then whispered: 'I warned him of his -way, he took no heed, he died in his iniquity, and his blood will not be -required of mine hand.'</p> - -<p>Even before she had uttered these last words an awful suspicion, a sick -dread, had forced itself on Wantley's mind. He passed his hand over his -face, afraid lest she should see written there his fear—indeed, his all -but knowledge—of what she had done.</p> - -<p>There was but a moment to make up his mind what he should say and what -he should do. On his present action much might depend. In any case, he -must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> soothe her, restore her to calmness. And so, 'We must now think,' -he said authoritatively, 'of Penelope.' He waited a moment, and then -repeated again the one word, 'Penelope.'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley's mouth quivered for the first time, and her eyes -contracted with a look of suffering.</p> - -<p>But he did not give her time to speak. 'No one knows—no one must know, -for the sake of Penelope.'</p> - -<p>Slowly she bent her head in assent, and he went on, in a low, warning -voice. 'If you say a word—I mean of what has just taken place—the -truth concerning Penelope and Sir George Downing will become known to -all men.' Half unconsciously Wantley adapted the phraseology likely to -reach most bindingly the over-excited, distraught brain of the woman -over whose figure he was bending, into whose face he was gazing so -searchingly.</p> - -<p>He felt every moment to be precious, to be big with hideous -possibilities, but he feared to leave her—feared to go before he felt -quite sure he had made her understand that her daughter's reputation was -bound to suffer, if she—Lady Wantley—in any way imperilled or -incriminated herself.</p> - -<p>'You will wait here, will you not, till I come to you?' he said -anxiously. 'And if you see anyone, you will not speak? you will remain -absolutely silent, for the sake of your daughter, of poor Penelope?'</p> - -<p>He waited until she had again bent her head in assent, and then turned -and left her, passing through the window on to the terrace, and so -swiftly on, down through the wood, to the rough track leading to the -shore.</p> - -<p class="space-above">As he jumped down on to the beach, both feet sinking deeply through the -soft dry sand above the water-line, he paused a moment, and, looking -round him, felt suddenly reassured, ashamed of the unreasoning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> dread -which had come over him when listening to Lady Wantley's strange, -wildly-uttered words.</p> - -<p>The tide was only just beginning to turn, and the sea, in gentle mood, -came and went to within a few feet of the Beach Room, of which the blank -wall jutted out on to his right.</p> - -<p>The absolute peace and quietude which lay about him soothed Wantley's -nerves, and he walked round, below the wide-open window, of which the -sill was just on a level with his head, with steady feet.</p> - -<p>Then, taking up a stone, he knocked on the heavy wooden door, half -expecting, wholly hoping, to hear in immediate response a deep-toned -'Come in.' But there came no such answer, and once more he knocked more -loudly; he waited a few moments while vague fear again assailed him, and -then, turning the handle, he walked into the Beach Room.</p> - -<p>At first he only saw that the chair, set before the broad table covered -with papers, was without an occupant. But gradually, and not quite at -once—or so it seemed to him looking back—he became aware that in the -shadow of the table, stretched angularly across the floor, lay Sir -George Downing, dead.</p> - -<p>Standing there, with the horror of what he saw growing on him, Wantley -had not a moment of real doubt, of wild hope that this might not be -death. Still, as he knelt down and brought himself to touch, to move, -that which lay there, he suddenly became aware of a fact which would -have laid any such doubt, for above Downing's right ear was a wound——</p> - -<p>With a quick sigh Wantley, trembling, rose from his knees. In spite of -himself, his mind vividly reconstituted the scene which must have taken -place. First, the sudden appearance of the unexpected, unwelcome -visitor; then the vision of Downing, with his old-fashioned courtesy, -giving up the more comfortable chair, while he himself took that in -which he, Wantley, had sat a short week ago; finally—the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> corner of the -wide table only separating the two adversaries—after the exchange of a -very few words, slow, decisive, on either side—the fatal shot.</p> - -<p>The revolver which Wantley remembered having seen pinning the map of -Persia to the table, now lay as it had doubtless fallen from the -delicate, steady hand which had believed itself divinely guided to -accomplish its work of death.</p> - -<p>Even now he found time to realize with poignant pain, and yet with a -certain relief, that such a man as had once been he now lying stretched -out at his feet could certainly, had he cared to do so, have stayed, or -at least deviated, the course of the weapon, and later on this knowledge -brought Wantley comfort.</p> - -<p>But he had no leisure now to give to such reasoning and, slipping the -bolt in the door, he again stooped over the dead man.</p> - -<p>What he was about to do was intolerably repugnant to him, and as, after -a moment's pause, he thrust his hand into the old-fashioned pockets, -turned back the coat, sought eagerly for what it was so essential he -should find, he felt the sweat break out all over his body. But, to his -dismay, there seemed to be no keys, either loose in the various pockets, -or attached to the heavy gold chain, which terminated with a bunch of -old seals and a repeater watch.</p> - -<p>Wantley was turning away, half relieved to be spared the task he had set -himself, when something strange and enigmatical struck him in the ashen, -lined face, the wide-open, sightless eyes, from which he had till now -averted his glance.</p> - -<p>During the performance of what had been to him a hateful task, and after -having so turned the head as to conceal the wound above the right ear, -he had been at some pains to leave the body exactly as it had fallen. -But in the course of his search he had been compelled to shift the -position of the dead man's arms, and he now saw that Downing's right -hand, lying across his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> breast, seemed to be pointing—to what was it -pointing? Again the seeker stooped—nay, this time he knelt down; and at -once he found what he had sought for so fruitlessly, for under the palm -of the dead hand, in an inner waistcoat pocket, which had before escaped -him, lay a small key.</p> - -<p>For the first time Wantley bared his head, and a curious impulse came -over him. 'You will forgive me,' he said, not loudly, but in a whisper, -'you will pardon, for her sake, for your poor Penelope's sake, what I -have been compelled to do?'</p> - -<p>And then heavy-hearted, full of fear and foreboding, he made his way -back, up the rough track, so through the pine-wood, to the villa, -mercifully spared on the way the ordeal of meeting, and having perchance -to speak with, another human being.</p> - -<p>Quickly he passed by the window where Lady Wantley was still sitting, up -the shallow staircase leading from the hall to the upper stories of -Monk's Eype, and so on to the room, close to his own, where, with -pleasant anticipation of an agreeable friendship with his cousin's -famous guest, he had ushered Downing the first night of his stay, just a -month ago.</p> - -<p>It was, as he now reminded himself, a month to a day, for that first -meeting had been on the seventh of August, the eve of his, Wantley's own -birthday, and this now was the seventh of September.</p> - -<p>Wantley singled out at once a large red despatch-box as probably -containing what he sought. The key he held in his hand clicked in the -lock, and he saw, almost filling up the top compartment, a plain, -old-fashioned leather jewel-case which contained more than he expected -to find of moment to himself. There, smiling up at him, lay the baby -face of Penelope, a miniature which he recognized as one that had been -painted to be a surprise gift from Lady Wantley to her husband on their -child's second birthday, and which had always stood on Lord Wantley's -table.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> 'She should not have given him that!' was the young man's -involuntary thought.</p> - -<p>Instinctively he averted his eyes from the slender bundle of letters on -which the miniature had lain. But, as he lifted them out, together with -his cousin's portrait, he saw that they had served to conceal a sheet of -note-paper—a piece of old-fashioned, highly-glazed note-paper, deeply -edged with black—lying open across the bottom of the jewel-case. As he -glanced at the first few words, 'The Queen commands me to request that -you——' ah, poor Downing! For a moment Wantley hesitated; he had meant -only to withdraw what concerned Penelope, but finally he laid -everything—the summons to Balmoral, the letters written in the bold, -pointed handwriting Wantley knew so well, the little miniature—back in -the jewel-case, which he then locked away in his own room next door.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>The hours that followed he remembered in later life as a man may do a -period of delirium, or as a bad dream which he has dreamed innumerable -times.</p> - -<p>He became horribly familiar with the tale he had to tell.</p> - -<p>Each person interested had to be informed of how he had gone down into -the hall, whence, finding two letters for Sir George Downing, he had -made his way across the terrace, down the steps leading to the shore, -noticing as he went a little pleasure boat which had drifted fast out of -sight.</p> - -<p>Then had to follow the recital of his fruitless knocking at the Beach -Room door, followed by his dreadful discovery—the sight of one who had -been his honoured guest lying dead, the death-wound above the right ear -having been obviously caused by a revolver which had been left on the -table, close to where the body had fallen.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p> - -<p>Wantley also had to describe his return to the villa, the breaking of -the awful news to Lady Wantley, the sending for the doctor and for the -police from Wyke Regis, followed by a time of long waiting—for, of -course, he had allowed no one to touch the body—first for the police -(his letter remained for a while unopened at the station), and then for -his cousin, Mrs. Robinson, who was fortunately away when the first awful -discovery was made.</p> - -<p>Such had been the story Wantley had to tell innumerable times—first, to -the various people who had a right to know all that could be known; -secondly, to the numerous folk, whose interest, if idle, was eager and -real, and whom he felt a nervous desire to conciliate, and to make -believe his version of an affair which became more than a nine days' -wonder.</p> - -<p class="space-above">After the bearing of the great mental strain, especially after the -accomplishment of a prolonged mental task, the mind—ay, and even the -body—refuse to be stilled, and call imperatively for something else to -do, to go on doing. When at last the doctor had come and gone, when the -first discussion with the local police had come to an end—in a word, -when Wantley had repeated some five or six times the grim, simple facts -to all those whom it concerned—there came to him the most painful -ordeal of all, the hours spent by him in waiting for Penelope's return.</p> - -<p>After he had taken Lady Wantley up to her room, and left her there in -what he trusted would remain a strange state of bewildered coma, he had -come down to wander restlessly through the large rooms on the -ground-floor of the villa.</p> - -<p>His mind was clouded with grotesque and sinister images, and he welcomed -such interruptions as were caused by the futile, scared questions of -those among the upper servants who from time to time summoned up courage -to come and speak to him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p> - -<p>While trying to occupy himself by writing letters, which he almost -invariably at once destroyed after he had written them, Wantley was ever -asking himself with sick anxiety, if he had done all that was in his -power to protect and safeguard the two women to whom he had never felt -so closely linked as now. He was haunted by the fear that he himself -might unwittingly reveal what he believed to be the truth, but he would -have been comforted indeed had he known how his mere outward appearance, -his imperturbable face, his sleepy eyes, even his well-trimmed beard, -now served his purpose. Outwardly Wantley appeared to be that day the -calmest man at Monk's Eype, only so far discreetly perturbed as would -naturally be any kindly and good-hearted host, whose guest had met, -while under his roof, with so awful and mysterious a fate.</p> - -<p>A curious interlude in his long waiting was the sudden irruption of -Penelope's old nurse. Motey found him sitting at the writing-table of -what had been his predecessor's study, attempting, for the tenth time, -to compose the letter which he knew must be written that night to Mr. -Julius Gumberg.</p> - -<p>As the old woman came in, carefully closing the door behind her, he -looked up and saw that the streaky apple-red had faded from the firm -round cheeks, and yet—and yet her look was one of only half-concealed -triumph, not of distress or fear. For a moment they gazed at one another -fixedly, then 'Is it true,' she asked briefly; 'is it really true, Mr. -Ludovic? I was minded to go down and see for myself, but I'm told -there's the police people down there, and I thought maybe I'd better not -meddle.'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' he said rather sternly, 'it is quite true. An awful thing, Motey, -to have happened here, in your mistress's house!' He felt impelled to -add these words, revolted by the look of relief, almost of joy, in the -woman's pale face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then into his mind there shot a sudden gleam of light, of escape. 'I -suppose,' he said, 'that you don't feel <i>you</i> could tell her, Motey?' A -note of appeal, almost of anguish, thrilled in the young man's voice.</p> - -<p>'No,' she answered decidedly. 'The telling of such things is men's work. -I couldn't bring myself to do it; you don't care for her as I do, and -she'll forgive you a sight quicker than she would me. I'll have to do -the best I can for her afterwards.'</p> - -<p>The furtive joy died out of Mrs. Mote's old face, and, as she turned and -left the room, her dull eyes filled with reluctant tears.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>At last the sound of wheels for which he had been listening so long fell -on his ear, and hurriedly he went to fetch that which he felt should be -given to his cousin without loss of time. He hoped, with a cowardly -hope, that bad news, which ever travels quickly, had already met Mrs. -Robinson on her way home.</p> - -<p>Having given a brief order that they were not to be disturbed, Wantley -made his way to the studio with the jewel-case in his hand. For a moment -he waited just inside the door. Penelope was standing at the further end -of the long room, leaning over the marble top of the high mantelpiece, -writing out a telegram. She still wore a large straw hat, of which the -sides, flattened down over her ears by broad black ribbons tied under -the chin, framed her face, and gave a softened, old-fashioned grace to -her tall, rounded figure.</p> - -<p>As Wantley finally advanced towards her, she looked up, and her glance, -her suspended writing—above all, her blue eyes full of questioning -anger at the intrusion of his presence—showed him that she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> knew -nothing, that the task he had so greatly dreaded lay before him.</p> - -<p>Taking his stand by the other side of the mantelpiece, he put down the -case containing her letters, and pushed it towards her. Twice he opened -his lips but closed them again without speaking.</p> - -<p>'Well,' she said shortly, as her eyes rested indifferently on the little -jewel-box, 'I suppose this is something else left by Theresa Wake. It -can be sent on to-morrow with the other thing, but I'll mention it in -the telegram.' And she paused, as if expecting him to leave her. Indeed, -her eyes, her mouth, set in stern lines, seemed to say: 'Cannot you go -away, and leave me in peace? Your very presence here, unasked, in my own -room, is an outrage after the way you behaved to me last night.' But she -remained silent, content to wait, pencil in hand, for him to be gone, -before concluding her slight task.</p> - -<p>'Penelope,' he said at last, stung into courage by her manner and by her -contemptuous glance, 'this box was not left by Miss Wake—it once -belonged to Sir George Downing, and its contents are, I believe, yours.'</p> - -<p>Again he touched the case, pushed it away from himself towards her. It -slid across the polished surface of the marble to within an inch of her -elbow; but, though he became aware that she stiffened into close -attention, his cousin still said no word.</p> - -<p>Her silence became to him unbearable. He walked round, and, standing -close beside her, deliberately pressed the spring, and revealed what lay -within.</p> - -<p>As if she had been physically struck, Penelope suddenly drew back. 'Ah!' -she said, and that was all. But in a moment her hand had closed on the -little case, and she held it clasped to her, shutting out the smiling -childish face which lay above the packet of her letters to Downing. So -quietly, so quickly had she done this that he wondered for a moment if<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> -she had really seen and realized all that was lying there. 'She knows -the truth,' he said to himself. 'Thank God I was mistaken—someone else -has told her!'</p> - -<p>He waited for a question, even for a cry. But none such came from the -rigid figure.</p> - -<p>'Penelope,' he said at last, and there was a note of tenderness in -Wantley's voice she had never before heard in it, 'forgive me the pain I -have to inflict on you. I thought that—that these things ought to be -given you now, at once. I am sure you will destroy them immediately.'</p> - -<p>At last, roughly interrupting him, she turned on him and spoke, while he -listened silently, filled with increasing amazement and distress.</p> - -<p>'Listen!' she cried, and there was no horror, no anguish, only infinite -scorn and anger, in her voice. 'You ask me to forgive you. But -understand that I will never forgive you! You have done an utterly -unwarrantable thing. Is it possible that you really believed that any -interference or effort on your part could separate two such people as -Sir George Downing and myself? How little you know me! how little you -can understand what the effect of such conduct as yours must be! -Listen!'</p> - -<p>She feared he was about to speak, and held up her hand. He was looking -fixedly at her, still full of concern and pity, but feeling more -collected and cooler before her growing excitement.</p> - -<p>'No, listen! I am quite calm, quite reasonable; but I want you to -realize what you have done—what your interference will bring about.' -She paused, then continued, speaking in low, quick tones: 'I confess -there was a moment last night when I wavered, when I wondered whether, -after all, I was justified in only considering myself and—and—him. But -now? Shall I tell you what I have made up my mind to do during the last -few minutes? No—don't speak to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> me yet—I will listen with what -patience I can after you have heard what I have to say. I mean to go to -town to-night with Sir George Downing—I know he has not left; I know -you have not yet driven him away. If necessary, I shall thrust my -company upon him! Do you suppose it will be hard for me to undo with him -any evil you have done?'</p> - -<p>Again she paused, again she held up her hand to stay his words. 'If he -is going to Mr. Gumberg I shall ask the old man to allow me to come -there, in the character of George's'—her voice dropped, but she did not -spare Wantley the word—'mistress.'</p> - -<p>She added, with a bitter smile: 'Mr. Gumberg is a bachelor; the -situation will amuse him, and give him plenty to talk about all the -winter! I had meant to leave England as secretly, as quietly, as -possible, out of consideration for mamma, and even for you; though I am -not ashamed of what I am doing. But now, after this, I shall write and -tell certain people of my intention, or, rather, of what I shall have -done by the time I write; you will be sorry, you will repent then of -what you have done to-day!'</p> - -<p>He saw that she was trembling violently, and a look that crossed his -face stung her afresh. 'Pray do not feel any concern for me. You will -need all your pity for mamma, even a little for yourself, after to-day. -But, oh!'—as her hand again closed convulsively over the case which -contained her letters, her portrait—'he should not have entrusted these -to you! But doubtless he could not help it—how do I know what you said -to him?'</p> - -<p>'Penelope,' he said desperately, 'you must, and you shall, listen to me! -You wrong Sir George Downing, and most cruelly. How could you believe -that he, alive, would have let your letters to him go out of his -possession? Surely you knew him better than that!'</p> - -<p>'I don't understand,' she said, bewildered. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> even as she spoke he -saw the mortal fear, the beginning of knowledge, coming into her face. -He held out his hand, and she took it, groping her way close to him, as -a blind woman might have done. 'Tell me what you mean,' she said, 'tell -me quickly what you mean.'</p> - -<p>But before he could answer there came he sound of tramping feet, of -subdued voices. 'Don't look!' he cried hoarsely. 'Penelope, I beg you -not to look!' But she pushed him aside, and, holding her head high, with -swift, steady feet, passed out through the window to meet the little -procession which was advancing slowly, painfully, across the terrace.</p> - -<p>The burden which had just been carried up the steep steps leading from -the shore was almost beyond the bearers' strength, for the broad door of -the Beach Room had been taken off its hinges, and large stones from the -shore held down the sheet which covered that which lay on it.</p> - -<p>An elderly man, well known both to Penelope and to Wantley as John -Purcell, the head constable of Wyke Regis, came forward to meet Mrs. -Robinson. 'A terrible affair, my lady,' he observed, subdued but eager, -for such an event, so interesting from his professional point of view, -had never before come his way. 'I wouldn't have anything moved till I'd -telegraphed for instructions; but, of course, I didn't stop thinking, -and we've sent word all down the coast about that boatload his lordship -saw. It's a valuable clue, I should say.'</p> - -<p>He addressed his words to Penelope, and both he and Wantley believed her -to be listening attentively to what was being said. But, after the first -moment of recognition of the old constable, she no longer saw him at -all, and not to save the life she then held so cheap could she have -repeated what he had just said; for she was saying to herself again and -again, so possessed by the misery of the thought that it left room for -nothing else: 'Why did I go away to-day and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> leave him? If I had been -here, if I had stayed within call of him, he would not have done this -thing—he would now have been with me!'</p> - -<p>But when Purcell dropped his voice she began to hear what he was saying. -'Is there any place downstairs where your lordship could arrange for us -to put the body? We had a hard job over those steps, and up to the poor -gentleman's room I've a notion they're much worse. I've had to be there -two or three times, sealing up everything.' He said it in almost a -whisper, but for the first time Mrs. Robinson, hearing, spoke:</p> - -<p>'You may take him to the Picture Room,' she said brusquely, 'and then -you will not have to go through the hall, for the windows are very -wide.'</p> - -<p>When the signal was given for the men to move on, she first made as if -she would have followed them; then, at a touch on her arm from her -cousin's hand, she turned away slowly, walking past the studio windows -into the garden paths beyond. Wantley followed her, amazed, relieved, -bewildered by her self-command, fearing the explanation which must now -follow, and yet nervously anxious to get it behind him, while, above -all, conscious of a great physical lassitude which made him long to go -away and forget everything in sleep.</p> - -<p>At last, when they were some way from the villa, close to the open down, -Penelope turned to him. 'Now tell me,' she said, 'tell me as quickly as -you can, what I must know.' And she waited, oppressed, while Wantley -once more told the tale he had taught himself to tell, and which had -been made perfect by such frequent, such frightful repetition.</p> - -<p>For a moment she remained silent. Then, slowly and searchingly, she -asked what the other felt to be a singular question: 'Would it be better -for him—I mean as to what people will say of him in the future—for it -to be thought, as that foolish old man evidently<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> thinks, that he was -murdered, or for the truth to be known?'</p> - -<p>'The truth?' said Wantley, looking at her, 'and what is the truth? Do -you know it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; you and I know the truth.' Penelope's cheeks were burning; she -spoke impatiently, as if angered by his dulness. 'When all that trouble -came to him thirty years ago, he nearly did it; and later, another time, -he thought it the only way out.'</p> - -<p>Then Wantley understood her meaning, and the knowledge that she believed -this simple, obvious explanation brought the one touch of comfort, of -relief, which he had felt for many hours.</p> - -<p>'I think,' he said at length, 'that such a thing as suicide always goes -against a man's memory. Personally, I hope it will be put down to an -accident. In any case, you must remember that there were many people -interested in bringing about his death. I myself can testify that only -recently he told me that he knew himself to be in perpetual danger.'</p> - -<p>But Penelope was not listening. 'Now that you have told me what I wanted -to know, I must ask you to do something for me.' And as he looked at -her, startled, she added: 'Nothing of any great consequence. All I ask -is, that you to-day, before I go back to the house, will tell Motey and -my mother that I cannot, and that I will not, see them for a while. -Mamma will not mind—she will understand. I know well enough that Motey -betrayed me to her—I knew it the day it happened, and I felt very -angry. But now nothing matters. You are to tell Motey from me that if -she forces herself on me now it will be the end—I will never have her -about me again!'</p> - -<p>Penelope spoke angrily, excitedly. As she spoke she clutched her -cousin's arm as if to emphasise her words. And Wantley, marvelling, -turned to carry out her wish.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> - -<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Christian.</span> But what have you seen?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Men.</span> Seen! Why, the Valley itself, which is as dark as pitch; we -also saw there the Hobgoblins, Satyrs and Dragons of the Pit; we -heard also in that Valley a continuous Howling and Yelling, as of a -people under unutterable misery, who sat there bound in Affliction -and Irons; and over that Valley hung the discouraging clouds of -Confusion; Death also doth always spread his wings over it; in a -word, it is in every whit dreadful, being utterly without -Order.—<span class="smcap">Bunyan.</span></p></blockquote> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The last occasion on which Wantley had come to Marston Lydiate had been -in order that he might be present at a great audit dinner, and he had -felt acutely the unreality, the solemn absurdity, of it all. Those -present, his tenants, all knew, and knew that he knew also, that he -could never hope to come and live among them.</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley, keeping up full state at the Hall, was still, as she had -long been, their real overlord and Providence, and the young man had -felt that it was to her that should have been addressed the heavy -expressions of good will to which he had had to listen, and then to make -a suitable reply.</p> - -<p>But now, on Christmas Eve, more than a year after the death of Sir -George Downing, as Wantley drove in the winter sunshine along lanes cut -through land which after all belonged to him, and which must in time -belong to those, yet unborn, whom he left after him, he felt something -of the pride of possession stir within him, and he bethought himself -that he was a link in a long human chain of worthy Wantleys, past and to -come.</p> - -<p>Sitting silent by his young wife's side, he felt well<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> pleased with -life, awed into thankfulness at the thought of how much better things -had turned out with him than he had ever thought possible. Then a -whimsical notion presented itself to his mind:</p> - -<p>'Why are you smiling? Do tell me!' Cecily turned to him, rubbed her soft -cheek against the pointed beard she had once—it seemed so long -ago—despised as the appanage of age.</p> - -<p>To her to-day was a great day, one to be remembered very tenderly the -whole of her life through. She had read everything that could be read -about this place, and, indeed, she knew far more of the history of the -house to which they were going than did Wantley himself. Here also, in -the substantial ivy-draped rectory, which her husband had pointed out as -they had driven quickly through the village, he had been born, and spent -his childhood. Oh yes, this was indeed to Cecily a day of days, and she -felt pleased and moved to think that their first Christmas together -should be spent at Marston Lydiate.</p> - -<p>'Why was I smiling? Well, when I was a child, my nurse used to say to -me, "If 'ifs' were horses, beggars would ride!" and I was thinking just -then that <i>if</i> we have a son, and <i>if</i> our son marries an American -heiress, and <i>if</i> he and she care to do so, they will be able to come -and live here, a thing you and I, my darling, can never do!'</p> - -<p>The brougham swung in through the lodge gates, each flanked by a curious -and, Cecily feared, a most uncomfortable little house, suggestive of a -miniature Greek temple; and a turn in the wide park road, lined with -snow-laden evergreen bushes, brought suddenly into view the great -plateau along which stretched the long regular frontage of the huge -mansion for which they were bound.</p> - -<p>The size of the building amazed and rather excited her. 'It must be an -immense place,' she said. 'I had no idea that it was like this!'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Yes, the young lady will require to have a great many dollars—eh, my -dear?'</p> - -<p>'You never told me it was such a—a——'</p> - -<p>'Magnificent pile?' he suggested dryly. 'That is what some of my uncle's -guests used to call it. My mother's name for it was the "White -Elephant." Even Uncle Wantley could hardly have lived here if his wife -had not been a very wealthy woman. Of course, to Penelope the essential -ugliness of the place has always been very distasteful; and this perhaps -is fortunate, as Marston Lydiate was the only thing my uncle possessed -which he could not leave to her away from me.'</p> - -<p>Still, he felt a thrill of pleasurable excitement when the carriage -stopped beneath the large Corinthian portico; and he was touched as well -as amused by the rather pompous welcome tendered by the crowd of -servants, the majority of whom he had known all his life, either in -their present situations or as his own village contemporaries. He was -moved by the heartiness with which they greeted him and his young wife, -and pleased at the discretion with which they finally vanished, leaving -him and Cecily alone with the housekeeper, Mrs. Moss.</p> - -<p>We are often assured that a servant's life is cast in pleasant places, -and each member of such a household as that of Marston Lydiate doubtless -enjoys a sense of security denied to many a free man and free woman. But -human nature craves for the unusual, and what can exceed the utter -dulness of life below stairs when the master or mistress of such an -establishment becomes old or broken in health?</p> - -<p>Cecily would have been amused had she known of the long discussions -which had taken place between Mrs. Moss, the housekeeper, and Mr. -Jenkins, the butler, as to whether she or he should have the supreme -pleasure and excitement of leading the couple, who were still regarded, -in that house at least,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> as a bridal pair, through the ornate -state-rooms to that which had been set apart and prepared for their use -as the most 'cosy' of them all.</p> - -<p>The privilege had been finally conceded to Mrs. Moss, it being admitted -that, with regard to a new Lady Wantley, such was her undoubted right; -and the worthy woman would have been shocked indeed had she realized -that Cecily, while being conducted through the splendid rooms, each -lighted up with a huge fire—the English servant's ideal of welcome—was -feeling very glad that fate had not made her mistress of Marston -Lydiate.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Jenkins thought your ladyship would like tea in the Cedar -Drawing-room.'</p> - -<p>Their long progress had come to an end, and Wantley was pleased that the -room chosen had always been his own favourite apartment, among many -which, though not lacking in the curious pompous charm of the grand -period when Marston Lydiate had been built and furnished, were yet, to -his fastidious taste, overdecorated and overladen with silk and gilding.</p> - -<p>In old days he had often wondered that Lord and Lady Wantley, themselves -with so fine and austere a taste, had been content to leave, at any -rate, the state-rooms of Marston Lydiate exactly as they had found them. -But now, during the last few months, the young man had come face to face -with facts; above all, he had been compelled to see and witness much -which had made him at last understand why his predecessor had chosen -other uses for his wealth than that of putting a more costly simplicity -in the place of the splendour which he had inherited.</p> - -<p>After she had ushered them with much circumstance into the pretty -circular room, even now full of the distinct faint fragrance thrown out -by the cedar panelling from which it took its name, Mrs. Moss still -lingered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Your lordship will find her ladyship very poorly,' she said nervously.' -I know you've heard from Dr. Knox; he said he was writing to you. I do -wish our young lady would come home. She writes to her mamma very -regularly, that I will say; but it's my belief that her ladyship's just -pining to death for her.'</p> - -<p>'You've been having trouble with the nurses?' Wantley spoke with a -certain effort. He had not shown his wife the country doctor's letter to -himself.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Moss tossed her head. 'That we have indeed! They don't like chronic -cases. That's what they all say. I don't know what young women are -coming to! Wait till they're chronic cases themselves! The night nurse -left this morning. I don't know, I'm sure, what we shall do about -to-night.'</p> - -<p>Wantley checked the torrent of words. 'We will arrange about that, you -and I, later. Do you think my aunt would like to see me now, at once?'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Moss shook her head. 'One time's the same to her as another,' she -said, sighing, and left the room.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>During the last year, crowded as it had been to himself with events of -great moment, Wantley had yet thought much of Penelope's mother. The -knowledge of what she had done, though hidden away in the most secret -recess of his mind and memory had yet inspired him, as time went on, -with an increasing feeling of fear and repulsion.</p> - -<p>His recollection of all that had happened at Monk's Eype remained so -vivid that sometimes he would seem to go again through some of the worst -moments of the dreadful day, which, as he remembered it, had begun with -his strange interview with Lady Wantley.</p> - -<p>For many weeks—ay, and even months—he had lived in acute apprehension -of what each hour might bring forth; and even when the passage of time -had <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>gradually brought a sense of security, when great happiness and, -for the first time in his life, daily work of a real and strenuous -nature had come together to fill his thoughts and chase forth morbid -terror of an untoward revelation, he had heard with actual relief that -Lady Wantley was very ill, and likely to die.</p> - -<p>Very unwillingly he had brought Cecily with him to Marston Lydiate. But -he had found it impossible to give any adequate reason why she should be -left to spend a lonely Christmas in London; further, she had expressed, -with more strength than was usual with her, a desire to accompany him, -and he had been surprised at the warm affection with which she had -spoken of Penelope's mother.</p> - -<p>He was quite determined that his own first meeting with Lady Wantley -should take place alone; and so at last, when he felt the moment he -dreaded could no longer be postponed, Cecily had to submit to being -placed on a sofa, and left, wondering, perplexed, even a little hurt, -while Wantley, guided by Mrs. Moss, went to face an ordeal which his -wife actually envied him.</p> - -<p class="space-above">So little really intimate had been the Hall with the Rectory in the days -of Wantley's childhood and boyhood, that there were many rooms of the -vast eighteenth-century mansion which now belonged to him into which he -had never been led as child and boy. And it was with a certain surprise -that he became aware, when standing on its threshold, that Lady -Wantley's bedroom was situated over the round Cedar Drawing-room, and so -was of exactly the same proportions, though the general impression -produced by the colouring and furnishing was amazingly other.</p> - -<p>Long before they became the fashion, Lady Wantley had realized the -beauty and the value of white backgrounds, and no touch of colour, save -that provided by the fine old furniture, marred the delicate purity and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> -severity of an apartment where, even as a young woman, she had spent -much of her time when at Marston Lydiate.</p> - -<p>In this moment of profound emotion and of fear, Wantley's mind and eyes -yet took delight in the restful whiteness which from the very threshold -seemed to envelop him.</p> - -<p>The small bed, shrouded tent-wise with white curtains, concealed from -him, but only for an instant, the sole occupant of the circular room; -for suddenly he saw, sitting in a large armchair placed close to the -fire, a strange shrunken figure, wrapped and swathed in black from head -to foot. Even the white coif which had always formed part of Lady -Wantley's costume since her widowhood had been put aside for a scarf of -black silk, so arranged as to hide the upper part of the broad forehead, -while accentuating the attenuation of the hollow cheeks, the sunken -eyes, and the still delicately modelled nose and chin.</p> - -<p>As he gazed, horror-struck, at the sinister-looking figure, by whose -side, heaped up in confusion on a small table, lay numberless packets of -letters, some yellow with the passage of time, others evidently written -very lately, Wantley's repugnance became merged in great concern and -pity.</p> - -<p>'If your lordship will excuse me, I don't think I'll go up close to -her,' Mrs. Moss whispered. 'Her ladyship don't seem to care to see me -ever now,' and she slipped away, shutting the door softly behind her, -and so leaving him alone with this strange and, it seemed to him, almost -unreal presence.</p> - -<p>Slowly he went up and stood before her, and as he murmured words of -greeting, and regret that he found her so ailing, he took hold of the -thin, fleshless right hand, to feel startled surprise at the strength of -its burning grasp.</p> - -<p>Looking down into the wan face, meeting the still penetrating grey eyes, -Wantley saw with relief that,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> at this moment at any rate, she had full -possession of her mind; for the despair he saw there was a sane despair, -and one that told of sentient endurance.</p> - -<p>'I see you have come alone,' she said at last in a low, clear, collected -tone. 'You have not brought your wife? But I could not have expected you -to do otherwise, knowing what you know.'</p> - -<p>'Cecily is here. Of course she came with me,' he answered quickly. 'She -is now lying down, the long journey tired her, and I felt sure you would -like her to rest before seeing you.'</p> - -<p>'Does she <i>know</i>?' asked Lady Wantley slowly, searchingly.</p> - -<p>'Oh no!' he said, in almost a whisper, and glancing apprehensively round -the room as he did so, but only to be made aware that they were indeed -alone.</p> - -<p>Then, very deliberately, the young man drew up a chair close to hers. -'Has not the time now come when you should try and forget? Surely you -should try and put the past out of your mind, if only for Penelope's -sake?'</p> - -<p>'Ah,' she said very plaintively, 'but I cannot forget! I am not allowed -to do so. When I lie down I say, "When shall I arise and the night be -gone?" And I am full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of the -day.'</p> - -<p>'Yet you felt justified in your action—above all, you did save -Penelope,' he urged in a low tone.</p> - -<p>But Lady Wantley turned on him a look of anguish and perplexity.</p> - -<p>'Surely,' he added earnestly, 'surely you do not allow yourself to doubt -that Penelope was saved—and saved, I am convinced, from what would have -been a frightful fate, by your action?'</p> - -<p>'I do not know,' she said feebly. 'Part of my punishment has been the -doubt, the awful doubt, as to whether we were justified in our fears. If -I gave my soul for hers, I am more than content to be marked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> with the -mark of the Beast. For, Ludovic, they that dwell in mine house and my -maids count me for a stranger; I am an alien in their sight.'</p> - -<p>Her words, their hopelessness, moved him to great pity. 'Why did you not -ask us to come before?' he asked. 'We would have done so willingly, and -then you would not have felt so sadly lonely.'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley looked at him fixedly. 'If they, my father and my husband, -have forsaken me,' she said slowly,'I am not fit for other company. In -my great distress, in my extreme abasement, only my mother has remained -faithful; she alone has had the courage to descend with me into the Pit. -My kinsfolk have failed and my familiar friends have forgotten me. You -know—you remember, Ludovic, that he—my husband, I mean—never left me. -For nearly fifty years we were together, inseparable—forty years in the -flesh, ten years in the spirit; where he went I followed; where I chose -to go he accompanied me, and guarded me from trouble. But now,' she -said—and, oh! so woefully—'I have not felt his presence, or heard his -voice, for upwards of a year.'</p> - -<p>Wantley got up: he turned away, and, walking to the great bay-window, -looked out on the darkening, snow-bound landscape.</p> - -<p>This stretching out, this appeal of her soul, as it were, to his, moved -him as might have done the intolerable sight of some poor creature -enduring the extremity of physical torment.</p> - -<p>Again he came to her, again took her thin, burning hand in his, and -then, murmuring something of his wife, abruptly left her.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Cecily was still lying on the sofa where he had placed her. The fire -alone lighted up the fine old luxurious room, softening the bright green -of the damask<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> curtains, bathing the low gilt couch and the figure lying -on it in rosy light.</p> - -<p>With a gesture most unusual with him, Wantley flung himself on his knees -by his wife: he gathered her head and shoulders in his arms, pressed the -soft hair off her forehead, and kissed her with an almost painful -emotion. 'You will find her very altered,' he said hoarsely; 'I wonder -if I ought to let you see her. I'm afraid you will be distressed, and I -cannot let you be distressed just now!'</p> - -<p>'Has she been too much left alone? Oh, Ludovic, I wish we had come -before! Perhaps the nurse—the woman who has just left—was not kind to -her.'</p> - -<p>Cecily was starting up, but he held her back, exceedingly perplexed as -to what to do and what to say. 'No,' he said at last; and then, -carefully choosing his words, 'She did not speak of the nurse, and I do -not suppose that any one has been outwardly disrespectful or unkind to -her. But, dearest, before you go up to her, I think you should be -prepared to find her in a very pitiful state. I dare say you've -forgotten once speaking to me at Monk's Eype concerning her belief that -she was in close communication with the dead whom she loved? Well, now -she unhappily believes that her husband has forsaken her, that his -spirit no longer holds communication with hers.' Wantley's voice broke. -'To hear her talk of it, of her agony and loneliness, is horribly sad; -and although I do not actually believe that my uncle was, as she says, -always with her, I could not help thinking of ourselves—of how I should -feel, my darling, if you were to turn from me.'</p> - -<p>'But,' said Cecily, clinging to him, 'I could never, never turn from -you!'</p> - -<p>'Ah! but so Uncle Wantley would once have said to her. You never saw -him; you do not know, as I do, in what an atmosphere of devotion—it -might almost be said of adoration—he always surrounded her. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> don't -wonder,' he added, 'that she felt it endure even after his death.'</p> - -<p>'But why does she think he has turned from her?' asked Cecily, -perplexed.</p> - -<p>Wantley hesitated. 'She believes,' he answered reluctantly, 'that she -has done something which has utterly alienated him. But we must try and -keep her from the whole subject, and perhaps—indeed, I hope—she will -not speak to you as freely as she did to me.'</p> - -<p>Hand in hand they went through the great ground-floor rooms, up the -broad staircase, and down vast corridors.</p> - -<p>At the door of Lady Wantley's room he turned to Cecily. 'Promise me,' he -said rather sternly, 'that if I make you a sign—if I say "Go"—you will -leave us. It is not right that you should be made ill, or that you -should be overdistressed.' And as he spoke there was in his voice a note -new to her—a tone which said very clearly that he meant to be obeyed.</p> - -<p>Wantley hung back as Cecily, treading softly, walked forward into the -room of which the white dimness had been accentuated by two candles -which had been lighted close to where Lady Wantley was sitting.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, as the older woman stood up, uttering a curious, yearning cry -of welcome which thrilled through the passive spectator, the younger -woman ran forward, and took the shrunken, shrouded figure in her -arms—soft arms, which were at once so maternal and so childish in -contour.</p> - -<p>Then the one standing aside felt a curious feeling come over him. -Sometimes it seemed as if he shared his wife with the whole of the -suffering half of the world.</p> - -<p>Silently he watched Cecily place Lady Wantley back in her chair, and -then, kneeling down by her, first kiss, and then take between her warm -young palms, the other's trembling hands. He heard his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> wife's words: -'We are ashamed of not having come before, of having left you to be -lonely here; but now we will stay as long as you will have us, and I am -sure you will be better, perhaps quite well again, by the time Penelope -comes home!'</p> - -<p>'Is Ludovic here?' Lady Wantley asked suddenly. And as he came forward, -'Are there not candles,' she asked him—'candles which should be lit?'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' he answered, looking round with some surprise. 'There are a great -number of candles about your room—all unlit, of course.'</p> - -<p>'Unlit?' she repeated; 'unlit as yet, for till now I feared the light. -When I said "My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint," -then I was scared by dreams and terrified through visions.'</p> - -<p>'But now,' whispered Cecily earnestly, 'you will no longer be so sadly -lonely; we will see that you are not left alone.'</p> - -<p>'I am no longer lonely or alone,' said Lady Wantley mysteriously. 'That -is why,' she added, looking at the young man standing before her—'that -is why I must ask you, Ludovic, to go round my room and give light; for -the bridegroom cometh, and must not find me in the dark.'</p> - -<p>Wondering at her words, he obeyed, and a few moments later they left -her, the centre of a circle of glimmering lights.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>It was night. In the dimly-lighted corridor Wantley stood holding a -short colloquy with the maid who tended Lady Wantley throughout the day. -'There's nothing to do but sit by quietly,' the woman spoke wearily. -'Her ladyship never speaks all night; but she won't be left alone a -minute.'</p> - -<p>Entering the room, he hoped to find her asleep, for he still felt -strangely unfamiliar with the thin, worn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> face and strange, -distraught-looking eyes. There had always been something ample about -Lady Wantley's presence, especially a great dignity of demeanour; but -the long months of mental agony had betrayed her, and he wondered that -those about her had not divined her fear, and asked themselves of what -she was afraid.</p> - -<p>Wantley had been terribly moved by the tragic melancholy of their first -meeting, infinitely touched by her cry of welcome to his young wife; but -he felt oppressed at the thought of his lonely vigil, and as he sat down -by the fire with a book, he hoped most fervently that she would sleep, -or remain, as he was told she always had done with the nurse whose place -he was now filling, mutinously silent.</p> - -<p>But he had scarcely read the first words of the story to whose familiar -charm he trusted to make him for the moment forget, when Lady Wantley's -voice came clearly across the room. 'Cecily,' he said to himself, 'has -indeed worked wonders;' for the words were uttered naturally, almost as -the speaker might have spoken them in the old days when all was well -with her.</p> - -<p>'I want to know'—and the words seemed to float towards him—'about you -and Cecily. I cannot tell you, Ludovic, how happy it makes me to think -that this dear child shares my name with me! I learnt to love her during -those days—before——' Her voice faltered.</p> - -<p>Wantley quickly laid down 'Persuasion.' He rose and went over to the -bed, drew up a chair, and very tenderly and quietly took one of the thin -hands lying across the counterpane in his. 'Yes, let me tell you all -about ourselves,' he said quickly, forcing a light note into his voice. -'After our marriage—such a queer, quiet wedding——'</p> - -<p>'Was Penelope there? I can't remember.'</p> - -<p>'No, no! Penelope had already started on her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> travels. Just then I think -she was in Japan.' He went on, speaking quickly, hardly knowing what he -was saying. 'Well, Cecily had had a hard time at the Settlement—in -fact, she was really quite tired out—so, to the great horror of Miss -Wake, who had never heard of such a thing being done before, I took her -the day we were married down to Brighton, although several people, -including a brother of Miss Theresa's, offered us country-houses. In a -sense we spent our honeymoon at Cecily's old convent, for we went out -there almost every day. I got on splendidly with the nuns, especially -with the one whom I suppose one would call the Mother Abbess. Such a -woman, such a type! One of Napoleon's field-marshals in -petticoats—knowing exactly what she wanted, and making the people round -her do it.'</p> - -<p>Wantley paused a moment, then went on: 'After three weeks of Brighton, -this determined old lady made me take my wife to France, to Versailles. -"Là vous l'aimerez bien, et vous la distrairez beaucoup!" she commanded; -and of course I obeyed.'</p> - -<p>There was a pause. 'And then you went on to Monk's Eype?' Lady Wantley -raised herself on her pillows; she looked at him searchingly, but he -avoided meeting her eyes. 'I felt surprised to hear of your going -there,' she said, and the hand he was still holding trembled in his -grasp.</p> - -<p>'I was surprised to find myself going there'—Wantley spoke very slowly, -very reluctantly—'but Cecily loves the place, and you would not have -had me sell it, just after Penelope had so very generously given it over -to us?'</p> - -<p>'Oh no!' she said. And then again, 'Oh no! I did not mean that, -Ludovic.'</p> - -<p>'I have had the Beach Room taken away,' he said, almost in a whisper. -'It is entirely obliterated'; and then, trying again to speak more -naturally: 'We had Philip Hammond with us part of the time; and also<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> -others of Cecily's Stratford friends, including one poor fellow who had -never had more than two days' holiday in his life since he first began -working! And then I want to tell you'—he was eager to get away from -Monk's Eype—'about our life in town, and the sort of existence we had -made for ourselves.'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley, for the first time, smiled. 'I know,' she said; -'people—acquaintances, and old fellow-workers of your uncle—have -written to me full of joy.'</p> - -<p>Wantley made a slight grimace. 'Well,' he observed rather shamefacedly, -'I have had to take to it all, if only in self-defence; otherwise I -should never see anything of my own wife. Even as it is, I have offended -a good many people, especially lately, by my determination that she -shall not join any more committees or undertake any new work. Cecily is -quite bewildered to find what a number of admirable folk there are in -the world!'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley again smiled. 'But I do not suppose,' she said, 'that -Cecily finds among them many like herself. I have sometimes thought of -how well your uncle would have liked her.'</p> - -<p>'Pope and all?' Wantley smiled. For the first time he allowed his eyes -frankly to meet hers.</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes!' she cried with something of her old eagerness; 'he always -knew and recognized goodness when he saw it. And, Ludovic, you know what -I told you to-day—of my awful loneliness, of my desolation of body and -spirit?' Wantley looked at her uneasily. 'Even as I spoke to you,' she -said, 'my punishment was being remitted, my solitude blessedly -invaded—for he, the husband of my youth, my companion and helper, was -returning, to help me across the passage.'</p> - -<p>A feeling, not so much of astonishment, as of awe and fear came over -Wantley. His eyes sought the dim grey shadows, out of which he half -expected to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> see force itself the figure of the man he had never wholly -liked, or even wholly respected, but whom he had always greatly feared.</p> - -<p>'He came back with Cecily,' Lady Wantley added, after a long pause. 'Her -purity has blotted out my iniquity.'</p> - -<p>'And do you actually see him now? Are you aware of his presence?'</p> - -<p>Wantley in a sense felt that on her answer would depend what he himself -would see, and as he waited he felt increasingly afraid; but, 'To know -that he is there is all I ask,' she said slowly; 'to be able to tell him -everything is the sum of my desire, and this I can now do;' and, lying -back on her high pillows, she sank into silence and sleep.</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'On childing women that are forlorn,</div> -<div>And men that sweat in nothing but scorn—</div> -<div>That is, on all that ever were born—</div> -<div class="i2">Miserere, Domine.'</div> -<div class="right">H. B.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The next morning poor Cecily felt strangely forlorn. Somehow, this did -not seem like Christmas Day. Wantley, haggard, but smiling, after his -long night's vigil, had declared that the state of the roads made it out -of the question that they should drive the six miles to the nearest -Catholic church, and she had submitted without a word, only insisting -that he should have some hours of sleep.</p> - -<p>And then, after having knelt down by the fire in the spacious room which -had been prepared for her, when she had read the service of the Mass and -said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> her rosary, she sent a message to Lady Wantley asking if she could -come to her.</p> - -<p>The mistress of Marston Lydiate was still in bed, and in the wintry -morning light Cecily saw with a pang how aged and how ailing her old -friend had become, but the look of intolerable distress and terror had -gone from the pale, delicate face.</p> - -<p>'Do you know, my dear, what day this is—I mean, what day this is to -me?'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Cecily, smiling: 'I know that it is Penelope's birthday, as -well as Christmas Day.'</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley raised herself in bed. She put her arms round the younger -woman and kissed her. 'I know how it is with you,' she whispered, 'and, -oh, I am so glad! Do you know how long I myself had to wait?' And then, -receiving no answer, she added: 'Nineteen years! That was the only -shadow on my singularly happy, blessed life; but it was a shadow which -sometimes darkened everything. I only once spoke to him—to my husband, -I mean—on the matter, for in those days we women seldom spoke of our -feelings. I had been ill, some trifling ailment, and he came and sat by -me in this room, just where you are sitting now, and suddenly I told him -of my longing for a child. I was foolish and repining, alas! for you -must know, my dear, that I grieved for his sake as well as for my own. I -have often thought, this last year, lying here, of what he answered. He -looked at me so kindly. "Am I not more to thee than ten sons?" he asked; -and I felt infinitely comforted.</p> - -<p>'And then'—Cecily spoke softly—'Penelope was born?'</p> - -<p>'Ah no, not then!' said Lady Wantley, with the literalness which -sometimes suddenly came to her. 'Many years had to go by first. But when -she came it was on Christmas morning.' She shaded her eyes with her left -hand. 'Not a day like this,' she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> whispered. 'It was a warm, sunny, -green Christmas that year; I remember it all so well. Ludovic's mother -came up to see me after church. You know we were never really intimate; -I fear she did not like me. But she was very kind that day. All women -feel in sympathy with one another on such days, and Mrs. Wantley's love -for her own son made her know what my daughter would be to me.' Lady -Wantley hesitated, and then, as if speaking to herself, added: 'How -often I have looked at my beloved child—my beautiful gifted -Penelope—and prayed God to comfort childless women.' Then suddenly the -speaker's face contracted, and she looked at Cecily as if wishing to -compel her to speak truly. 'Is it well with my child?' she asked. 'Tell -me what you think, what you know of her? I know you love her dearly.'</p> - -<p>'I know nothing, and cannot tell what to think.' The answer was slow, -reluctant, and truthful.</p> - -<p>Lady Wantley turned and searched under her pillow. Silently she handed -Cecily a letter, wistfully watched her read it. 'Doubtless she writes -more fully to you, her friend, than to me, her mother,' she said at -last; but Cecily remained silent while glancing perplexed, over the -short, dry, though not unaffectionate note. 'There is a postscript on -the other side of the sheet. Perhaps you knew already that David -Winfrith was with her?'</p> - -<p>On the last sheet of foreign note-paper were written in Mrs. Robinson's -clear, pointed handwriting the words: 'David Winfrith is in Bombay. He -is coming up to see me in a few days.'</p> - -<p>'We acted very wrongly,' said Lady Wantley, in a low tone. 'He—my -husband—now knows that we were not rightly guided in the matter. We -were swayed by considerations of no real moment. She loved David then; -she was very steadfast. It was he who gave way. Lord Wantley sent for -him and made him withdraw his offer. Do you think that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> now—— Ah, -Cecily, if I could only hope to leave Penelope in so safe a haven!'</p> - -<p>Cecily's lips quivered. Not even to comfort her old friend could she, or -would she, say what she believed to be false. To her simple heart such -love as that once avowed to herself by Penelope for Downing could not -change or die away. It might be thrust back out of sight at the call of -conscience, but the void could never be filled by another man.</p> - -<p>David Winfrith? Why, Penelope had often laughed at him in the old happy -days when she, Cecily, was first at the Settlement. Oh no! David -Winfrith might follow Mrs. Robinson all over the world, but Penelope -would ever keep outside the haven offered by him, if, indeed—and again -a flash of remembrance crossed her mind—such haven was still open to -her.</p> - -<p>She could say nothing comfortable, and so kept silent, but her troubled -look answered for her. Lady Wantley drew a long, sharp breath. 'I cannot -hope,' she muttered, 'to be wholly forgiven.'</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>There are certain days and festivals when every association of the heart -confirms the truth of the old saying that any company is better than -none. So felt Wantley and Cecily sitting down to their lonely Christmas -dinner—or lunch, as Mr. Jenkins more genteelly put it—in the vast -dining-room, where, as the same authority assured Cecily, 'fifty could -sit down easy.'</p> - -<p>Had these two not been at Marston Lydiate, they would now have been at -the Settlement, Wantley doubtless grumbling, man-like, to himself -because he was not spending Christmas Day alone, by his own fireside, -with his own wife. But to-day even he felt the silence of the great -house oppressive, and early in the afternoon he assented with eagerness -to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> Cecily's proposal that they should walk down to the village and see -the church where, as she reminded him, he had been baptized.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Moss, the housekeeper, and Mr. Jenkins, the butler, standing -together by the window in the butler's pantry—which was from their -point of view most agreeably situated, for it commanded the entrance to -the house—watched the young couple set off from under the portico.</p> - -<p>They were talking together rather eagerly, Cecily flushed and smiling. -'It's easy to see they have not long been married,' said the housekeeper -with a soft sigh. 'Still plenty to say, I expect.'</p> - -<p>But young Lady Wantley was shaking her head, and as she and her husband -passed on their way, within but a few feet of the window behind which -stood the couple who were looking at them with such affectionate -interest, she exclaimed rather loudly: 'Oh, Ludovic, how can you say -such a thing! I don't agree with you at all!'</p> - -<p>'Ho, ho, a tiff!' whispered Mr. Jenkins with gloomy satisfaction; but -Mrs. Moss turned on him very sharply.</p> - -<p>'Stuff and nonsense!' she said; 'that's only to show she's not his -slave. Why, that girl Charlotte Pidder—her ladyship's lady's-maid I -suppose she fancies herself to be, though, from what I can make out, she -can't neither do hairdressing nor dressmaking—was telling me this -morning that they fairly dote on one another. There now, look at them! -There's a pretty sight for you!'</p> - -<p>The walkers had come to a standstill, and Wantley taking his wife's -hand, was trying to put it through his arm. 'I will not touch your -sacred idol!' the eavesdroppers heard him say, 'In future I will always -keep my real thoughts to myself.'</p> - -<p>'Well, of all things! If the old lord could only hear them!' whispered -Mrs. Moss, now really <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span>scandalized. 'It do seem a pity that such a nice -young lady should be a Papist, and should try and make him a worshipper -of idols, too.' And she turned away, for the two outside had quickened -their steps, and were no longer within earshot.</p> - -<p>Cecily was still indignant. 'I only wish,' she said, her voice trembling -a little, 'that you were right and I wrong. If only Penelope would marry -Mr. Winfrith, and live happy ever after——'</p> - -<p>'I did not promise you that,' said Wantley mildly, 'though, mind you, I -think she would have a better chance with him than with anyone else.'</p> - -<p>'But why should she marry at all?' cried Cecily. 'I quite understand why -her mother would like her to do so, but surely, after all that -happened——'</p> - -<p>Wantley shot a keen glance at his companion. 'Wonderful,' he murmured, -'the effect of even one night's good country air! You look much better, -and even prettier, that you did yesterday.'</p> - -<p>Cecily smiled. Praise from him always sounded very sweetly in her ear, -but, 'No, no!' she said, 'I won't let you off! Tell me why Penelope is -not to remain as she is if she wishes to do so?'</p> - -<p>'There are a hundred reasons, with most of which I certainly shall not -trouble you; but the best of them all is that, however much she wishes -it, she will not be able to do so.'</p> - -<p>'And pray, why not?' asked Cecily.</p> - -<p>'If Winfrith doesn't succeed in carrying her off, someone infinitely -less worthy certainly will, and then all our troubles will begin again. -Don't you see—or is it, as I sometimes suspect, that you won't -see?'—his voice suddenly grew grave—'that Penelope is never content, -never even approximately happy, unless she is'—he hesitated, then went -on, avoiding as he spoke the candid eyes lifted up to his in such eager, -perplexed inquiry—'well, unless she has some man, or, better still, -several men, in play?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> Now, that sort of game—oh! but I mean it: with -her it has always been a game, and a game only becomes absorbing and -exciting when there is present the element of danger—generally ends in -disaster.'</p> - -<p>Cecily walked on in silence. 'I admit there is some truth in what you -say,' she said at last; 'but I am sure, <i>sure</i>, Ludovic, that you are -wrong about Mr. Winfrith.'</p> - -<p>Wantley looked at her thoughtfully. 'A bet, a little bet, my dearest, is -a very good way of proving the faith that is in you. Here and now I -propose that, if I prove right and you prove wrong after, let us say, -two years——'</p> - -<p>'Please—please,' she said, 'do not make a joke of this matter; it hurts -me.'</p> - -<p>'Forgive me,' he cried repentantly. 'I am rather light-headed to-day, -and you know I always feel rather jealous of Penelope. After all that's -come and gone, it's rather hard that she should take also my wife from me!'</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Of the many ill things done in the name of beauty during the last -hundred years, none, surely, can compare in sheer wantonness with the -restorations of our old village churches. In this matter pious -iconoclasts have wrought more mischief than Cromwell and his Ironsides -ever succeeded in doing, and the lover of rural England, in the course -of his pilgrimage, has perpetually thrust on his notice the loveliness -without, wedded to the plaintive ugliness within, of buildings raised to -the glory of God in a more creative as well as in a holier age than ours.</p> - -<p>Here and there, becoming, however, pitifully few as time goes on, the -seeker may even now find a village church to the interior of which no -desecration has as yet been offered. But such survivals owe their -temporary lease of life either to the happy <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span>indifference of a wise -neighbourhood, or to the determined eccentricity and obstinate -conservatism of an incumbent happening to be on intimate terms of -friendship—or enmity will serve as well—with the patron of the living.</p> - -<p>Such had been the fortunate case of the parish church of Marston -Lydiate, and Wantley felt a thrill of pleasure when he saw how -completely untouched everything had been left since the distant days of -his childhood.</p> - -<p>Together he and his wife made their way among the square old-fashioned -pews, first to one and then to another of the holly-decked tombs and -monuments of long-dead Wantleys. At last the young man led Cecily up to -the most ancient, as also to the most ornate, of these, one taking up -the greater part of one aisle.</p> - -<p>The monument represented Sir George Wantley, of Marston Lydiate, Knight, -who in the year 1609 had rebuilt the church. His effigy in armour, -bare-headed and kneeling, was under a pillared canopy, and at some -little distance was the statue of his wife under a similar canopy. The -inscription set forth that their married life, if brief, had been -unclouded by dissension, and that 'His lady, left alone, lived alone,' -till, having attained her eightieth year, 'she was again joined unto her -husband in this place.'</p> - -<p>'So,' said Wantley, very soberly, 'would you wish our poor Penelope to -be. She has been left alone, and now you would condemn her to live alone.'</p> - -<p>But Cecily made no answer. She only looked very kindly at the stiff -figure of the steadfast dame whose name she now herself bore, and whose -conduct she so thoroughly understood and approved.</p> - -<p>As they walked through the church gate, a boy came running up -breathless. He held a telegram in his hand, and began, in the native -dialect, an involved explanation as to why it had not been delivered -before.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Oh, it's addressed to you,' said Wantley, handing it to his wife.</p> - -<p>Cecily opened it. 'I don't understand,' she began, but he saw her cheeks -turn bright pink. 'I don't think it can be meant for me at all.'</p> - -<p>Wantley looked over her shoulder. 'It certainly is not meant for you,' -he said dryly.</p> - -<p>The message, which had been sent from Simla, consisted in the words:</p> - -<blockquote><p>'Penelope and I were married to-day by Archdeacon of Lahore. Please -have proper announcement put in <i>Times</i>.—Your affectionate son, -<span class="smcap">David Winfrith</span>.'</p></blockquote> - -<p>Wantley and Cecily looked at one another in silence. Then, fumbling -about in his pocket, the young man finally handed the astonished and -gratified boy half a sovereign. 'It's fair that someone should win the -bet,' he said, with a queer whimsical smile, and then, after the -recipient of his bounty had gone off, he added: 'Well, Cecily?'</p> - -<p>'You are always right, and I am always wrong,' she cried, half laughing, -and yet her eyes filling with tears. 'But, oh! do let us hurry back and -give this to Lady Wantley. I shall have to explain to her how stupid it -was of me to open it.'</p> - -<p>They walked along in almost complete silence, till suddenly Wantley said -musingly: 'I wonder how much David Winfrith knows—I wonder if she has -told him——'</p> - -<p>But Cecily looked up at him very reproachfully, and as if she herself -were being accused—of what? 'There was very little to know,' she said -vehemently, 'and very, very little to tell.'</p> - -<p>'If you make half as good a wife as you are friend,' exclaimed Wantley, -'I shall be more than content.'</p> - -<p class="center space-above">THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH</p> - -<p> </p> -<hr /> -<p> </p> - -<div class="mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:<br /><br /> -A Table of Contents has been added.<br /></p></div> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF PENELOPE***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 52055-h.htm or 52055-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/2/0/5/52055">http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/0/5/52055</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Heart of Penelope - - -Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes - - - -Release Date: May 13, 2016 [eBook #52055] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF PENELOPE*** - - -E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Martin Pettit, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images -generously made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries -(https://archive.org/details/toronto) - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustration. - See 52055-h.htm or 52055-h.zip: - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52055/52055-h/52055-h.htm) - or - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52055/52055-h.zip) - - - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See - https://archive.org/details/heartofpenelope00lownuoft - - - - - -The Wayfarer's Library - -THE HEART OF PENELOPE - - -[Illustration: Decoration] - - -MRS BELLOC LOWNDES - - -[Illustration Decoration] - - - - - - - -J. M. Dent & Sons. Ltd. -London - - -[Illustration: They looked at one another for a moment. - -Chapter XVI] - - - - -THE HEART OF PENELOPE - - - - -CHAPTER I - - 'London my home is; though by hard fate sent - Into a long and irksome banishment; - Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be, - O native country, repossess'd by thee!' - - HERRICK. - - -I - -Sir George Downing was back in London after an absence of twenty years -from England. The circumstances which had led to his leaving his native -country had been such that he could not refer to them, even in his own -mind, and even after so long an interval, without an inward wincing more -poignant than that which could have been brought about by the touching -of any material wound. - -Born to the good fortune which usually attends the young Englishman of -old lineage, a fair competence and a traditional career--in his case the -pleasant one of diplomacy--Downing had himself brought all his chances -to utter shipwreck. Even now, looking back with the dispassionate -judgment automatically produced by the long lapse of time, and -greater--ah, how much greater!--knowledge of the world, he decided that -fate had used him hardly. - -What had really occurred was known to very few people, and these few had -kept their own and his counsel to an unusual degree. The world, or -rather that kindly and indulgent section of the world where young -Downing had been regarded with liking, and even the affection, so easily -bestowed on a good-looking and good-natured youngster, said to stand -well with his chiefs, took a lenient view of a case of which it knew -little. The fact that a lady was closely involved--further, that she was -one of those fair strangers who in those days played a far greater part -in diplomacy than would now be possible--lent the required touch of -romance to the story. 'A Delilah brought to judgment' had been the -comment of one grim old woman, mindful that she had been compelled to -meet, if not to receive, the stormy petrel whose departure from London -had been too hurried to admit of the leaving of P.P.C. cards on the -large circle which had entertained, and, in a less material sense, been -entertained by, her. As to her victim--only the very unkind ventured to -use the word 'tool'--his obliteration had been almost as sudden, almost -as complete. - -Other men, more blamed, if not more stricken, than he had been, had -elected to spend their lives amid the ruins of their broken careers. -More than one of his contemporaries had triumphantly lived down the -memory of a more shameful record. Perhaps owing to his youth, he had -followed his instinct--the natural instinct of a wounded creature which -crawls away out of sight of its fellows--and now he had come back, -having achieved, not only rehabilitation, but something more--the -gratitude, the substantially expressed gratitude, of the most important -section of his countrymen, those to whom are confided the destinies of -an ever-increasing Empire. - -Even in these prosaic days an Englishman living in forced or voluntary -exile sometimes achieves greater things for his country than can be so -much as contemplated by the men who, though backed by the power and -prestige of the Foreign Office, are also tied by its official -limitations. His efforts thus being unofficial, the failure of them can -be so regarded, and diplomacy can shrug its shoulders. But if they -should be successful, as Downing's had been, diplomacy, while pocketing -the proceeds, is not so mean as to grudge a due reward. - -Happy are those to whom substantial recognition comes ere it is too -late. 'Persian' Downing, as he had, _pour cause_, come to be called, -could now count himself among these fortunate few. Fate had offered him -a great opportunity, which he had had the power and the intelligence to -seize. - -Those at home who still remembered him kindly had been eager to point -out that, far from adopting American nationality, as had once been -rumoured, he had known how to prove himself an Englishman of the old -powerful stock, jealous of his country's honour and capable of making it -respected. What was more to the purpose, from a practical point of view, -was the fact that he had known how to win the confidence of a potentate -little apt to be on confidential terms with the half-feared, -half-despised Western. - -That Downing had succeeded in maintaining his supremacy at a -semi-barbaric Court, where he had first appeared in the not altogether -dignified role of representative of an Anglo-American financial house, -was chiefly due to a side of his nature, unsuspected by those who most -benefited by it, which responded to the strange practical idealism of -the Oriental. The terrible ordeal through which he had passed had long -loosened his hold on life, bestowing upon him that calm fatalism and -indifference to merely physical consequence which is ordinarily the most -valuable asset of Orientals in their dealings with Western minds. - -When he had accepted, or rather suggested, a Persian mission to his -partner, an American banker, to whose firm an influential English friend -had introduced him when he first turned his thoughts towards an -American haven of refuge, he had done so in order to escape, if only for -a few months, from a state of things brought about by what he was wont -to consider the second great misfortune of his life. Downing was one of -those men who seemed fated to make mistakes, and then to amaze those -about them by the fashion in which they face and overcome the -consequences. - -Owing, perhaps, to sheer good luck, after having endured a kind of -disgrace only comparable to that which may be felt by a soldier who has -been proved a traitor to his cause and country, Downing had so acted -that in twenty years--a few moments in a nation's diplomatic life--he -had received, not only the formal rehabilitation and recognition implied -by his G.C.B., but what, to tell truth, he had valued at the moment far -more highly: a touching letter from the venerable statesman who had -rejected his boyish appeal for mercy. - -The old man had asked that he might himself convey to Downing the news -of the honour bestowed on him, and he had done so in a letter full of -honourable amend, of which one passage ran: 'As I grow older I have -become aware of having done many things which I should have left undone; -the principal of these, the one I have long most regretted, was my -action concerning your case.' - -Only one human being, and that a woman whose sympathy was none the less -valued because she had scarcely understood all it had meant to her -friend, was ever shown the letter which had so moved and softened him. -But from the day he received it the thought of going home, back to -England, never left him, and he would have accomplished his purpose long -before, had it not been that the consequence of his second great mistake -still pursued him. - - -II - -Attracted by a prim modesty of demeanour and apparent lack of emotion, -new to him in women of his own class, and doubtless feeling acutely the -terrible loneliness and strangeness attendant on his new life in such a -city as was the New York of that time, George Downing had married, -within a year of his arrival in America, a girl of good Puritan-Dutch -stock and considerable fortune. Prudence Merryquick--her very name had -first attracted him--had offered him that agreeable emotional pastime, a -platonic friendship. Soon the strange relationship between them piqued -and irritated him, and, manlike, he longed to stir, if not to plumb, the -seemingly untroubled depths of her still nature. At first she resisted -with apparent ease, and this incited him to serious skilful pursuit. -Poor Prudence had no chance against a man who, in despite and in a -measure because of his youth, had often played a conquering part in the -mimic love warfare of an older and more subtle civilization. She -surrendered, not ungracefully, and for a while it seemed as if the -ex-Foreign Office clerk was like to make a successful American banker. - -Their honeymoon lasted a year; then an accident, or, rather, some -exigencies of business, caused them to spend a winter in Washington. -There Downing's story was of course known; indeed, the newly-appointed -British Minister had been a friend of his father, and one of those who -had tried ineffectually to save him. This renewal of old ties brought on -a terrible nostalgia. To Prudence a longing for England was -incomprehensible--England had cast her husband out--indeed, she desired, -with a fierceness of feeling which surprised Downing, to see him become -a naturalized American, but to this he steadily refused to consent. - -As winter gave way to spring they moved even further apart from one -another, and, as might have been expected, the first serious difference -of opinion, too grave to call a quarrel, concerned their future home. - -Downing, on the best terms with his partners, had arranged to return -permanently to Washington. To his wife, a world composed of European -diplomatists and cosmopolitan Americans was utterly odious and -incomprehensible. She showed herself passionately intolerant of her -husband's friends, especially of those who were his own countrymen and -countrywomen, and she looked back with increasing longing to her early -married life in New York, and to the days when George Downing had -apparently desired no companionship but her own. - -Both husband and wife were equally determined, equally convinced as to -what was the right course to pursue, and no compromise seemed possible. -But one day, quite early in the winter following that which had seen -them first installed in Washington, Downing received an urgent recall to -New York. With the easy philosophy which had been one of his early -charms, he went unsuspectingly, but a few days after he and Prudence had -once more settled down in the Dutch homestead inherited by her from -Knickerbocker forebears, he came back rather sooner than had been his -wont. Prudence met him at the door, for she had returned to this early -habit of their married life. - -'Tell me,' he said quietly and while in the act of putting down his hat, -'did you ask Mr. Fetter to arrange for my return here?' - -She answered unflinchingly: 'Yes; I knew it would be best.' - -He made no comment, but within a month he had gone, leaving her alone in -the old house where she had spent her dreary childhood, and where she -had experienced the one passionate episode of her life. - -Twice he came back--the first time with the honest intention of asking -Prudence to return with him to the distant land where he had at last -found a life that seemed to promise in time rehabilitation, and in any -case a closer tie with his own country. Prudence hesitated, then -communed with herself and with one or two trusted friends, and finally -refused to accompany her husband back to Teheran. Already in her -loneliness she had become interested in one of the great religious -movements which swept over America at that period of its social history. - -The second time that Downing returned to New York it was to make final -arrangements for something tantamount to a separation. Of divorce his -wife would not hear; her religious principles and theories made such a -solution impossible. To his surprise and relief, she accepted the -allowance he eagerly offered. 'Not in the spirit it is meant,' he said, -half smiling, as they stood opposite to one another in the office of -their old and much-distressed friend, Mr. Fetter; 'rather, eh, Prudence, -as an offering to the Almighty on my behalf?' And she had answered quite -seriously, but with the flicker of an answering smile: 'Yes, George, -that is so;' and for years the two had not been so near to one another -as at that moment. The arrangement was duly carried out, and in time -Downing learnt that the offering foreseen by him had taken the very -sensible shape of a young immigrants' home, the upkeep of which absorbed -that portion of Mrs. Downing's income contributed by her husband. - -Years wore themselves away, communications between the two became more -and more rare, and his brief married life grew fainter and fainter in -Downing's memory. Indeed, he far more often thought of and remembered -trifling episodes which had taken place much earlier, even in his -childhood. But the time came when this far-distant, half-forgotten woman -hurt him unconsciously in his only vulnerable part. He learnt with a -feeling of indescribable anger and annoyance that, having become closely -connected with a number of English Dissenters, whose tenets she shared, -she had made for some time past a yearly sojourn among them. To him the -idea that his American wife should live, even for a short space of time -each year, among his own countrymen and countrywomen, while he himself -lingered on in outer banishment appeared monstrous, and it was one of -the reasons why, even after he had already done much to effect his -rehabilitation, he preferred to remain away from his own country. - -At last he was urgently pressed to return home, and it was pointed out -to him that his further absence was injurious to those financial -interests which concerned others as well as himself. This is how it came -to pass that he found himself once more in London, after an absence of -twenty years. At first Downing had planned to be in England early in -June, and those of his friends whose congratulations on the honour -bestowed on him had been most sincere and most welcome had urged him to -make a triumphal reappearance at the moment when they would all be in -town. Moreover, they had promised him--and some of them were in a -position to make their promises come true--such a welcome home from old -and new friends as is rarely awarded to those whose victories are won on -bloodless fields. - -Accordingly, he had started early in May from the distant country where -his exile had proved of such signal service to England. Then, to the -astonishment and concern of those who considered his early return -desirable, he lingered through June and half July on the Continent, ever -writing, 'I am coming, I am coming,' to the few to whom he owed a real -apology for thus disappointing them. To the larger number of business -connections who felt aggrieved he vouchsafed no word, and left them to -suppose that their great man, frightened by some Parisian specialist, -had retired to a French spa for a cure. - - -III - -In one minor, as in so many a major, matter Downing had been -exceptionally fortunate. For many returning to their native country -after long years there are none to welcome them. Those among their old -friends who have not gone where no living man can hope to reach them are -scattered here and there, and only affection, faithful in a sense rarely -found, troubles to think of how the actual arrival of the wanderer can -be made, if not pleasant, at least tolerable. But Downing found a -sincere and, what was more precious, a familiar welcome, from the -friend, Mr. Julius Gumberg, who had twenty years before sped him on his -way with those valuable business introductions with which he had been -able to build up a new career, first in America, and later in Persia. - -There had been no regular correspondence between them, but now and -again, sometimes after an interval of years, a short note, pregnant with -shrewd counsel, and written in the tiny and only apparently clear hand -which was the epistolary mode of fifty years since, would form the most -welcome portion of Downing's home mail. It was characteristic of Mr. -Gumberg that he sent no word of congratulation, when the man whom he -still regarded as a youthful protege received his G.C.B., the great -outward mark of rehabilitation. But when he learnt that Downing had -actually started for England he wrote him a line, adding by way of -postscript, 'Of course you will come to me,' and of course Downing had -come to him. - -Mr. Julius Gumberg was one of those happy Londoners whose dwellings lie -between the Green Park and that group of tranquil short streets which -still remain, havens of stately peace, within a moment's walk of St. -James's and Piccadilly. The portion of the house which looked on St. -James's Place had that peculiar air of solid respectability which, in -houses belonging to a certain period, seems to apologize for the rakish -air of their garden-front. By its bow-windows Mr. Gumberg's house was -distinguished on the park side from its more stately neighbours, and his -pink blinds were so far historic that they had been noted in a -guide-book some forty years before. - -Small wonder that, as Mr. Gumberg's guest passed through the door into -the broad low corridor which led into his old friend's library, he felt -for a moment as if he were walking from the present into the past, an -impression heightened by his finding everything, and almost everybody, -in the house unchanged, from his host, sitting in a pleasant book-lined -room where they had last parted, to the man-servant who had met him with -a decorous word of welcome at the door. To be sure, both master and man -looked older, but Downing felt that, while in their case the interval of -time had left scarce any perceptible mark of its passage, he himself had -in the same period lived, and showed that he had lived, a time -incalculable. - -And how did the traveller returning strike Mr. Julius Gumberg? Alas! as -being in every sense quite other than the man, young, impulsive, and -with a sufficient, not excessive, measure of originality, whom he had -sped on his way to fairer fortunes twenty years before. Now, looking at -the tall figure, the broad, slightly-bent shoulders, he saw that youth -had wholly gone, that impulse had been so long curbed as to leave no -trace on the rugged secretive face, to which had come, indeed, lines of -concentration and purpose which had been lacking in that of the young -George Downing. Originality now veered perilously near that eccentricity -of outward appearance which is apt to overtake those to whom the cut of -clothes, the shearing of the hair, have become of no moment. Mr. -Gumberg's shrewd eyes had at once perceived that this no longer familiar -friend looked Somebody, indeed, many would say a very great and puissant -body; but the old man would have been better pleased to have welcomed -home a more commonplace hero. - -Mr. Gumberg's sharp ears had heard, just outside his door, quick, low -interchange of words between his own faithful man-servant and the -newly-arrived guest. 'Valet? No, Jackson, I have brought no man. I gave -up such pleasant luxuries twenty years ago!' And Jackson had retreated, -disappointed of the company of the travelled gentleman's gentleman with -whom he had hoped to spend many pleasant moments. - - -IV - -Partly in deference to his old friend's advice, Downing gave up his -first morning in London to seeing those, almost to a man unknown to him, -to whom he surely owed some apology for his delay. His own old world, -including those faithful few friends of his youth who had wished him to -return in time to add to the triumphs of the season, were already -scattered, and though he had been warmly asked, even after his -defection, to follow them to the downs, the moors, and the sea, he was -as yet uncertain what to do. 'Waiting orders,' he had said to himself -with a curious thrill of exultation as he sat in his bedroom, table and -chair drawn close to the windows from which could be seen the twinkling -lights of Piccadilly, and where he had been answering briefly the pile -of letters he had found waiting for him. - -The next morning he devoted himself to the work he had in hand, and -early drove to the City in his host's old-fashioned roomy brougham. As -he drove he leant back, his hat jammed down over his eyes, unwilling to -see the changes which the town's aspect had undergone during his long -absence. But there was one pang which was not spared him. - -He had been among the last of those Londoners to whom the lion upon the -gateway of Northumberland House had been as a Familiar, and in the long -low rooms and spacious galleries to which that gateway had given access -he had spent many happy hours, a youth on whom all smiled. Of course, he -knew the stately palace had gone, but the sight of all that now stood in -its place made him realize as nothing else had yet done how long he had -been away. - -But when once he found himself in the City office whither he was bound, -he pushed all thoughts and recollections of the past far back into his -mind, and set himself to exercise all his powers of conciliation on the -men, for the most part unknown to him personally, who had the right to -be annoyed with him for delaying his arrival in London so long. Long, -lean, and brown, he stood before them, grimly smiling, and after the -first words, 'I fear my delay has caused some of you inconvenience, -gentlemen,' he plunged into the multiple complex details of the great -financial interests in which he and they were bound, answering questions -dealing with delicate points, and impressing them, as even the most -optimistic among them had not hoped to be impressed, by his remarkable -personality. - -In the afternoon of the same day he made his way slowly, almost -furtively, into what had once been his familiar haunts. They lay close -about the house where he was now staying and at first he felt relieved, -so few were the changes noted by him; but after a while he realized that -this first impression was not a true one. Even in St. James's Street -there was much that struck him as strange. Where he had left low houses -he found huge buildings. His very boot-maker, though still flaunting the -proud device, 'Established in 1767,' across his plate-glass window, was, -though at the same number as of old, now merged in a row of shops -forming the ground-floor of a red-brick edifice which seemed to dwarf -the low long mass of St. James's Palace opposite. - -In that square quarter-mile, bounded on the one side by Jermyn Street -and on the other by Pall Mall, he missed, if not whole streets, at least -many houses through whose hospitable doors he had often made his way. -Then a chance turn brought him opposite the place where he had spent the -last three years of his London life, and, by a curious irony, here alone -time seemed to have stood still. He looked consideringly at the old -house, up at the narrow windows of the first-floor at which a young and -happy George Downing had so often stood full of confidence in a kind -world and in himself; then, following a sudden impulse, he walked across -the street and rang the bell. - -A buxom, powerful-looking woman opened the door; Downing recognised her -at once as a certain Mary Crisp, the niece of his old landlord, and as -she stood waiting for him to speak he remembered that as a girl she had -not been allowed to do much of the waiting on her uncle's 'gentlemen.' -There was no glimmer of recognition in her placid face, and, in answer -to the request that he might see the rooms where he had once lived 'for -a short time,' she invited him civilly enough to come in, and to follow -her upstairs. - -'I expect it's the same paper, sir,' she said, as she opened the door of -what had been his sitting-room. 'It was put up when uncle first took on -the house, and, as it cost half a crown a foot, we always cleans it once -every three years with breadcrumbs, and it comes out as new.' - -How well Downing remembered the paper, with its dark-blue ground thickly -sprinkled with gold stars! indeed, before she spoke again, he knew what -her next words would be. 'It's the same pattern that the Queen and -Prince Albert chose for putting up at Windsor Castle; you don't see such -a good paper, nor such a good pattern, nowadays; but there, I'll just -leave you a minute while you take a look round.' - - -V - -For some moments Downing remained standing just inside the door, as much -that he had forgotten, and more that he had tried vainly to forget, came -back to him in a turgid flood of recollection. Suddenly something in the -walls creaked, and he clenched his hands, half expecting to see figures -form themselves out of the shadows. One memory was spared him; the -sombre walls, the plain, heavy old furniture, placed much as it had been -in his time, evoked no vision of the foreign woman who had brought him -to disgrace, for, with a certain boyish chivalry, he had never allowed -her to come to his rooms; instead, poor fool that he had been, he had -occasionally entertained her in his official quarters, and the fact had -been one of those which had most weighed against him with his informal -judges. - -Instead, the place where he now stood brought to his mind another woman, -who had during those same years and months played a nobler, but alas! a -far minor part in his life. - -Mrs. Henry Delacour had been one of those beings who, though themselves -exquisitely feminine, seem destined to go through life playing the part -of confidential and platonic friend, for, in spite of all that is said -to the contrary, platonic friendships, sometimes disguised under another -name, count for much in our over-civilized world. The second wife of a -permanent Government official much older than herself, her thoughts, if -not her heart, enjoyed a painful and a dangerous freedom. At a time when -sentiment had gone for the moment out of fashion, she lavished much -innocent sentiment on those of her husband's younger colleagues who -seemed worthy of her interest, and, for she was a kind woman, in need -of it. She had first met George Downing after she had attained the age -when every charming woman feels herself privileged to behave as though -she were no longer on the active list, while yet quite ready, should the -occasion offer, to lead a forlorn hope. What that time of life is should -surely be left to each conscience, and almost to each nationality. In -the case of this lady the age had been thirty-eight, Downing being -fifteen years younger--a fact which he forgot, and which she -conscientiously strove to remember, whenever he found himself in her -soothing, kindly presence. - -Their relationship had been for a time full of subtle charm, and had -George Downing been as cosmopolitan as his profession should have made -him, had he even been an older man, he might have been content with all -that she felt able to offer him--all, indeed, that was possible. But -there came a time when he found himself absorbed in a more ardent, a -more responsive friendship, and when his feet learnt to shun the quiet -street where Mrs. Delacour dispensed her gracious hospitality; indeed, -the moment came when he almost forgot how innocently near they had once -been to one another. - -Yet now, as he stood inside the door of his old room, Mrs. Delacour -triumphantly reasserted herself, for she had come to him on the last -evening of his life in London. He advanced further into the room, and -slowly the scene reconstituted itself in his mind. It had been one which -no man was likely ever wholly to forget, and it came back to Downing, in -spite of the lapse of twenty years, with extraordinary vividness. - -Having arranged to leave early the next morning, he had given strict -orders that none of his friends were to be again admitted. Sick at -heart, he had been engaged in sorting the last batch of letters and -bills, when the door, opening, had revealed Mrs. Delacour, dressed in -the soft, rather shadowy colouring which, though at the time wholly out -of fashion, had always seemed to him, the young George Downing, an -essential part of her personality. For a moment, as she had hesitated in -the doorway, he had noticed that she carried a basket. - -With the egotism of youth, as he had taken the kind trembling little -hand and led his visitor into the room, he had uttered the words, 'Now I -know without doubt that I am dead!' As he stood there now, in this very -room which had witnessed the pitiful scene, he felt a rush of shame, -remembering how he had behaved during the hours that followed, for he -had sat, sullenly looking on, while she had packed the portmanteaux -lying on the floor, tied up packets of letters, and sorted bills. At -intervals he had asked her to leave him, begged her to go home, but she -had worked on, saying very little, looking at him not at all, and -showing none of the dreadful tenderness which had been lavished on him -by so many of his friends. - -Then had come the moment when he had roused himself sufficiently to -mutter a few words of thanks, reminding her, not ungently, that her -husband would be expecting her back to dinner. 'Is any one coming?' she -had asked, with a tremor in her voice; and on his quick disclaimer the -basket had been unpacked, and food and wine put upon the table. - -'Henry,' she had said, in the precise, rather anxious voice he recalled -so well--'Henry remembered how well you thought of this claret;' and she -had sat down, and by her example gradually compelled him to eat the -first real meal he had had for days. - -When at last the moment came when she had said, sadly enough, 'Now I -suppose I must go home,' he was glad to remember that he had tried to -bear himself like a man, tried to thank her for her coming. As he had -stood, saying good-bye, she had suddenly lifted the hand which grasped -hers, and had laid it against her cheek with the words, said bravely, -and with a smile, 'You will come back, George--I am _sure_ you will -come back.' - - -As Downing stood once more in the street, now grey with twilight, after -he had slipped a sovereign in Mary Crisp's hand, she asked him with -natural curiosity, 'And what name shall I say, sir, when uncle asks who -called? He always likes to hear of his gentlemen coming back.' Downing -hesitated, and then gave the name of the man who he knew had had the -rooms before him. The woman said nothing, but a look of fear came into -her face as she shut the door quickly. As she did so Downing remembered -that the man was dead. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - 'If you enter his house, his drawing-room, his library, you of - yourself say, This is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is - not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his - sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious - elegance in the possessor.'--_Lord Byron's Journal._ - - -I - -Mr. Julius Gumberg was the last survivor of a type familiar in the -English, or rather in the London, society of the middle period of the -nineteenth century. In those days reticence, concerning one's own -affairs be it understood, was still the rule rather than the exception, -but there were a certain number of men, and a few women, to whom -everything seems to have been told, and whose advice on the more -delicate and difficult affairs of life, if not invariably followed--for -that would have been asking too much of human nature--was invariably -asked. - -It has always been the case that to those, who know much shall more be -revealed, and Mr. Gumberg had forgotten more scandals than even the most -trusted of his contemporaries had ever told or been told. His assistance -was even invoked, it was whispered, by the counsellors of very great -people, and it was further added that he had been instrumental in -averting more than one morganatic alliance. That, like most of those who -enjoy power, he had sometimes chosen to exercise his prerogative by -upholding and shielding those to whom the rest of the world cried -'Haro!' was felt to be to his credit. He had not only never married, -but, so far as his acquaintances knew, never even set sail for 'le pays -du tendre' with any woman belonging to a circle which had been widening -as the years slipped by, and this added to his prestige and gave him -authority among those whose paths had diverged so widely from his own. - -To all women, especially to those who sought his help when the -difficulty in which they found themselves had been caused rather by the -softness of their hearts than as the outcome of mere arid indiscretion, -he showed an indulgent, and, what was more to the point, a helpful -tenderness, which led to repeated confidences. 'The woman who has Mr. -Gumberg on her side can afford to postpone repentance,' a dowager who -was more feared than trusted was said to have exclaimed; but, like so -many bodily as well as moral physicians, he often felt that confidence, -when it was reposed in him, had been too long delayed. An intricate -problem, a situation to which there seemed no possible issue, was not, -he admitted to himself, without its special charm; but as he grew -older--indeed, into quite old age--he preferred exercising more subtle -arts in connection with the comparatively simpler stories of human life. -Unlike the poor French lady whose idle phrase has branded her throughout -the ages, Mr. Gumberg delighted in innocent pleasures, while he was -willing, notwithstanding, to make any effort and to exhume any -skeleton, however grim, from a friend's closet, if by so doing he could -prevent a scandal from crystallizing into a 'case.' - -Still, it may be repeated that what he really enjoyed when he could do -so conscientiously, and even, indeed, when he found his conscience to be -in no sense on the side of the more worldly angels of his acquaintance, -was to place all his knowledge of the world at the disposal of two -youthful and good-looking lovers. No man, so it was said, knew more ways -of melting the heart of an obdurate father, or, what is of course far -more difficult, of changing the mind of a sensible mother. Of the -several sayings of which he was fond of making use, and which he found -applicable to almost every case, especially those of purely sentimental -interest, submitted to him, his favourite came to be, 'Heaven helps -those who help themselves'; but as he preferred to be the sole auxiliary -of Heaven, he seldom quoted the phrase to those who might really have -profited by it. - -As young people sometimes found to their chagrin, Mr. Gumberg could not -always be trusted to see what he was fond of calling the syllabub side -of life; he occasionally took a parent's part, this especially when the -parent happened to be the mother of a young man. Thus, he was impatient -of the modern habit of _mesalliance_, and was old enough to remember the -days when divorce was the last resort of the wealthy, while yet -deploring the time when marriage was in truth an indissoluble bond. -Perhaps the only action which caused him ever-recurring astonishment was -the frivolity his young friends showed in entering a state of life -which, according to his old-fashioned views, should spell finality. - -'Heaven,' he would murmur to the afflicted mother of a misguided youth -who only asked to be allowed to contract honourable matrimony with the -humble object of his choice--'Heaven helps those who help themselves: -therefore beware of the virtuous ballet-girl and of the industrious -barmaid; rather persuade your Augustus to cultivate more closely the -acquaintance of his cousin, a really agreeable widow, for jointures -should be induced to remain in the family when this can be done without -any serious sacrifice of feeling.' - -Mr. Gumberg's enemies--and, of course, like most people who live the -life that suits them best, and who are surrounded by a phalanx of -attached and powerful friends, he had enemies--were able to point to one -very serious blemish on his otherwise almost perfect advisory character. -With the approach of age he had become garrulous; he talked not only -freely, but with extraordinary, amazing freedom to those--and they were -many--who cheered him with their constant visits, and on whom he could -depend to give him news of the world he loved so well, but which for -many years past he had only been able to see poised against the limited -background of his fine library, of his cheerful breakfast-room, of his -delightful garden. - -Perhaps the fact that he was acquainted with so many of their own -secrets made him the more trust the discretion of his friends, and even -of his acquaintances. They on their side were always ready to urge in -exculpation of their valued mentor that the old man never discussed a -scandal, or indeed a secret, that was in the making. While always eager -to hear any story, or any addition to a story, then amusing the circle -with which he kept in close touch, he never added by so much as a word -to the swelling tale; on the contrary the more intimate his knowledge of -the details, the less he admitted that he knew, and his garrulity was -confined to events which had already become, from the point of view of -the younger generation, ancient history. The mere mention of a -name--even more, a passing visit from some acquaintance long lost sight -of--would let loose on whoever had the good fortune to be present a -flood of amusing, if sometimes very muddy, reminiscence. 'My way,' he -would say quaintly, and in half-shamed excuse, 'of keeping a diary! and -as the circulation is necessarily so very limited, I can note much which -it would be scarcely fair to publish abroad.' - -Thus it was that Mr. Gumberg was seldom without the company of at least -one friend old enough to enjoy the real answers to long-forgotten social -riddles, while the more thoughtful of his younger acquaintances -recognized that some of his old stories were better worth hearing than -those which they in their turn came to tell. - - -II - -When Sir George Downing, after having returned from his excursion into -the past, sought out his host in the book-lined octagon room, looking -out on the Italian garden, where Mr. Julius Gumberg had established -himself for the evening, it was not because he expected to learn much of -interest unknown to him before, but because, though he felt half ashamed -of it, he longed intensely both to speak and to hear spoken a certain -name. With an abruptness which took the old man by surprise, Downing -asked him: 'Among your many charming friends, I wonder if you number a -certain Mrs. Robinson, the daughter, I believe, of the late Lord -Wantley?' - -Mr. Gumberg's reply was not long in coming. - -'Perdita,' he said briskly, 'is on the whole the most beautiful young -woman I know; I don't say, mind you, the most beautiful creature I have -ever known, but at the present time I cannot call to mind any of my -friends with whom I can compare her.' He tucked the rug in which he was -muffled up more tightly across his knees, and continued, with manifest -enjoyment: 'Doubtless you have noticed, George, even in the short time -you have been at home, that nowadays all our women claim to be -beauties--and the remarkable thing about it is that they succeed, the -hussies!' - -He gave a loud, discordant chuckle, and the pause enabled the other to -throw in the words: - -'Mrs. Robinson's name is, I believe, Penelope.' - -He spoke quickly, fearing a full biography of the fair stranger by whose -beauty Mr. Gumberg set so much store. - -'They succeed, and yet they fail,' continued the old man, ignoring the -interruption. 'They aim--it's odd they should do so--at being as like -one another as peas in a pod. Our beauties don't give each other room. -Ah! you should have seen, George, the women of my youth. The plain ones -kept their places--and very good places they were, too--but the others! -Now scarce a week goes by but some kind lady comes to me with, "Oh, Mr. -Gumberg, I'm going to bring you the new beauty. I'm sure you will be -charmed!" But I've given up expecting anything out of the common. When I -was a young man a new beauty was something to look at: she had hair, -teeth, eyes--not always _mind_, I grant you: but she was there to be -looked at, not talked at! I'm told that now a pretty woman hasn't a -chance unless she's clever. And that's the mischief, for the clever ones -can always make us believe that they're the pretty ones, too. Give me -the yellow-haired, pink-cheeked kind, out of which one could shake the -sawdust, eh?' Then he sighed a little ghostly sigh, and added: 'Yes, her -name's Penelope, of course--I was going to tell you so--but she's -Perdita, too, obviously.' - -'And has there been a Florizel?' Downing's question challenged a reply, -and Mr. Gumberg looked at him inquiringly as well as thoughtfully, as he -answered in rather a softer tone: - -'God bless my soul, no! That's to say, a dozen, more or less! But I -don't see, and I doubt if Perdita sees, a Prince Charming among 'em. As -for Robinson, poor fellow!'--Mr. Gumberg hesitated; words sometimes -failed him, but never for long--'all I can say is he was the first of -those I was the first to dub the Sisyphians. I used to feel quite -honoured when he came to breakfast. People enjoyed meeting him. I never -could see why; but you know how they all--especially the women--run -after any man that is extraordinarily ordinary. Melancthon Wesley -Robinson--what a handicap, eh? And yet I'm bound to say one felt -inclined to forgive him even his name, even his good looks, even his -marriage to Penelope Wantley, for he had the supreme and now rare charm -of youth. You had it once, George; that was why we were all so fond of -you.' - -Mr. Gumberg got up from his chair, pushed the rug off his shrunken legs, -and slowly walked round the room till he reached one of the two -cupboards which filled up the recess on either side of the fireplace. -From its depths he brought out a small portfolio. Downing had started -up, but his host motioned him back to his seat with a certain -irritation, and then, as he made his way again to his own blue leather -armchair, he went on: - -'Those for whom I invented the name of Sisyphians--there are plenty of -'em about now--well, I divide 'em into two sets, both, I need hardly -say, equally distasteful to me. The one kind cultivates platonic -friendships with the women'--Mr. Gumberg made a slight grimace. 'Their -arguments appeal to feminine sensibility; "Make yourself happier by -making others happy," that's the notion, and I understand that they're -fairly successful as regards the primary object, but there seems some -doubt as to how far they succeed in the other--eh? I should hate to be -made happy myself. That sort of fellow is the husband's best friend. -Not only does he keep the wife out of mischief, but he will act as -special constable on occasion, and when everything else fails he's -always there, ready to put his arm round the dear erring creature's -waist and implore her to remember her duties! The other set undertake a -more difficult task, and they don't find it so easy. That sort don't put -their arms round even their own wives' waists; their dream is to embrace -Humanity. She's a jealous mistress, and, from all I hear, I doubt if -she's as grateful as some of 'em make out!' - -The old man sat down again. He drew the rug over his knees, and propped -up the small portfolio on a sloping mahogany desk which always stood at -his elbow. With a certain eagerness he turned over its contents, still -talking the while. - -'Young Robinson was their founder, their leader. He built the first of -the palaces in the slums. I'm told they call the place the Melancthon -Settlement. I'm bound to say that he took it--and himself--quite -seriously, lived down there, and, what was much more strange, persuaded -Penelope to live there, too. Oh, not for long. She would soon have tired -of the whole business!' He added in a lower tone, his head bent over the -open portfolio: 'I don't find things as easily as I used to do. Yet I -know it's here.' Then he cried eagerly, 'I've found it!' and held up -triumphantly a rudely-coloured print of which the reverse side was -covered with much close writing. - -Downing put out his hand with a certain excitement; he knew that what -the old man was about to show him had a bearing on the story he was -being told. - -The print, obviously a caricature, represented a horsewoman sitting a -huge roan and clad in the long riding-habit, almost touching the ground, -which women wore in the twenties and thirties of last century. A large -black hat shaded, and almost entirely concealed, the oval face beneath. -In one hand the horsewoman held a hunting crop, with the other she -reined in her horse, presenting a dauntless front to some twenty couple -of yelping and snarling foxhounds. The colour was crude, but the drawing -clear, and full of rough power. - -Downing suddenly realized that each hound had the face of a man; also -that the countenance of the foremost dog was oddly familiar: he seemed -to have seen it looking down on him from innumerable engravings, in -particular from one which had hung in the hall of his parents' town -house. This dog, almost alone clean-shaven among its companions, held -between its paws the baton of a field-marshal. Below the print was -engraved in faded gilt letters the words 'The Lady and her Pack.' - -'A valuable and very rare family portrait,' said Mr. Gumberg grimly. -'The lady is Penelope's grandmother, Lady Wantley's mother, and the -Pack----' He checked himself, surprised at the look which passed over -the other's face. - -'Her grandmother?' Downing interrupted almost roughly. 'Why, you showed -me that print years ago, when I was a boy. I have never forgotten it.' -Then, in a more natural tone, he added: 'I suppose it's really unique?' - -'As far as I know, absolutely unique, but such odious surprises are -nowadays sprung upon collectors! I believe this copy is the only one -which has survived the many determined efforts to destroy the whole -edition, which was never at any time a large one. I fancy such things -were produced speculatively, you understand, doubtless with a view to -the pack. These good people'--Mr. Gumberg pointed with his long, lean -finger to the human-faced dogs--'were naturally quite ready to buy up -all the available copies, and then, later, John Oglethorpe, after he had -become the fair huntswoman's husband, also most naturally made it his -business to get hold of the few which had found their way into -collections. I've been told also that Lord Wantley during many years -made a point of keeping his eye on one copy, which finally disappeared, -no one knows how, just on the eve of its being safely stored in the -British Museum! I got mine in Paris quite thirty years ago by an -extraordinary bit of good fortune. And so I showed it you, did I? I -wonder why. I so seldom show it, unless, of course, there's some special -reason why I should do so.' - -Mr. Gumberg stopped and thought for a few minutes. 'Let me see,' he -added thoughtfully, 'the last person who saw it was old Mrs. Byng. It -was the day of Penelope's marriage. It's a good way from Hanover Square, -and the old lady never takes a cab--too stingy. I knew how a sight of -this picture would revive her, poor old soul! One of my very few -remaining contemporaries, George.' Mr. Gumberg sighed a little heavily; -then, with a certain regret, 'So you know all about that strange -creature, Rosina Bellamont?' - -Again he took up the print between his lean fingers. He hated being done -out of telling a story, and Downing, well aware of this peculiarity, -smiled and said kindly enough: 'When you showed me this thing before, -you told me more of the pack than of the lady. In fact, if I remember -rightly, it was just after the death----' - -Mr. Gumberg again interrupted with returning good-humour: 'Of course I -remember: it was just after the death of poor Jack Storks. You came in -as I was reading his obituary in the _Times_, and I showed you the print -to prove that he had not always been the grave and reverend signior they -made him out to have been!' - -'And Lady Wantley's mother, what of her?' Downing feared once more that -his venerable friend would start off on a reminiscent excursion of more -general than particular interest. - -'She was a very remarkable woman,' answered Mr. Gumberg, 'and I will -tell you how and where I first made her acquaintance and that of her -daughter.' - - -III - -'When I was a lad of fifteen,' began the old man, with a marked change -of tone and even of manner, 'my uncle, who was, as you are aware, a -Russia merchant, the kindest and wisest man I have ever known, and the -most delightful of companions, took me a walking tour through the -Yorkshire dales. Now, those were the days when all inns were bad and all -houses hospitable. We walked miles without meeting a living creature, -being the more solitary that my uncle preferred the bridle-paths to the -highroads, but he generally contrived that we should find a kind welcome -and comfortable quarters at the end of each day. - -'One afternoon, when climbing a stiff hillside not far from the place -whence five dales can be seen stretching fanstickwise, we came on two -figures standing against the skyline, a lady and a young girl, hand in -hand, curiously dressed--for those were the days of the crinoline--in -long, straight grey gowns and circular cloaks. Their faces, the one -pale, the other fresh and rosy, were framed by unbecoming close bonnets, -each lined with a frill of stiff white stuff. Even I, foolish boy that I -was, and while considering the strange pair most inelegantly dressed, -saw that they were in a sense distinguished, utterly unlike the often -oddly-gowned country wives and maids we met now and again trudging past -us. - -'To my surprise, my uncle, when he had become aware of their presence, -quickened his steps, and when we had reached the lonely stretch of grass -on which they were standing--that is, when we were close to the singular -couple, mother and daughter or grandmother and granddaughter; I could -not help wondering what relationship existed between them--he bowed, -saying: "Have I the honour of greeting Mrs. Oglethorpe?" The elder -lady's cheek turned as rosy, but only for a moment, as that of the girl -by her side, and as she answered, "Yes," the colour receding seemed to -leave her cheek even paler than before. "That is my name," she said; and -then looking, or so it seemed to me, very pleadingly at my uncle, she -added quickly: "This is my young daughter. Adelaide, curtsey to the -gentleman." "Your father and I, young lady," said my uncle, again -bowing, "have had business dealings together for many years, and I am -honoured to meet his daughter." - -'Well, George, we followed them, retracing our steps down the dale, and -there, hidden in a park surrounded by high walls, we came at last on a -fine old house of grey stone. Our approach brought no sign of life or -animation. The formal gardens lacked the grace and brilliancy afforded -by flowers, and yet were in no sense neglected. Mrs. Oglethorpe turned -the handle of the front-door, and we passed into a large hall, where we -were greeted with great civility by an elderly man, whom I supposed, -rightly, to be our host, though, to be sure, his dress differed in no -way from that of those who passed silently backwards and forwards -through the hall, and who were apparently his servants. - -'Dear me, how strange everything seemed to my young eyes! In particular, -I was amazed to notice that a row of what were apparently family -portraits were all closely shrouded with some kind of white linen, while -below them, painted on the oak panelling, was the following -sentence'--Mr. Gumberg turned the print he still held in his hand, and -peered closely at the writing with which the back of it was -covered--'"_Forsake all, and thou shall possess all. Relinquish desire, -and thou shalt find rest._" The hall was overlooked by what had -evidently been a music-gallery, and, glancing up there, I saw that the -carved oak railing had been partly covered in with deal boards, on which -was written in very large letters another strange saying: "_Esteem and -possess naught, and thou shalt enjoy all things._" I tried, I trust -successfully, to imitate my uncle, the most courteous of men, in showing -nothing of the astonishment that these things caused me, the more so -that Mr. Oglethorpe treated us with the greatest consideration, himself -fetching bread, cheese, and beer for our entertainment. - -'After we had refreshed ourselves, a pretty young woman, dressed in what -appeared to be a modified copy of the curious straight garments worn by -our hostess and her daughter, led us to a bedchamber, the walls of which -were hung, as I now judge, looking back, with some fine French tapestry. -Across the surface of this ran the words, each letter cut out of white -linen stitched on to the tapestry: "_Foxes have holes, and the birds of -the air have nests; but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His -head._"' - -Mr. Gumberg paused a moment, and then continued his story: 'The -dining-room, to which we were bidden by the ringing of a bell, must have -been once, from its appearance, the scene of many great banquets; but I -noted that it only contained two long tables, composed of unpainted -boards set on rough trestles, while the walls, hung with maroon Utrecht -velvet, presented to my eyes an extraordinary appearance, each -picture--and there were many--being hidden from sight, as were those in -the hall, while on a long strip of white cloth, which ran right round -the room above the wainscotting, was written: "_Self-denial is the basis -of spiritual perfection. He that truly denies himself is arrived at a -state of great freedom and safety._" - -'I noticed that the tables were laid for a considerable company, and -soon there walked slowly in some forty men and women, all dressed in -what seemed to me a very peculiar manner. There were many more women -than men, and they sat at separate tables, Mrs. Oglethorpe taking the -head of the one, while her husband, with my uncle at his right hand, -presided over the other. The food was plain, but of good quality; it was -eaten in silence, and while we ate the daughter of the house, Adelaide -Oglethorpe, sat on a high rostrum and read aloud from a book which I -have since ascertained to have been Mr. William Law's "Serious Call to a -Devout and Holy Life." - -'This reading surprised me very much, and, boy-like, I wondered -anxiously whether the girl was to be deprived of her evening meal; but -after we had finished supper she put a mark in the book she had been -reading, and, as the others all walked out, took her place at a little -table I had before scarcely noticed, and there, waited on most -assiduously by her father, she enjoyed a meal rather more dainty in -character than that which the rest of us had eaten. Looking back, -George,' observed Mr. Gumberg thoughtfully, 'I think I may say that this -was the first time in my life that I realized how even the most rigid -human beings sometimes fall away, and this almost unconsciously, from -their own standards. - -'We only stayed at Oglethorpe one night, and perhaps that is why I -recollect so well all that took place. Before we left, my uncle, to the -evident gratification of our host, advised me to copy the various -inscriptions about the house, notably one which had greatly taken his -fancy, and which was inscribed above the writing-table where Mrs. -Oglethorpe apparently spent many of the earlier hours of each day. This -saying ran: "_Charity is the meed of all; familiarity the right of -none._" Our hostess, of whom I stood in great awe, bade her little -daughter show me the schoolroom, observing that there I should most -probably notice texts and inscriptions more suited to my understanding. -Miss Oglethorpe's room was strangely different from the others I had -seen; and, with a surprise which I was unable to conceal, I saw hanging -in a prominent place over the mantelpiece a painting of a beautiful -young woman pressing a little child to her bosom, while below the gold -frame was written the familiar verse: "_Suffer little children to come -unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven._" -Adelaide Oglethorpe evidently noticed my surprise, for she explained -diffidently that this painting represented her father's mother and -himself as a child: further, that this lady having been a most virtuous -and excellent wife and mother, Mr. Oglethorpe had not dealt with her -portrait as he had done with those of his own and his daughter's less -reputable forebears.' - -Mr. Gumberg ceased speaking. Downing's eyes were still fixed on the -rudely coloured caricature of Rosina Bellamont and her admirers. - -'And so this woman,' he said, 'became a mother in Israel? Well, I -suppose such things do happen now and then.' - -'Rather more often now than then,' Mr. Gumberg declared briskly. 'My -uncle used to describe to me, when I had come to a riper age, what a -stir the marriage made. Why, they even said the King--William IV., you -know--sent for Oglethorpe and remonstrated with him. Of course, a -Bellamont can always find a man to make an honest woman of her, but she -seldom has the good fortune to bear off such a prize as was John -Oglethorpe. That wasn't, however, the most amazing part of the story. -Within a few months of her marriage Mrs. Oglethorpe fell under the -influence of a preacher--a second Fletcher of Madeley. But she was -evidently not the woman to rest content with being a mere disciple, and -so, with the active help of her husband, she set herself to build up -that strange kind of religious phalanstery which I have described to -you, and in which the future Lady Wantley was born and bred. Rosina -Bellamont was one of those women who are born to good fortune as the -sparks fly upward, and her luck did not desert her in the one matter in -which she could hardly have counted on it----' - -Downing looked up. 'You mean the marriage of her daughter?' he said. - -'Of course I do,' returned the old man vigorously. 'In those days peers -didn't hold forth at Exeter Hall--in fact, Wantley was the first of that -breed; and by great good fortune, chance--I suppose it _was_ chance, eh, -George?--brought him to Oglethorpe. The odd thing was his going there at -all; once there, 'twas natural he should feel attracted.' - -'I suppose Lady Wantley is like her daughter?' said Downing. - -'God bless my soul, no! Lady Wantley's an Oglethorpe. Penelope's a----' -The old man did not finish his sentence, but turned it off with: 'She's -quite unlike her mother. Pity she wasn't a boy. The present man's no -good to 'em--I mean to Lady Wantley and Penelope. Why should he be? He -wasn't fairly treated. Of course he got Marston Lydiate, for that's -entailed; but the place in Dorset, Monk's Eype, and all the money, were -left away to the girl, although I did my best for him. Wantley spoke to -me about it, but I couldn't move him; and then he was hardly cold before -Penelope married her millionaire! A marriage, George, a marriage----' -Words failed Mr. Gumberg. For the third time he repeated, 'A -marriage'--his old eyes gleamed maliciously--'which was no marriage! You -understand, eh? _Mensa non thorus_--that was the notion. Common among -the early Christians, I believe. Well, no one can say what the end of it -would have been, for nature abhors a vacuum; but the poor monkish -creature died, caught small-pox from a foreign sailor, and the -bewitching girl was left all the Robinson millions!' - -'Then I suppose you advised restitution to young Lord Wantley?' - -Mr. Gumberg chuckled. He evidently thought his guest intended a grim -joke. 'The sort of thing a trustee would suggest, eh, George?' But -Downing was apparently quite serious. - -'I don't see why not,' he said. 'Do you mean that Lord Wantley is -penniless?' - -Mr. Gumberg nodded. 'Something very like it,' he declared. 'Of course, -the old man--though he was twenty years younger than I am now when he -died--had some show of reason for the unfair thing he did. People always -have. When he, and I suppose Lady Wantley, realized that they were not -likely to have a son, he gave his heir--his third cousin, I fancy--the -family living of Marston Lydiate, and years afterwards the man became a -Romanist! Wantley chose to consider himself very much injured. He never -saw his cousin again, and for years never took any notice of the boy--in -fact, not till the ex-parson was dead.' - -'Is young Lord Wantley a Roman Catholic?' asked Downing indifferently. - -'No, he's not,' said Mr. Gumberg. 'The other day I heard him described -as "a stickit Papist," and I suppose that's about what he is. But -where's your interest in these people, George?' Mr. Gumberg asked -suddenly. 'You don't know 'em, do you?' - -Downing hesitated. He was in the mood in which men feel almost compelled -to make unexpected and amazing confidences, but the words which were so -nearly being said were never uttered. - -Cutting across his hesitation, his half-formed impulse of taking his old -friend into his confidence, came the exclamation: 'Why, of course! -You've met her! When I heard from you at Pol les Thermes I felt sure -there was someone else there that I knew, but I couldn't think who it -was at the moment. However, that don't matter now, for it seems you've -found each other out! I didn't say too much, George, did I? She _is_ a -beautiful creature?' - -Mr. Gumberg's assertion was not without a note of interrogation. He -sometimes felt an uneasy suspicion that his standards, especially in the -matter of feminine loveliness, were not always blindly accepted by the -generations that had succeeded his own. But Downing's answer reassured -him. - -'I agree with you absolutely,' he said very gravely. 'I do not remember -a more beautiful woman, even in the old days.' - -This tribute to his taste sent Mr. Gumberg to bed in high good-humour; -and as he made his slow progress along the passage, leaning on Downing's -friendly arm, he kept muttering, 'Glad you met her--glad you met her.' -So often are we inclined to rejoice at happenings which, if we knew -more, we might regard as calamities. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - '... a queen - By virtue of her brow and breast; - Not needing to be crowned, I mean.' - - BROWNING. - - -I - -When Penelope Wantley became the mistress of Monk's Eype, she left the -villa as she had always known it, for her sense of beauty compelled her -to approve the few changes which had been made to the great bare rooms -during her father's long tenure of the place. As child and as girl she -had found there much that satisfied her craving for the romantic and the -exquisite in nature and in art; and long after she was a grown-up woman -the flagged terraces, each guarded by a moss-grown balustrade, broken at -one end by steep stone steps which led from one rampart to another, -commanding all the way down the blue-green and grey bars of moving water -below, served as background to the memoried delights of her childhood. - -Penelope the woman had but to withdraw herself from what was about her -to see once more the child Penelope, watching with fascinated gaze the -stone and marble denizens of the gardens and the wood. In the summer -twilight, just before little Penelope went up to bed, the graceful -water-nymphs sometimes came down from their pedestals on the -bowling-green which lay beyond the western wing of the villa, and the -malicious, teasing faun, leaving the spot from which he gazed over the -changing seas, ranged at will through the little pine-wood edging the -open down. Even in the daylight the little girl sometimes thought she -caught glimpses of gentle green-capped fairies--a whole world of -strange, uncanny folk--who played 'touch' and blind-man's buff among the -hanging creepers and at the foot of each of the flower-laden bushes -which covered the slopes of this enchanted garden. - -In these fancies the young friends who occasionally came over to see -her, riding their ponies or driving their governess-carts, from distant -country-houses, had never any share. More was told to a boy with whom at -one time little Penelope had been much thrown. David Winfrith, the son -of a neighbouring clergyman, who, when shunned for no actual fault of -his own, had seen himself and his only child received very kindly by -Lord and Lady Wantley, was older than Penelope by those three or four -years which in childhood count so much, and later count so little. He -had spent more than one holiday at Monk's Eype, sharing Penelope's -play-room, which, partly hollowed out of the cliff, was lifted a few -feet above the beach by rude stone pillars. There a large solid table, -filling up the whole space in front of the wide window, made a fine -'vantage-ground for the display of the boy's skill as toy-maker and -boat-builder. - -Penelope, looking back, associated David Winfrith with her earliest -memories of Monk's Eype, and for her the villa, especially certain of -the great rooms of which the furnishings had been so little disturbed -for close on a hundred years, was instinct also with the thought and the -vanished figure of her father, who, when wearied and cast down by being -brought into contact with the misery he did so much to relieve, found in -his western home a great source of consolation and peace. - - -II - -Lord Wantley, or rather his wife, had been among the first and most -ardent patrons of the group of painters who chose to be known as the -Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. More than one of these had spent happy days -at Monk's Eype, and it had been owing to the advice of the most famous -survivor of the early P.R.B. that Penelope had been allowed, and even -encouraged, to devote much of her early girlhood to the serious pursuit -of art. How far her parents had been right her mother sometimes doubted; -but there could be no doubt that the great artist had truly divined in -the beautiful girl a touch of exceptional power--some would have called -it by a rarer name. It was not his fault if such circumstances as youth, -rank, beauty, and ultimately great wealth, had asserted their claims, -and turned one who might have been a great woman artist into an amateur. - -Therefore it was rather as a lover of beauty and as a woman, fully, if -rather disdainfully, conscious of her own feminine supremacy, that Mrs. -Robinson had been so far well content to leave the spacious rooms of her -own, as it had been her father's, favourite home, in much the same order -as when they had been arranged under the eye of her great-uncle Ludovic, -known in local story as the Popish Lord Wantley. - -There was a side of her nature which made her feel peculiarly at ease -among the faded splendours of these Italian-looking rooms. Her tall -figure, slenderly stately in its proportions; the small, well-poised -head; clear-cut, delicate features; deep, troubled-looking blue eyes; -masses of red-brown hair, drawn high above the broad low forehead, in -the fashion worn when powdered locks lent charm to the plainest face--in -short, her whole presence and individuality made a satisfying harmony -with faded brocades, the ivory inlaid chairs and tables, and the massive -gilt dower-chests, which had no desecration to fear from their present -owner's beautiful hands. - -That Penelope could create as well as preserve beauty of -surroundings--the one power seems nowadays as rare as the other--was -seen in the room, half studio, half library, where, when at Monk's Eype, -she chose to spend much of her time. - -Situated at the extreme western end of the villa, on which, indeed, it -still formed a strange excrescence, the room had been added to the main -building at a time when Penelope's parents had been inclined to believe -much more than they afterwards came to do in the power of eloquent -speech. The substantial brick walls of the hall, as it was still called -by some of the older servants, had witnessed curious gatherings, and -heard the voices of many a famous lay-preacher dealing with schemes -which, whether practical or nebulous, had all the same single -purpose--that of leaving the world better than it had been before. - -Penelope Wantley, as a little girl, had once been taken, when in Paris, -to see a certain old lady, who had in her day played a considerable role -in the brilliant society of the forties. The room in which the English -visitors had been received made a deep impression on the child's -imagination. The walls were painted in that soft shade of blue which the -turquoise is said to assume when a heart is untrue to its wearer, and -which is of all tints that best suited to be a background, whether of -human beings or of paintings; and the old lady's furniture had been -hidden in what the little Penelope had likened to herself as white -dimity overalls. The windows looked out on a fine old garden, along -whose shady paths had once walked blind Chateaubriand, led by Madame -Recamier. - -Many years later, when Mrs. Robinson was arranging and transforming the -one room at Monk's Eype which she felt at liberty to alter and to -arrange after her own fancy, she followed, perhaps unconsciously, the -scheme of colouring which had so much pleased her childish fancy. But -whereas in the French lady's salon there had been no books--indeed, no -sign that such a thing as literature existed in the world--books were -not lacking at Monk's Eype. Had Penelope followed her own natural -instinct, perhaps she would have kept even more closely than she had -done to the Frenchwoman's example; but, though she prided herself on -being one of the most unconventional of human beings, she was naturally -influenced by the atmosphere in which she had always moved and lived. - -'By Penelope's books you may know, not Penelope, but Penelope's -friends,' her cousin, Lord Wantley, had once observed. He had been -tempted to substitute the word 'adorers' for 'friends,' but had checked -himself in time, recollecting that the man with whom he was speaking was -one to whom the warmer term was notoriously applicable. - -As to what the books were--for there was no lack of variety--French -novels, much old and modern verse, mock-erudite volumes, and pamphlets -of the type that are written a hundredfold round whatever happens to be -the fad of the moment, warred here and there with a substantial -Blue-Book, or, stranger still, with some volume which contained deep and -painful probings into the gloomier problems of life. Such were the -contents of the book-shelves, which, by a curious conceit of the present -owner of Monk's Eype, framed the tall narrow door connecting her studio -with the rest of the building. - -Lord Wantley would also have told you that his brilliant cousin never -read. That, however, would have been unjust and untrue. Mrs. Robinson, -however deeply absorbed in other things, always found time to glance -through the books certain of her friends were good enough to send her. - -Sometimes, indeed, she felt considerable interest in what she had been -bidden to read, and almost always she showed an extraordinary, if -passing, insight into the author's meaning; but to tell the truth, and I -hope that in so doing I shall not prejudice my readers against my -heroine, she was one of those women, a greater number than is in these -days suspected, who regard literature much as the modern civilized man -of the world regards art. Such a man goes to those exhibitions which -have been specially mentioned to him as worthy of notice, but even to -the best of these it would never occur to him to go, save with a -pleasant companion, a second time; and in buying, it is always the -expert on whom he leans, not his own taste and judgment. In the same way -Penelope was always willing to read any volume which her world was -discussing at the moment, but she would have been a happier woman had -she been able sometimes to take up, not necessarily a classic, but at -any rate a book of yesterday rather than of to-day. - -But if literature was in her room only used in a decorative sense, the -water-colours and drawings, the casts, and the bas-reliefs, which were -so hung as to form a low dado down the whole length of the studio, were -one and all of remarkable quality, and here you touched the quick -reality of Penelope's life. In these matters she needed no advice, for, -while as an artist she was truly humble, she only cared to measure -herself with the best. - -There was something pathetic in this beautiful woman's desire to -discover hidden genius; only certain French painters with whom she -herself from time to time still studied could have told how generous and -how intelligent was the help she was ever ready to bestow on those of -her fellow art-students whose means were more slender than their talent. -It was to these, so rich and yet so poor, that her heart really warmed; -it was on them that she bestowed what time that she could spare from -herself. - -And yet the room which was specially her own showed very few signs of -artistic occupation. True, on a plain table were set out paint-boxes, -palettes, sketch-books; but an unobservant visitor might have come and -gone without knowing that the woman he had come to see ever took up a -pencil or used a brush. - -The broad low dado, composed of comparatively small water-colours, -drawings, and bas-reliefs, was twice broken, each time by a glazed -oil-painting, each time by the portrait of a woman. - -To the left of the book-framed door, hung a painting of Penelope's -mother, Lady Wantley. - -At every period of her life Lady Wantley had been one of those women -whom artists delight to paint, and the great artist whose work this was -had often had the privilege. But perhaps owing to certain peculiar -circumstances connected with this portrait, it was the one of them that -he himself preferred. The painting had been a commission from the sitter -herself; she had wished to give this portrait to her husband on his -sixtieth birthday, and together she and the painter, her friend, who had -once owed to her and to Lord Wantley much in the way of sympathy and -encouragement, had desired to suggest in the composition something which -would be symbolic of what had been an almost ideal wedded life. - -Then, without warning, when the scheme had been scarcely sketched out, -had come Lord Wantley's death away from home, and the portrait, scarcely -begun, had been hastily put away, counted by the artist as among those -half-finished things destined to remain tragic in their incompleteness. -But some months later his old friend and patroness, clad in no widow's -weeds, but in the curious black-and-white flowing draperies, and close -Quakerish bonnet, which had become to her friends and acquaintances -almost a portion of her identity, had come to see him, and he learnt -that she wished her portrait should be finished. - -'He always disliked the unfinished, the incomplete,' she had said rather -wistfully; and the artist had carried out her wish, finding little to -alter, though, perhaps, in the interval between the first and the -second sitting the colourless skin of the sitter had lost something of -its clearness, the heavy-lidded grey eyes had gained somewhat in -dimness, and the hair from dark brown had become grey. - -The painter himself substituted, for the lilies which were to have -filled in part of the background, a sheaf of rosemary. - -The other picture had a less intimate history; and the only two people -who ever ventured to criticise Penelope had both, not in any concert -with one another, suggested that another place might be found for the -kitcat portrait, by Romney, of Mrs. Robinson's famous namesake, than -that where it now hung in juxtaposition with that of Lady Wantley. - - -III - -Beneath this last portrait, holding herself upright on the low white -couch, a girl, Cecily Wake, sat waiting. She looked round the room with -an affectionate appreciation of its special charm--a charm destined to -be less apparent when seen as a frame to its brilliant mistress, who had -the gift, so often the perquisite of beauty, of making places as well as -people seem out of perspective. Cecily herself, all unconsciously, -completed the low-toned picture by adding a delicious touch of fragrant -youth. - -Only Mrs. Robinson in all good faith considered Cecily Wake pretty. -True, she had the abundant hair, the clear eyes, the white teeth, which -seemed to Mr. Gumberg so essential to feminine loveliness; but beautiful -she was not--indeed, none of her friends denied her those qualities -which the plain are always being told count so much more than beauty; -that is, abundant kindliness, a sterling honesty, and a certain fiery -loyalty which both touched and diverted those who knew her. - -To be worshipped in the heroic manner--that is, to be the object of -hero-worship--is almost always pleasant, especially if the divinity is -conscious that he or she has indeed done something to deserve it. -Penelope Robinson had rescued her young kinswoman from a mode of living -which had been peculiarly trying and unsuitable to one of an active, -ardent mind; more, she had provided her with work--something to do which -Cecily had felt was worth the doing. As all this had not been achieved -without what Penelope considered a great deal of trouble on her part, -she did not feel herself wholly undeserving of the deep affection -lavished on her by the girl whom she chose to call cousin, though in -truth the relationship was a very distant one. - -Mrs. Robinson had just now the more reason to be satisfied both with her -own conduct and with that of her young friend. When it had been settled -that Cecily should spend a portion of her holiday--for she was one of -those happy people who, even when grown up, have holidays--at Monk's -Eype, it had not occurred to Penelope to include in her invitation the -aunt from whom she had rescued her friend, and she had been surprised -when Cecily had refused in a short, rather childishly-worded note. 'Of -course, I should like to come to you, and it is very kind of you to ask -me, but I cannot leave my aunt. She has been so looking forward to my -holiday, and, after all, I shall enjoy being at Brighton, near my old -convent.' Such had been Cecily's answer to her dear Penelope's -invitation, and, though she had shed bitter tears over it, she had sent -off her letter without consulting the old lady, to whom she was -sacrificing so great a joy. - -Happily for the world, there is a kind of unselfishness, which, as a -French theologian rather pungently put it, 'fait des petits,' and Mrs. -Robinson's answer had been responsive. 'Of course, I meant your aunt to -come, too,' she wrote, lying. 'I enclose a note for her. I shall be very -glad to see her here.' There she wrote the truth, for only exceptional -people object to meet those whom they have vanquished in fair fight. - -This was why Cecily Wake, supremely content, was sitting, late in the -afternoon of a hot August day, in her cousin's pretty room. - -The glass doors were wide open, and from the flagged terrace blew in the -warm, gentle sea-wind. - -Cecily was still so young in body and in mind that she really preferred -work to play; nevertheless, playtime was very pleasant, especially now -that she was beginning to feel a little tired after the long journey -from town, and the more fatiguing experience of seeing to the unpacking -of her aunt's boxes, and of establishing her in bed. - -The elder Miss Wake was one of those women who, perhaps not altogether -unfortunately for their friends, enjoy poor health, and make it the -excuse for seldom doing anything which either annoys or bores them. -Occasionally, however, to her own surprise and disgust, Poor Health the -servant became Ill Health the master, and to-day outraged nature had -insisted on having the last word. This was why the aunt, really tired, -and suffering from a real headache, was lying upstairs, thinking, not -ungratefully, that Cecily, in spite of many modern peculiarities and -headstrong theories of life, was certainly in time of illness as -comforting a presence as might have been that ideal niece the aunt would -fain have had her be. - -Perhaps the great characteristic of youth is the power of ardently -looking forward to the enjoyment of an ideal pleasure. To retain even -the power of keen disappointment is to retain youth. Cecily Wake had -longed for this visit to Monk's Eype much as a different kind of girl -longs for her first ball, but, instead of feeling disappointed at being -received with the news that her hostess, after making all kinds of small -arrangements for her own and her aunt's comfort, had gone out riding, -she had felt relieved that the meeting between Miss Wake and Mrs. -Robinson had been put off till the former had regained her usual tart -serenity. - -The girl enjoyed these moments of quiet in what was, to one who had had -few opportunities of living amid beautiful surroundings, the most -charming room she had ever seen. Most of all, she delighted in one -exquisite singularity which it owed to the fancy of Lady Wantley. Not -long after it had been built, and while it was still being used as a -lecture-hall, Lady Wantley had had an oblong opening effected in the -brickwork just above the plain stone mantelpiece. - -This opening, filled with clear glass, was ever bringing into the room, -as no mere window could have done, a sense of nearness to the breezy -stretch of down, studded with gnarled, wind-twisted pine-trees, standing -out darkly against the irregular coast-line which stretched itself, with -many a fantastic turn, towards Plymouth. - - -IV - -The tall book-framed door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Robinson walked -swiftly in. As she came down the room, a smile of real pleasure and -welcome lighting up her face, Cecily was almost startled by the look of -vigorous grace and vitality with which the whole figure was instinct, -and which was accentuated rather than lessened by the short skirt, the -dun-coloured coat, and soft hat, which fashion, for once wedded to -sense, has decreed should be the modern riding-dress. - -Almost involuntarily the girl exclaimed: 'How well you look!' - -'Do I?' Penelope sat down close to Cecily; then she leant across and -lightly kissed the young girl's round cheek. 'I ought to look well after -a long ride with David Winfrith. You know, he has just been made -Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the new Government.' - -'Oh, is he here, too?' Cecily spoke disappointedly. She had hoped, -rather foolishly, that Penelope would be alone at Monk's Eype. - -'No, he's not staying here. His own home is close by. We must go over -there some time and see his old father; you would like him, Cecily, -better than you do the son.' She hesitated, then continued in the -curiously modulated voice which was one of her peculiarities: 'We had -such a ride--such a discussion--such a quarrel--such a reconciliation! -Oh yes, I feel much better than I did yesterday.' - -'Was it about the Settlement?' Cecily fixed her thoughtful, honest eyes -on her friend's face. - -'Our discussion? No, no! My dear child, you must forget all about the -Settlement while you are here. I want to tell you about the people you -are going to meet. First, there's my mother, who, in theory, will spend -a good deal of time with your aunt, though in practice I shall be -surprised if they often speak to one another, for they are too utterly -unlike even to differ. Then there's my cousin, Lord Wantley. I'm afraid -you won't like him very much, for he makes fun of me--and of the -Settlement, too. But it isn't fair to tell you that! I want you to make -friends with him. You must spare him some of the pity you are so ready -to lavish on poor people who are unhappy or unlucky--Ludovic has been -rather unlucky, and he has a perfect genius for making himself unhappy.' - -'Lord Wantley is Catholic, is he not?' Cecily spoke with some -hesitation. She knew her aunt had told her something concerning -Penelope's cousin, but she could not remember what it was which had been -told her. - -Penelope looked up from the task of unbuttoning her gloves. 'No, he's -nothing of the kind,' she said decidedly, 'but perhaps he ought to be. -Who knows--Miss Wake may perhaps convert him,' she smiled rather -satirically. Cecily looked troubled; she was beginning to realize that -her holiday would be very different from what she had hoped and expected -it to be. 'Seriously, I want you to interest him in the Settlement. We -cannot expect David Winfrith to go on doing as much for us as he has -been doing. Besides'--she hesitated, and a shadow crossed the radiant -face--'I am thinking of making certain arrangements which will greatly -alter his position in the whole affair.' - -'But what would the Settlement do without Mr. Winfrith?' There was utter -dismay in the tone. - -'Well, we needn't discuss all that now. I only mean that Lord Wantley is -what people used to call a man of parts, and I have never been able to -see why he should not do more for me--I mean, of course, in this one -matter of the Settlement--than he has done as yet. He has led a very -selfish life.' Penelope spoke with much vigour. 'He has never done -anything for anybody, not even for himself, and what energy he has had -to spare has always been expended in the wrong direction. The only time -I have ever known him show any zeal was just after my father's death, -when he presented the chapel of the monastery at Beacon Abbas, near -here, with a window in memory of his father.' A whimsical smile flitted -across her face. 'I rather admired his pluck, but of course if my mother -had been another kind of woman it would have meant that we should have -broken with him. For my father, as all the world knew, had a great -prejudice against Roman Catholics, and Ludovic could not have done a -thing which would have annoyed him more.' - -Cecily made no comment. Instead, she observed, diffidently, 'I will -certainly try and interest him in the Settlement. I have brought down -the new report.' - -A delightful dimple came and went on Mrs. Robinson's curved cheek. 'I -think your spoken remarks,' she said seriously, 'will impress Ludovic -more than the new report; in fact, he would probably only pretend to -read it. Most people only pretend to read reports.' - -She got up, and walked to the plain deal table where lay a half-finished -sketch of the flagged terrace and the pierced stone parapet; then she -opened the drawer where she kept various odds and ends connected with -her work. - -'Tell me,' she said a little hurriedly, her face bent over the open -drawer as if seeking for something she had mislaid--'tell me, Cecily, -have you had any weddings at the Settlement? In my time there was much -marrying and giving in marriage.' - -'So there is now.' Cecily was eager to prove that the Settlement was not -deteriorating. Even to her loyal heart there was something strange and -unsatisfactory in Mrs. Robinson's apparent lack of interest in the work -to which she devoted so considerable a share of her large income each -year. But often she would tell herself that it was natural that her -friend should shrink from mentioning, more than was necessary, the place -which had been so intimately bound up with the tragedy of her husband's -early and heroic death. - -Cecily had never seen Melancthon Robinson, but she had of late been -constantly thrown in company with those over whom even his vanished -personality exercised an extraordinary influence. The fact that Penelope -had been his chosen coadjutor, that she was now, in spite of any -appearance to the contrary, his ever-mourning widow, was never absent -from the girl's mind. When the two young women were together this belief -added a touch of reverence to the affection with which Cecily regarded -her brilliant friend. And now she blushed with pleasure even to hear -this passing careless word of interest in the place and in the human -beings round whom she was now weaving so much innocent and practical -romance. - -In her eagerness Cecily also got up, and stood on the other side of the -table, over whose open drawer Penelope was still bending. 'Perhaps you -remember the Tobutts--the man who got crushed by a barrel? Well, his -daughter, who is in my cooking class, is engaged to a very nice drayman. -She is such a good girl, and I----' - -Penelope suddenly raised her head. She had at last found what she had -been seeking. - -Cecily stopped speaking somewhat abruptly. She felt a little mortified, -a little injured, as we are all apt to do when we feel that we have been -talking to space, for Mrs. Robinson's face was filled with the spirit of -withdrawal. It often was so when anything reminded her of that fragment -of her past life to which she looked back with a sense of almost angry -amazement. And yet she had surely heard what her companion had been -saying-- - -'A good girl?' she repeated absently! then, hurrying over the words as -if anxious they should get themselves said and heard: 'I wish you to -give to her, or to some other girl you really like, and whose young man -you think well of, this wedding ring. Please don't say it comes from me. -And, Cecily, one thing more--you need not tell me to whom you have given -it.' - -Poor Cecily! perhaps she was slow-witted, but no thought of the true -significance of the little incident crossed her mind. Mrs. Robinson was -famed among the workers of the Settlement for her odd, intelligent -little acts of kindness, accordingly a pretty romance somewhat in this -wise thistle-downed itself on the girl's brain: Characters--Penelope and -Poor Lady. Poor Lady--stress of poverty--having to part with cherished -possessions, has good luck to meet Mrs. Robinson who buys from her, -among other things--of course at a fancy price--her wedding-ring. -Remembering that gold wedding-rings are prized heirlooms in the -neighbourhood of the Settlement---- - -'It would greatly add to the value of the gift,' Cecily said shyly, 'if -I might say it came from you.' - -'No, no, no!' Mrs. Robinson spoke with sharp decision; her blue eyes -narrowed and darkened in displeasure. 'My dear child, you don't -understand. Come!'--she made an effort to speak lightly, even -caressingly--'do not let us say anything more about it.' Then, looking -rather coldly into the other's startled eyes, she added: 'I have never -before known you wanting in _la politesse du coeur_. Haven't you heard -the expression before? No? Well, it was a famous Frenchman's definition -of tact.' - -She laid her left hand on the girl's arm, and, as they moved together -towards the door, Cecily became aware that the hand lying on her arm was -ringless. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - 'The inner side of every cloud - Is bright and shining: - I therefore turn my clouds about, - And always wear them inside out, - To show the lining!' - - -I - -Cecily Wake had not been brought up by her aunt. Even before the death -of her father, which had followed that of her mother at an interval of -some years, she had been placed in one of those convent schools which, -in certain exceptional circumstances, take quite little children as -boarders. Accordingly, till the age of eighteen, the only home she had -ever known was the large, old-fashioned Georgian manor-house near -Brighton, which had been adapted to suit the requirements of the French -nuns who had first gone there in 1830. - -As time went on that branch of the Order which had settled in England -had become cosmopolitan in character. Among those who joined it were -many English women, one of them a sister of Cecily's mother. But the -Gallic nationality dies hard, even in those who claim to be citizens of -the heavenly kingdom, and Cecily's convent remained French in tradition, -in methods of education, and in the importance attached by the nuns to -such accomplishments as bed-making, sewing, cooking, and feminine -deportment. They also taught the duty of rather indiscriminate charity, -holding, with the saint who had been their founder, that it is better to -give alms to nine impostors rather than risk refusing the tenth just -beggar; but this interpretation of a Divine precept was unconsciously -abandoned by Cecily after she had become intimately acquainted with the -conditions of life which surrounded the Melancthon Settlement. Still -even there she remained, to the regret of her colleagues, curiously -open-handed, and--what was worse, for a principle was involved--she -always, during her connection with the Settlement, persisted in saying -that she herself, were she in the place of the deserving seeker for -help, would rather receive half a crown in specie than five shillings' -worth of goods chosen by some one else! - -As for education, in the modern sense of the word, Cecily was, and -remained, very deficient; many subjects now taught to every school-girl -were never even mentioned within the convent walls, and this was -specially true of all the 'ologies, including theology. On the other -hand, Cecily and her school-fellows were taught to read, write and talk -with accuracy two languages. The daughter of a man who has left his mark -on English literature, and whose children had one by one returned to the -old fold, taught them English composition, as she herself had been -taught it by a good old-fashioned governess. This nun, a curious -original person, also introduced the elder girls under her charge to -much of the sound early Victorian fiction with which she herself had -been familiar in her youth. - -The Superioress, who reserved to herself the supervision of all the -French classes, was a fine vigorous old woman, the daughter of a -Legitimist who had been among the leaders of the Duchesse de Berri's -abortive rising. As was natural, she held and taught very strong views -concerning the state, past and present, of her beloved native country. -To her everything which had taken place in France before the Revolution -had been more or less well done, while all that had followed it was evil -and reprobate. Without going so far as to show Louis XIV. 'etudiant les -plans du General La Valliere et du Colonel Montespan,' she completely -hid from her pupils the ugly side of the old regime, and exhibited the -Sun King as among the most glorious descendants of St. Louis. To her the -romance of French history was all woven in and about Versailles, the -town where she had herself spent her girlhood, and on the steps of whose -palace her own uncle had fallen in defending the apartments of Marie -Antoinette on the historic 5th of October. The many heroic episodes of -the revolution and of the Vendean wars were as familiar to this old nun, -who had spent more than half her long life in England, as if she had -herself taken part in them, and she delighted in stirring her own and -her pupils' blood by their recital. - -So Cecily's heroes and heroines all wore doublet and hose, or hoops, -patches, and powder. Most of them spoke French, though in the spacious -chambers of her imagination there was room left for Charles I., his -Cavaliers, and their valiant wives and daughters. - -Equally real to the girl were the saints and martyrs with whose -histories she was naturally as familiar, and it was characteristic of -her sunny and kindly nature that she early adopted as her patroness and -object of special veneration that child-martyr whose very name is -unknown, and to whom was accordingly given by the Fathers that of -Theophila--the friend of God. - -Cecily, knowing very well what it was to be without those ties with -which most little girls are blessed, thought it probable that even in -heaven St. Theophila must sometimes feel a little lonely, especially -when she compared herself with such popular saints--from the human point -of view--as St. Theresa, St. Catherine, St. Anthony, and St. Francis. - -Perhaps some of the nuns, who in the course of long years had grown to -regard Cecily Wake as being as integral a part of their community as -they were themselves, hoped that she would finally follow their own -excellent example. This was specially the wish of the old house-sister -who had been appointed the nurse of the motherless little girl whose -arrival at the convent had been the source of such interest and -amusement to its inmates. But the Mother Superior cherished no such -hopes, or, rather, no such illusion. Not long before Cecily left the -convent for 'the world'--as all that lies beyond their gates is -generally styled by religious--the nuns spent a portion of their -recreation in discussing the girl who was in so special a sense their -own child, and whose approaching departure caused some among them keen -pain. The Mother Superior heard all that was said, and then, speaking in -her native tongue, and with the decision that marked her slightest -utterances, observed: 'Cette petite fera le bonheur de quelque honnete -homme. Elle est faite pour cela.' After a short pause, and with a -twinkle in her small brown eyes, she had added: 'Et il ne sera pas a -plaindre, celui-la!' - -Cecily's first introduction to the world was not of a nature to make her -fall in love with its pomps and vanities. The busy, cheerful conventual -household, largely composed of girls of her own age, where each day was -lived according to rule, every hour bringing its appointed duty or -pleasure, was an unfortunate preparation for life in a small Mayfair -lodging, spent in sole company with a nervous elderly woman, who, while -capable of making a great sacrifice of comfort in order to do her duty -by her great-niece, was yet very unwilling to have the even tenor of her -life upset more than was absolutely necessary. - -The elder Miss Wake, from her own point of view, had not neglected -Cecily during the years the girl had been at school. She had made a -point of spending each year the Christmas fortnight at Brighton, and of -entertaining the child for one week of that fortnight. During those -successive eight days the elder lady had always been on her best -behaviour, and Cecily easy to amuse. Then, also, the child had many -school-fellows in Brighton, and her aunt always took her once each year -to the play. Cecily remembered these brief yearly holidays with -pleasure, and when about to leave the convent she looked forward to life -in London as to an existence composed of a perpetual round of pleasant -meetings with old school-fellows, of evenings at the theatre, varied -with visits and benefactions to Arcadian poor, for Cecily, after a -sincere childish fashion, was anxious to do her duty to those whom she -esteemed to be less fortunate than herself. - -The reality had proved, as realities are apt to do, very different from -what she had imagined. The elder Miss Wake, like so many of those women -born in a day when no career--and it might almost be said no pleasant -mode of life--was open to gentlewomen of straitened means, had learnt to -content herself with a way of existence which lacked every source of -healthy excitement, interest, and pleasure. - -Her one amusement, her only anodyne, was novel-reading. For her and her -like were written the three-volume love-stories, full of sentiment and -mild adventure, for which the modern spinster no longer has a use. When -absorbed in one of these romances, she was able to put aside, to push, -as it were, into the background of her mind, her most incessant, though -never mentioned, subject of thought. This was the problem of how to make -her small income suffice, not only to her simple wants, but to the -upkeep of the consideration she thought due to one of her name and -connections. - -Miss Theresa Wake never forgot that she belonged to a family which, in -addition to being almost the oldest in England, would now have been -doubtless great and powerful had it not remained faithful to a creed of -which the profession in the past had meant the loss of both property and -rank. - -Settling down in London at the age of fifty, after a bitter quarrel with -her only remaining brother, a small squire in the North of England, she -had taken the ground-floor of a lodging-house of which the landlord and -his wife had come from her own native village, and therefore grudged her -none of that respect which she looked for from people in their position. - -In their more prosperous days the Wakes had married into various great -Northern families, and Miss Wake was thus connected with several of her -Mayfair neighbours. For a while after her removal to London she had kept -in touch with a certain number of people whose names spelled power and -consideration, but as the years went on, and as her income lowered some -pounds each year, she gradually broke with most of those whose -acquaintanceship with her had only been based, as she well knew, on a -good-natured acceptance of the claim of distant kinship. From some few -she continued, rather resentfully, to accept such tokens of remembrance -as boxes of flowers and presents of game; an ever-narrowing circle left -cards at the beginning of the season, and fewer still would now and -again come in and spend half an hour in her dreary sitting-room. These -last, oddly enough, almost always belonged to the newer generation, the -children of those whose parents she had once called friends; when a -stroke of good fortune had come to these young people, sometimes when a -feeling of happy vitality almost oppressed them, a call on Miss Wake -took the shape of a small dole to fate. - -There had been in the very long ago a marriage between a Wake and an -Oglethorpe. Lord and Lady Wantley had made this fact the excuse to be -persistently courteous and kind to the peculiar spinster lady, and in -this matter Penelope had followed her parents' example. - -Two or three times a year--in fact, it might almost be said, whenever -she was in London--Penelope Robinson shed the radiance of her brilliant -presence on the dowdy little lodging, always paying Miss Wake the -compliment of coming at the right time, that is, between four and six, -and of being beautifully dressed. On one such occasion, when she might -surely have been forgiven for cutting short her call, for she was on the -way to a royal garden-party, she had actually prolonged her visit nearly -forty minutes! - -Yet another time she had come in for only a moment, but bringing with -her a gift which had deeply moved Miss Wake, for the noble water-colour -drawing seemed to bear into the dingy London sitting-room a breath of -the rolling hills and limitless dales of that tract of country which -lies in Yorkshire on the border of Westmorland, and which the old lady -still felt to be home. 'I thought you would like it,' Penelope had -exclaimed eagerly. 'I went over to Cargill Force from Oglethorpe, and I -chose the place----' - -'I know,' had interrupted Miss Wake, her voice trembling a little in -spite of herself. 'You must have drawn it from the mound by the Old -Lodge. I recognise the fir-tree, though it must have grown a good deal -since I was there last. The hills seem further off than they used to do -years ago, and, of course, we do not often have such bad weather as that -you have shown here. There are often long days without any rain.' - -Penelope had driven away a little chilled. 'I wonder if she would have -preferred a photograph,' she said to herself. But Miss Wake would not -have preferred a photograph. She saw not Nature as her cousin, Mrs. -Robinson, saw it, and she by no means wished she could; but she found -herself looking more often, and always with increasing conviction of its -truth, at the painting which showed the storm-god let loose over the -wild expanse of country which formed the background to all her early -life and associations. Finally Miss Wake hung the water-colour in the -place of honour over her mantelpiece, where she could herself always see -it from where she sat nursing both her real and her fancied ailments. - -This slight account of the elder Miss Wake will perhaps make it clear -how grievous was her perplexity when she decided that it was her duty to -take charge of her now grown-up niece. The idea that the girl might, and -indeed should, work for her livelihood never presented itself to the -aunt's mind, and yet the matter had been one that grimly reduced itself -to pounds, shillings, and pence. Cecily's income was the interest on a -thousand pounds, and her bare board and bed, to say nothing of clothes, -must cost nearly twice that sum. Miss Wake did the only thing possible: -she gave up all those necessities which she regarded as luxuries, but -sometimes she allowed herself to dwell on the possibility that her niece -would either marry, or develop, as would be so convenient, a religious -vocation. - -The months that followed her arrival in London had the effect of -gradually transforming Cecily Wake from an unthinking child into a -thoughtful young woman. Her energy and power of action, finding no -outlet, flowed back and vitalized her mind and nature. For the first -time she learnt to think, to observe, and to form her own conclusions. -She was only allowed to go out alone to the church close by, and to a -curious old circulating library, originally founded solely with a view -of providing its subscribers with Roman Catholic literature, but which, -as time had gone on, had gradually widened its scope, especially as -regarded works of history, memoirs, and biographies. Novels were -forbidden to the girl, according to the strict rule which had obtained -in Miss Wake's own girlhood, and when Cecily felt the dreary monotony of -her life almost intolerable, she would slip off to church for half an -hour, and return to her aunt, if not cheerful, at least submissive. - -More than once certain of the Jesuit priests, who had long known and -respected the elder Miss Wake, had tried to persuade her to allow her -niece a little more liberty and natural amusement. But, greatly as the -old lady valued the friendship of those whom she considered as both holy -and learned, she did not regard herself at all bound to accept their -advice as to how she should direct the life of her young charge. Above -all, she courteously but firmly declined for her niece any introductions -to other young people. 'Later on I shall perhaps be glad to avail myself -of your kindness,' she would answer a certain kindly old priest, who had -it in his power to open many doors; and he, in spite of a deserved -reputation for knowledge of the world and the human heart, never divined -Miss Wake's chief reason for declining his help--the fact, simple, bald, -unanswerable, that there was no money to buy Cecily even the plainest of -what the old lady, to herself, called 'party frocks.' - -In time Cecily, growing pale from want of air, heavy-eyed from -over-reading, and utterly dispirited from lack of something to do, was -secretly beginning to evolve a scheme of going back to her beloved -convent as pupil-teacher, when, on a most eventful March day, Mrs. -Robinson, driving up Park Street on her way back from a wedding, -suddenly bethought herself that it was a long time since she had called -on her old cousin. - - -II - -To Cecily Wake, her first meeting with the woman to whom she was to give -such faithful affection and long-enduring friendship ever remained -vivid. - -Mrs. Robinson had inherited from her mother, Lady Wantley, the instinct -of dress, that gift which enables a woman to achieve distinction of -appearance with the simplest as with the most splendid materials and -accessories. She rarely wore jewels, but her taste inclined, far more -than that of Lady Wantley had ever done, to the magnificent. Herself an -artist, she dressed, when it was possible to do so, in a fashion which -would have delighted the eyes of the Italian painters of the -Renaissance, and it was perhaps fortunate, in these grey modern days, -that her taste was checked and kept in bounds by the fact, often only -remembered by her when at her dressmaker's, that she was a widow. - -On the day that Mrs. Robinson, calling on Miss Wake, first met Cecily, -the wedding to which she had just been was the excuse for a white velvet -gown of which the brilliancy was softened and attenuated by a cape of -silver-grey fur. To the elder Miss Wake the sight of her lovely -kinswoman always recalled--she could not have told you why--the few -purple patches which had lightened her rather dull youth. The night -after seeing Penelope she would dream of her first ball, again see the -great hall of a famous Northern stronghold filled with the graceful -forms of early Victorian belles, and the stalwart figures of young men -whose brilliant uniforms were soon to be tarnished and blood-stained on -Crimean battle-fields. - -As for Cecily, the girl's lonely heart was stormed by the first kindly -glance of Mrs. Robinson's blue eyes, and it wholly surrendered to the -second, emphasized as it was by the words: 'You should have written and -told me of this new cousin; I should have come sooner to see you both.' - -Then and there, after all due civilities to the aunt had been performed, -the young girl had been carried off, taken for an enchanting drive, not -round the dreary, still treeless park, where, every alternate morning, -Miss Theresa Wake and Cecily walked for an hour by the clock, but -through streets which, even to the convent-bred girl, were peopled with -the shades of those who had once dwelt there. - -Finally, after a long vista of duller, meaner streets, there came a halt -before the wide doors of a long, low building, of which the latticed -windows and white curtains struck a curious note of cleanliness and -refinement in the squalid neighbourhood. - -'Is this a monastery or convent?' Cecily asked. - -Penelope smiled. 'No, but it is a very fair imitation of one. This is -the Melancthon Settlement. Perhaps you have heard of it? No? Ah, well, -this place was built by my husband.' Penelope's voice became graver in -quality. She added, after a short pause: 'I lived here during the whole -of my married life, and of course I still come whenever I'm in town and -can find time to do so.' Something in the girl's face made her add -hastily: 'Not as often as I ought to do.' But to her young companion -this added word was but a further sign of the humility, the thinking ill -of self, which she had always been taught is one of the clearest marks -of sanctity. - -Cecily's mind was filled with empty niches, waiting to be filled with -those heroes and saints with whom she might have the good fortune to -meet in her pilgrimage through life. Straightway, to-day, one of these -niches was filled by Penelope Robinson, and though the radiant figure -sometimes tottered--indeed once or twice nearly fell off its pedestal -altogether--Cecily's belief in her certainly helped the poor latter-day -saint, after her first and worst fit of tottering was over, to live up -to the reputation which had come to her unsought. - - -III - -The large panelled hall sitting-room to which the outside doors of the -Settlement gave almost direct access, and of which the sole ornament, if -such it could be called, consisted of a fine half-length portrait of a -young man whose auburn hair and pale, luminous eyes were those of the -typical enthusiast and dreamer, was soon filled with an eager little -crowd of men and women, who, as if drawn by a magic wand, hastened from -every part of the large building to welcome Mrs. Robinson. - -One slight and very pretty girl, whose short curly hair made her look -somewhat like a charming boy, struck Cecily as very oddly dressed, for -she wore a long straight, snuff-coloured gown, and a string of yellow -beads in guise of sash. Cecily much preferred the look of an older and -quieter-mannered woman, who, after having shaken hands with Mrs. -Robinson, disappeared for some moments, coming back ladened with a large -tea-tray. - -'You see,' said the girl in the snuff-coloured gown--'you see, we wait -on ourselves.' - -'Then there are no servants here?' Cecily spoke rather shyly. She -thought the Settlement quite strangely like a convent. - -'Of yes, of course there are; but tea is such an easy meal to get ready. -Anyone can make tea.' - -Mrs. Robinson had sat down close to the wide fireplace; her face, -resting on her two clasped hands, shone whitely against the grey, -flickering background formed by the flame and smoke of the log fire, -while her fur cape, thrown back, revealed the velvet gown which formed a -patch of soft, pure colour in the twilit room. - -She listened silently to what first one, and then another, of those -round her came forward to say, and Cecily noticed that again and again -came the words, 'We asked Mr. Winfrith,' 'Mr. Winfrith considered,' 'Mr. -Winfrith says.' Suddenly Mrs. Robinson turned, and, addressing the -curly-headed girl, said quickly: 'Daphne, will you show Miss Wake round -the Settlement? I think it would interest her, and I have to discuss a -little business with Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret.' - -Cecily was disappointed. She would so much rather have stayed on in the -hall, listening, in the deepening twilight, to talk and discussions -which vaguely interested her. But she realized that the girl called -Daphne (what a pretty, curious name!--none of the girls at the convent -had been called Daphne) felt also disappointed at this banishment from -Mrs. Robinson's presence, and she admired the readiness with which the -other turned and led the way into the broad stone cloister out of which -many of the rooms of the Settlement opened. - -As Daphne walked she talked. Sometimes her explanations of the use to -which the various rooms through which she led her companion were put -might have been addressed to a little child or to a blind person. Such, -for instance, her remark in the refectory: 'This is where we eat our -breakfast, lunch, and supper--everything but tea, which we take in the -hall.' - -Now and again she would give Cecily her views on the graver social -problems of the moment. Once while standing in the very pretty and -charmingly arranged sitting-room, which was, she proudly said, her very -own, she suddenly asked her first question: 'Does not this remind you of -a convent cell?' But she did not wait for an answer. 'We aim,' she went -on, 'and I think we succeed, in preserving all that was best in the old -monastic system, while doing away with all that was corrupt and absurd. -Personally, I much regret that we do not wear a distinctive dress; in -fact, before I made up my mind to join the Settlement, I designed what I -thought to be an appropriate costume.' She looked down complacently. -'This is it. Does it not remind you of the Franciscan habit? You see the -idea? The yellow beads round my waist recall the rosary which the monks -always wore, and which I suppose they wear now,' she added doubtfully. - -'Oh yes,' said Cecily, 'but not round their waists.' - -'I hesitated rather as to which dress would be the most appropriate, and -which would look best. But brown, if a trying colour to most people, has -always suited me very well, and, though perhaps you do not know it, the -Franciscans had at one time quite a close connection with England. I -mean of course before the Reformation. Monks had such charming taste. -One of my uncles has a delightful country-house which was once a -monastery. Now you have seen, I think, almost everything worth seeing -about the Settlement. I wonder, though, whether you would care to look -into our Founder's room? It is only used by Mr. Hammond when he is doing -the accounts, or seeing someone on particular business. I am sure -Melancthon Robinson would have liked him to use it always, but he hardly -ever goes into it. I can't understand that feeling, can you? I should -think it such a privilege to have been the friend of such a man!' - -But Cecily hardly heard the words, for she was looking about her with -eager interest, trying to reconstitute the personality of the man who -had dwelt where she now stood, and who had been Mrs. Robinson's -beloved--her husband, her master. Severely simple in all its -appointments, two of the walls of the plain square room were lined with -oak bookcases, filled to overflowing, one long line of curiously-bound -volumes specially attracting the eye. - -'Do you know what those are?' asked Daphne; and Cecily, surprised, -realized that her companion awaited her answer with some eagerness. - -'Do you mean those books?' she said. - -The other girl smiled triumphantly. 'Yes. Well, they are Blue-Books. -When people talk to me of the Settlement, and criticize the work that is -done here, I merely ask them _one_ question. I say, "Have you ever read -a Blue-Book?" Of course they nearly always have to answer "No," and then -I know that their opinion is worth nothing. I must confess,' she added -honestly enough, 'that I myself had never even seen a Blue-Book till I -came here. Mr. Winfrith made me read one, and I was so surprised. I -thought it would be such tremendously hard work, but really it was very -easy, for I found it was made up of the remarks of quite commonplace -people.' - -'And have you read all these right through?' asked Cecily, looking with -awe at the long line of tall volumes. - -'Oh no! how could I have found time? After I had read the one I did -read, I talked it well over with Mr. Winfrith, and he said he didn't -think it would be worth while for me ever to read another. Of course I -asked him if he thought I ought just to glance through a few more--for I -was most anxious to fit myself for the work of the Settlement--but he -said, No, it would only be waste of time.' - -'It must be very interesting, working among poor people and teaching -them things,' said Cecily wistfully. 'I suppose you show them how to sew -and mend, and darn and cook?' - -Daphne looked at her, surprised. 'Oh no,' she said in her gentle, rather -drawling voice; 'I can't sew myself, so how could I teach others to do -so? Besides, all poor people know how to do that sort of work. We want -to encourage them to think of higher things. They already give up far -too much time to their clothes and to their food. I have a singing class -and a wood-carving class. Then I make friends with them, and encourage -them to tell me about themselves. Mrs. Pomfret thinks that a mistake, -but I'm sure I know best. They have such extraordinary ideas about -things, especially about love. They seem to flirt quite as much as do -the girls of our sort. I was most awfully surprised when I realized -_that_!' - -Cecily and Daphne found Mrs. Robinson in the hall, saying good-bye to -those about her. 'Will you come and lunch with me to-morrow?' she said -to Daphne. And as the other joyfully accepted, she added: 'We have not -had a talk for a long time.' - -When they were once more in the carriage, driving through the -brilliantly-lighted streets, Mrs. Robinson turned to Cecily, and said: -'Little cousin, I wonder who is your favourite character in history? -Joan of Arc? Mary Queen of Scots? I'll tell you mine: it was the -woman--I forget her name--who first said, in answer to a friend's -remark, "I hate a fool!" She had plenty of courage of the kind I should -like to borrow. The thought of to-morrow's execution makes me sick.' And -as Cecily looked at her, bewildered, she added: 'I wonder what you -thought of Daphne Purdon? They said very little--I mean Philip Hammond -and Mrs. Pomfret--but they simply won't keep her there any longer! She -corrupts her class of match-girls, and, what of course is much worse, -they are corrupting _her_.' Mrs. Robinson's lips curved into delighted -laughter at the recollection of a whispered word which had been uttered, -with bated breath, by Mrs. Pomfret. - -'How long has Miss Purdon been at the Settlement?' Perhaps Cecily, -childish though she was, entered more into her new friend's worries than -the other realized. - -'Not far from a year, broken, however, by frequent holidays in friends' -country-houses, and by a month spent last summer on a yacht. Poor Daphne -is a fool, but she's not a bad fool, and above all, she's a very pretty -fool!' - -'Oh yes,' said the girl eagerly, 'she is very pretty, and I should think -very good, even if she is not very sensible.' - -'Well, her father, who was an old friend of my father's, died two years -ago, leaving practically nothing. At the time Daphne was engaged, and -the man threw her over; it was quite a little tragedy, and, as she took -it into her head she would like to do some kind of work, I persuaded my -people at the Settlement to take her and see what they could do with -her. Like most of my "goody" plans, it has failed utterly.' - -Cecily's kind, firm little hand, still wearing the cotton gloves of -convent days, crept over the carriage rug, and closed for a moment over -her new cousin's fingers. Mrs. Robinson went on: 'Philip Hammond is the -salt of the earth, and Mrs. Pomfret is an angel, but I never see them -without being told something I would rather not hear. Now, David -Winfrith, who has so much to do with the many responsibilities connected -with the Settlement, never worries me in that way. Perhaps if he did,' -she concluded in a lower tone, 'I should see him as seldom as I do the -others.' - -'And who,' asked Cecily with some eagerness--'who is David Winfrith?' - -'Like Daphne's,' answered Mrs. Robinson, 'his is an inherited -friendship. His father, who is a clergyman, was one of my father's -oldest friends.' Then quickly she added: 'I should not have said that, -for David Winfrith is one of my own best friends, the one person to whom -I feel I can always turn when I want anything done. What will perhaps -interest you more is the fact that he is becoming a really distinguished -man. If you read the _Morning Post_ as regularly as I know your aunt -reads it----' - -'She has left off taking in a daily paper,' said Cecily quickly. 'She -says it tries her eyes to read too much.' - -But Penelope went on, unheeding: 'You would know a great deal more about -Mr. Winfrith and his doings than you seem to do now. Seriously, he is -the kind of honest, plodding, earnest fellow whom the British public -like to feel is looking after them, and each day he looks after them -more than he did the day before. And he will go plodding on till in -time--who knows?--he may become the Grand Panjandrum, the Prime Minister -himself!' - -'Then, he does not live at the Settlement?' - -'Oh no! He has sometimes thought of spending a holiday there, but he -very properly feels that he owes his free time to his father; but even -when resting he works hard, for he is, and always has been, provokingly -healthy. As for his connection with the Settlement, it has become his -hobby. To please himself'--Mrs. Robinson spoke quickly, as if in -self-defence--'no one ever asked him to do so--he looks after the -business side of everything connected with the place. I am the Queen, -and he is the Prime Minister; that is, he listens very civilly to all I -have to say, and then he does exactly what he himself thinks proper! Of -course, I get my way sometimes; for instance, he disapproved of Daphne -Purdon.' - -'I thought they were great friends,' said Cecily, surprised. 'He gave -her the first Blue-Book she ever read.' - -'Ah!' said Mrs. Robinson, 'did he? That was just like him, trying to -make a pig's ear out of a silk purse! Still, even so, he will certainly -be delighted to hear of her execution; for he saw from the very first -that she was quite unsuited for the life, and, of course, like all of -us, he likes to be proved right.' - -As she spoke, Mrs. Robinson was watching the girl by her side. Now and -again a gleam of bright light cast a glow on the serious childish face, -showed the curves of the sensible firm mouth, lit up the hazel eyes, so -empty of youthful laughter. During the drive to the Settlement Cecily -had talked eagerly, had poured out her heart to her new friend, telling -far more than she knew she told, both of her past and present life. And -Mrs. Robinson's active, intelligent brain was busy evolving a scheme of -release for the young creature to whom she had taken one of her -unreasoning instinctive likings. - -When at last, it seemed all too soon to Cecily, the carriage stopped -before old Miss Wake's dingy Mayfair lodging, Mrs. Robinson held the -other's hand a moment before saying good-bye. She did not offer to kiss -the girl, for Penelope was not given to kissing; but she said very -kindly: 'We must meet again soon. I am going to Brighton for a few days -next week. Suppose I were to come in to-morrow morning and ask Miss Wake -to let you go there with me? We would go out to your convent, and I -should make friends with the old French nun of whom you are so fond. She -and I might think of something which would make your life here a little -less dull, a little more cheerful.' And that night no happier girl lay -down to sleep in London than Cecily Wake. - - -IV - -Mrs. Robinson was also in a softened mood, and when she found David -Winfrith waiting for her in the library of the old house in Cavendish -Square which had been her father's, and which had seen the coming and -going of so many famous people, she greeted him with a gaiety, an -intimate warmth of manner, which quickened his pulses, and almost caused -him to say words he had made up his mind never again to utter. - -Soon she was kneeling by the fire warming her hands, talking eagerly, -looking up, smiling into the plain, clean-shaven face, of which she knew -every turn and expression. 'You must forgive and approve me for being -late,' she exclaimed. 'I have spent my afternoon exactly as you would -always have me do! Firstly, I fulfilled my social dooty, as Mr. Gumberg -would say, by going to the Walberton wedding'--a slight grimace defaced -for a moment her charming eyes and mouth--'enough to put one out of love -for ever with matrimony; but, then, my ideal still remains in those -matters what it always was.' In answer to a questioning look her eyelids -flickered as she said two words, 'Gretna Green!' and an almost -imperceptible quiver also passed over Winfrith's face. - -She went on eagerly, pleased with the betrayal of feeling her words had -evoked: 'Then I drove to the Settlement, where I listened patiently -while Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret poured their woes into my ears.' - -'That I'm sure they did not,' he interrupted good-humouredly. - -'Oh yes, they did! They don't keep everything for you. Well, Daphne -Purdon is leaving--not, of course, of her own free will. You were right -and I was wrong in that matter. But I think I've found just the right -person to replace her.' - -'H'm,' said he. - -'Someone who will be quite ideal, whom even Mrs. Pomfret liked at first -sight! But don't let's talk of the Settlement any more. Listen, rather, -to my further good deeds. I am going to Brighton, a place I detest, in -order to give pleasure to a good, kind little girl who is just now -having a very bad time.' - -'That,' he said,'is really meritorious. And when, may I ask, is this -work of mercy to take place?' - -'Next week; I shall be away for at least four days.' - -'Well, perhaps I shall be in Brighton for a night,'--Winfrith brushed an -invisible speck off his sleeve--'Wednesday night, myself. I do not share -your dislike to the place. We can talk over Settlement affairs there, if -we meet, as I suppose we shall?' - -Penelope hesitated. 'Yes,' she said at last, rather absently. 'We can -talk over things there better than here. I expect to go abroad rather -earlier this spring.' - -'Why that?' He could not keep the dismay out of his voice. 'I thought -you were so fond of the spring in London?' - -She stood up, and they faced one another, each resting a hand on the -high marble mantelpiece. 'I love London at all times of the year,' she -said, 'but I am a nomad, a wanderer, by instinct. Perhaps mamma's -mother, before she "got religion," was a gipsy. I have always known -there was some mystery about her.' She spoke lightly, but Winfrith's -lips closed, one of his hands made a sudden arresting movement, and then -fell down again by his side, as she went on unheeding, looking, not at -him, but down into the fire. 'Why don't you take a holiday, David--even -you are entitled to a holiday sometimes--and come with me where I am -going--down to the South, west of Marseilles, where ordinary people -never, never go?' - -'My dear Penelope, how utterly absurd!' But there was a thrill in the -quiet, measured voice. - -She looked up eagerly, moved a little nearer to him. 'Do!' she -cried--'please do! Motey would be ample chaperon.' She added -unguardedly, 'she is used to that ungrateful role.' - -'Is she?' he asked sharply. 'Has she often had occasion to chaperon you, -and--and--a friend, on a similar excursion?' - -Penelope bit her lip. 'I think you are very rude,' she said. 'Why, of -course she has! Every man I know, half your acquaintances, have had the -privilege of travelling with me across the world. When one of your -trusted members goes off on a mysterious holiday, you can always in -future say to yourself, "He has paired with Penelope!"' - -He looked at her, perplexed, a little suspicious, but he was utterly -disarmed by her next words. 'David?'--she spoke softly--'how can you be -so foolish? I have never, never, never made such a proposal to any one -but you! Now that your mind is set at rest, now that you know you will -be a unique instance'--she could not keep the laughter out of her -voice--'will you consent to honour me with your company? It could all be -done in a fortnight.' - -'No.' He spoke with an effort, and hesitated perceptibly. But again he -said, 'No. I can't get away now--'tis impossible. Perhaps later--at -Easter.' - -But Mrs. Robinson had turned away. Mechanically she tore a paper spill -into small pieces. 'At Easter,' she said with a complete change of tone, -'I shall be in Paris, and every soul we know will be there, too, and I -certainly shall not want _you_.' - -'Well, now I must be going.' He spoke rather heavily, and, as she still -held her head averted, he added hurriedly, in a low tone, 'You know how -gladly I would come if I could.' - -'I know,' she said sharply, 'how easily you could come if you would! But -never mind, I am quite used to be alone--with Motey.' - -In spite of her anger and disappointment, she was loth to let him go. -Together they walked through the sombre, old-fashioned hall, of which -the walls were hung with engravings of men who had been her father's -early contemporaries and friends, and to which she had ever been -unwilling to make the slightest alteration. Every lozenge of the black -and white marble floor recalled her singularly happy, eager childhood, -and Mrs. Robinson would have missed the ugliest of the frock-coated -philanthropists and statesmen who looked at her so gravely from their -tarnished frames. - -She went with him through into the small glazed vestibule which gave -access to the square. Herself she opened the mahogany door, and looked -out, shivering, into the foggy darkness which lay beyond. - -Then came a murmured word or two--a pause--and Winfrith was gone, -shutting the door as he went, leaving her alone. - -As Mrs. Robinson was again crossing the hall she suddenly stayed her -steps, pushed her hair off her forehead with a gesture familiar to her -when perplexed, and pressed her cold hands against her face, now red -with one of her rare, painful blushes. - -She saw, as in a vision, a strange little scene. In her ears echoed -fragments of a conversation, so amazing, so unlikely to have taken -place, that she wondered whether the words could have been really -uttered. - -A man, whose tall, thick-set, and rather ungainly figure she knew -familiarly well, seemed to be standing close to a tall, slight woman, -with whose appearance Penelope felt herself to be at once less and more -intimate. She doubted her knowledge of the voice which uttered the -curious, ill-sounding words: 'You may kiss me if you like, David.' Not -doubtful, alas! her recognition of the quick, hoarse accents in which -had come the man's answer: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!' - -Could such a scene have ever taken place? Could such an invitation have -been made--and refused? - -Mrs. Robinson walked on slowly. She went again into the library; once -more she knelt down before the fire, and held out her chill hands to the -blaze. - -That any woman should have said, even to her oldest--ay, even to her -dearest friend,'You may kiss me if you like,' was certainly -unconventional, perhaps even a little absurd. But amazing, and almost -incredible in such a case, would surely be the answer she still heard, -so clearly uttered: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!' Then came the -reflection, at once mortifying and consoling, that many would -give--what?--well, anything even to unreason, to have had this same -permission extended to themselves. - -She tried to place herself outside--wholly outside--the abominable -little scene. - -Supposing a woman--the foolish woman who had acted on so strange an -impulse--now came in, and telling her what had occurred, asked her -advice, how would she, Penelope, make answer to such a one? - -Quick came the words: 'Of course you can only do one of two -things--either never see him again, or go on as if nothing had -happened.' - -She saw, felt, the woman wince. - -'As to not seeing him again, that is quite out of the question. Besides, -there are circumstances----' - -'Oh, well,' she--Penelope--would say severely, 'of course, if you come -and ask my advice without telling me _everything_----' - -'No one ever tells everything,' the woman would object, 'but this much I -will confide to you. There was a time--I am sure, by all sorts of -things, that he remembers it more often than I do--when this man and I -were lovers, when he kissed me--ah, how often!' - -Penelope flushed. How could the other, this wraith-like woman, tell this -to her? But, even so, she would answer her patiently: 'That may be. But -in those days you two loved one another dearly. To such a man that fact -makes all the difference. He is the type--the rather unusual type--who -would far rather have no bread than only half the loaf.' - -'But how wrong! how utterly absurd!' the other woman would cry. 'How -short-sighted of him! The more so that sometimes, not of course always, -the half has been known to include the whole.' - -'Yes--but David Winfrith is not a man to understand that. And if I may -say so'--thus would she, the wise mentor, conclude her words of advice -and consolation to this most unwise and impulsive friend--'I think you -have really had an escape! In this case the half would certainly have -come to include the whole. To-night you are tired and lonely; in the -morning you will realize that you are much better off as you are. You -already see quite as much of him as you want to do, when in your sober -senses.' - -('Oh, but I do miss him when he isn't there.') - -'What nonsense! You do not miss him when you are abroad, when -you--forgive me, dear, the vulgar expression--have other fish to fry. -No, no, you have had an escape! Being what he is, he will meet you -to-morrow exactly as if nothing had happened, and then you will go -abroad and have a delightful time.' - -('Yes, alone!') - -'Alone? Of course. Seeing beautiful places of which he, if with you, -would deny the charm; for, as you have often said to yourself, he has no -love, no understanding, of a whole side of life which is everything to -you.' - -('Yes, but he would have enjoyed being with me.') - -'So he would, only more so, in a coal-pit. No, no, you have made the -life you lead now one which exactly suits you.' - - -Mrs. Robinson got up. She rang the bell. 'Would you please ask Mrs. Mote -to come to me here?' - -And when the short, stout little woman, who had been the nurse of her -childhood and was now her maid, came in answer to the summons, she said -hastily: 'Motey, I am going to Brighton next week for a few days. I do -not intend to go abroad till later. Mr. Winfrith cannot get away just -now. He is too busy.' - -'He always was a busy young gentleman,' declared the old woman rather -sourly, as she took the cloak, the gloves, and the hat of her mistress, -and went quietly out of the room. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - 'There was a Door to which I found no Key: - There was a Veil past which I could not see: - Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee - There seem'd--and then no more of Thee and Me.' - OMAR KHAYYAM. - - 'Numero Deus impare gaudet.' - - VIRGIL. - - -I - -When the man who remained in local story as the Popish Lord Wantley -built Monk's Eype, he planned the arrangements of the lower floor of his -villa in a way which was approved by neither his Neapolitan architect -nor his English acquaintances. - -From the broad terrace overhanging the sea, the row of high narrow -windows on either side of the shallow stone steps giving access to the -central hall, seemed strictly symmetrical. But there was nothing uniform -behind the stately facade. Instead of a suite of reception-rooms opening -the one out of the other on either side of the frescoed hall, the whole -left side of the villa--excepting the wing, which stretched, as did its -fellow, landward, and in which were the servants' quarters--was occupied -by one vast apartment. - -In this great room the creator of Monk's Eype had gathered together most -of his treasures, including the paintings which he had acquired during a -long sojourn in Italy; and his Victorian successor had added many -beautiful works of art to the collection. - -In the Picture Room, as it was called, Penelope's mother always sat when -at Monk's Eype, sometimes working at delicate embroidery, oftener -writing busily at an inlaid ivory table close to one of the windows -opening on to the terrace. - -On the other side of the circular hall the Italian architect had had his -way. Here there was a suite of lofty, well-proportioned rooms opening -the one out of the other. - -Of these rooms, the first was the dining-room, of which the painted -ceiling harmonized with the panels of old Flemish tapestry added to the -treasures of Monk's Eype by Penelope's parents. Then came another -spacious room, of much the same proportions, which had now been for many -years regarded as specially set apart for the use of young Lord Wantley, -Mrs. Robinson's cousin and frequent guest. In this pleasant room Wantley -read, painted, and smoked, and there also he would entertain those of -Penelope's visitors whose sex made him perforce their host. Still, even -his occupancy of what some of Mrs. Robinson's friends considered the -most agreeable room in the villa was poisoned by a bitter memory. Not -long after the death of the man whom he had been taught to call uncle, -he had heard his plea for a billiard-table set aside by the new mistress -of Monk's Eype with angry decision, and he had been made to feel that he -had unwittingly offered an insult to her father's memory. - -Beyond Lord Wantley's special quarters there was a third room, more -narrow, less well lighted than the others. There were those, -nevertheless, who would have regarded it as the most interesting -apartment at Monk's Eype, for there the greatest of Victorian -philanthropists had worked, spending long hours of his holiday at the -large plain knee-table so placed as both to block and to command the one -window. Here also hung a portrait which many would have come far to see. -If vile as a work of art, it was almost startlingly like the late owner -of the room, and this resemblance was the more striking because of the -familiar attitude, the left hand supporting the chin, which had had for -most of the sitter's fellow-countrymen the ridiculous associations of -caricature. - -Mrs. Robinson disliked both the room and the portrait. But mingled -feelings of respect, of affection, and of fear, had caused her to leave -the room as it had been during her father's occupancy, and it was only -used by her on the rare occasions when she was compelled to have a -personal interview with one of her tenants from neighbouring Wyke Regis. - - -II - -On the evening of the day, a Saturday, when Miss Wake's and her niece's -arrival had taken place, Lord Wantley had returned somewhat unexpectedly -from a visit paid in the neighbourhood, which had been cut short by the -sudden illness of the hostess. - -After the cheerful, if commonplace, house and party he had just left, -Monk's Eype struck him as strangely quiet and depressing, though, as -always, the beauty of the villa impressed him anew as he passed through -into the circular hall, now flooded with the light of the setting sun. - -'I wonder who she has got here now,' he said to himself as he noticed a -man's hat, roomy travelling-coat, and stick laid across the top of the -Italian marriage-chest, the brilliancy of whose armorial ornaments and -bright gilding had been dimmed by a hundred years of the salt wind and -soft mists of the Dorset coast. - -Mrs. Robinson was fond of entertaining those of her fellow-painters -whose work attracted her fancy or excited her admiration, and Wantley's -fastidious taste sometimes revolted from the associations into which she -thrust him. - -The young man's relations to his beautiful cousin were at once singular -and natural--best, perhaps, explained by a word said in the frankness of -grief during the hours which had immediately followed his predecessor's -death. 'You know, Penelope,' the heir had said in all good faith, if a -little awkwardly--for at that time nothing was definitely known of the -famous philanthropist's will, and none doubted that the new peer would -find himself to have been treated fairly, if not generously, by the -great Lord Wantley--'you know that now you must consider me as your -brother; your father himself told me he hoped it would be so.' - -The wilful girl had looked at him in silence for a moment, and then, -very deliberately, had answered: 'What nonsense! Did my father ever -treat you as a son? No, Ludovic, we will go on as we have always done. -But if you like'--and she had smiled satirically--'I will look upon you -as a kind and well-meaning stepbrother!' And it was with the eyes of a -critical, but not unfriendly stepbrother that Wantley came in due course -to regard her. - -Concerning his cousin's--to his apprehension--extraordinary marriage, he -had not been in any way consulted. Indeed, at the time the engagement -and marriage took place he had been far away from England; but after -Melancthon Robinson's tragic death Penelope for a moment had clung to -him as if he had indeed been her brother, showing such real feeling, -such acute pain, such bitter distress, that he had come to the -conclusion that the tie between the oddly-assorted couple had been at -any rate one worthy of respect. - -When, somewhat later, Mrs. Robinson had begged Wantley to help her with -the complicated business details connected with the Melancthon -Settlement, he had drawn back, or rather he had advised her, not -unkindly, to hand the work over to one of the great social philanthropic -organizations already provided with suitable machinery. - -As he had learnt to expect, his cousin entirely disregarded his advice; -instead, she found another to give her the help the head of her family -refused her, and this other, as the young man sometimes remembered with -an uneasy conscience, was one whom they should both have spared, partly -because he was engaged in public affairs which took up what should have -been the whole of his working time, partly because he had been the hero -of Penelope's first romance, and had once been her accepted lover. - -Wantley had watched the renewal of the link between the grave young -statesman and his old love with a certain cynical interest. - -Penelope had not cared to hide her annoyance and disappointment at her -cousin's somewhat pusillanimous refusal of responsibility, and so he had -not been asked to take any part in the conferences which were held -between David Winfrith and the widow of the philanthropic millionaire; -but weeks, months, and even the first years, of Penelope's widowhood -wore themselves away, and to Wantley's astonishment the relations -between Mrs. Robinson and her adviser and helper remained unchanged. - -The Melancthon Settlement went on its way, nominally under the -management of its founder's widow, in reality owing everything in it -that was practical and worthy of respect to the mind and to the tireless -industry of the man who had come to regard this work of supererogation -as the principal relaxation of a somewhat austere existence. But -Winfrith was not able to conceal from himself the fact that the -necessary interviews with his old love were the salt of what was -otherwise a laborious and often thankless task. - -Of course at one time his marriage with Mrs. Robinson had been regarded -as a certainty, but, as the years had gone on, the gossips admitted -their mistake, and, according to their fancy, declared either the lovely -widow or Winfrith disappointed. - -Alone, Wantley arrived very near the truth. He was sure that there had -been no renewal of the offer made and accepted so ardently in the days -when the two had been boy and girl; but a subtle instinct warned him -that Winfrith still regarded Penelope as nearer to himself than had -been, or could ever be, any other woman; and of the many things which he -envied his cousin, the young peer counted nothing more precious than the -chivalrous interest and affection of the man who most realized his own -ideal of the public-spirited Englishman who, born to pleasant fortune, -is content to work, both for his country and for his countrymen, for -what most would consider an inadequate reward. - -David Winfrith's existence formed a contrast to his own life of which -Wantley was ashamed. He was well aware that had the other been in his -place, even burdened with all his own early disadvantages, Winfrith -would by now have made for himself a position in every way befitting -that of the successor of such a man as had been Penelope's father. - - -III - -On the evening of his unexpected return to the villa, an evening long to -be remembered by him, Wantley dressed early and made his way into the -Picture Room. He went expecting to find an ill-assorted party, for Mrs. -Robinson was one of those women whose own personal relationship to those -whom they gather about them is the only matter of moment, and whose -guests are therefore rarely in sympathy one with another. - -All that Wantley knew concerning those strangers he was about to meet -was that he would be called upon to make himself pleasant to an elderly -Roman Catholic spinster, and to her niece, a girl closely associated -with the work of the Melancthon Settlement; and the double prospect was -far from being agreeable to him. - -He was therefore relieved to find the Picture Room empty, save for the -immobile presence of Lady Wantley. She was sitting gazing out of the -window, her hands clasped together, absorbed in meditation. As he came -in she turned and smiled, but said no word of welcome; and he respected -her mood, knowing well that she was one of those who feel the invisible -world to be very near, and who believe themselves surrounded by unseen -presences. - -Lady Wantley's personality had always interested and fascinated the -young man. Even as a child he had never sympathized with his mother's -dislike of her, for he had early discerned how very different she was -from most of the people he knew; and to-night, fresh as he was from the -company of cheerful dowagers who were of the earth earthy, this -difference was even more apparent to him than usual. - -Penelope's mother doubtless owed something of her aloofness of -appearance to her singular and picturesque dress, of which the mode had -never varied for twenty years and more. The long sweeping skirts of -black silk or wool, the cross-over bodice and the lace coif, which -almost wholly concealed her banded hair, while not hiding the beautiful -shape of her head, had originally been designed for her by the painter -to whom, as a younger woman, she had so often sat. Since the great -artist had first brought her the drawing of the dress in which he wished -once more to paint her, she had never given a thought to the vagaries of -fashion, so it came to pass that those about her would have found it -impossible to think of her in any other garments than those composing -the singular, stately costume which accentuated the mingled severity and -mildness of her pale cameo-like face. - -After Melancthon Robinson's death, his widow had at once made it clear -that she had no intention of returning to her mother; but every winter -saw the two ladies spending some weeks together in London, and each -summer Lady Wantley became her daughter's guest at Monk's Eype. - -The rest of the year was spent by the elder woman at Marston Lydiate, -the great Somersetshire country-seat to which she had been brought as a -bride, and for which she now paid rent to her husband's successor. To -Wantley the arrangement had been a painful one. He would have much -preferred to let the place to strangers, and he had always refused to go -there as Lady Wantley's guest. - -As he stood, silent, by one of the high windows of the Picture Room, he -remembered suddenly that the next day, August 8th, was his birthday, and -that no human being, save a woman who had been his mother's servant for -many years, was likely to remember the fact, or to offer him those -congratulations which, if futile, always give pleasure. The bitterness -of the thought was perhaps the outcome of foolish sentimentality, but it -lent a sudden appearance of sternness and of purpose to his face. - -Mrs. Robinson, coming into the room at that moment, was struck, for a -moment felt disconcerted, by the look on her cousin's face. She was -surprised and annoyed that he had returned so soon from the visit which, -of course unknown to him, she had herself arranged he should make, in -order that he might be absent at the time of the assembling of her -ill-assorted guests. - -Penelope feared the young man's dispassionate powers of observation; and -as she walked down the long room, at the other end of which she saw -first her mother's seated figure, and then, standing by one of the long, -uncurtained windows, the unwelcome form of her cousin, her heart beat -fast, for the little scene with Cecily Wake, added to other matters of -more moment, had set her nerves jarring. She dreaded the evening before -her, feared the betrayal of a secret which she wished to keep profoundly -hidden. Still, as was her wont, she met danger halfway. - -'I am glad you are back to-night,' she said, addressing Wantley, 'for -now you will be able to play host to Sir George Downing. I met him -abroad this spring, and he has come here for a few days.' - -'The Persian man?' She quickly noted that the young man's voice was full -of amused interest and curiosity, nothing more; and, as she nodded her -head, assurance and confidence came back. - -'Well, you are certainly a wonderful woman.' He turned, smiling, to Lady -Wantley, who was gazing at her daughter with her usual almost painful -tenderness of expression. 'Penelope's romantic encounters,' he said -gaily, 'would fill a book. Such adventures never befall me on my -travels. In Spain a fascinating stranger turns out to be Don Carlos in -disguise! In Germany she knocks up against Bismarck!' - -'I knew the son!' she cried, protesting, but not ill-pleased, for she -was proud of the good fortune that often befell her during her frequent -journeys, of coming across, if not always famous, at least generally -interesting and noteworthy people. - -'And now,' concluded Wantley, 'the lion whom most people--unofficial -people of course I mean'--he spoke significantly--'are all longing to -see and to entertain, is bound to her chariot wheels!' - -'Ah!' she cried eagerly, 'but that's just the point: he has a horror of -being lionized. He's promised to write a report, and I suggested that he -should come and do it here, where there's no fear of his being run to -earth by the wrong kind of people. I don't suppose Theresa Wake knows -there's such a person in the world as "Persian Downing."' - -'And the niece, the young lady who is to be my special charge?' Wantley -was still smiling. 'She's sure to know something about him--that is, if -you take in a daily paper at the Settlement.' - -'Cecily?' Mrs. Robinson's voice softened. 'Dear little Cecily won't -trouble her head about him at all.' She turned away quickly as Lady -Wantley's gentle, insistent voice floated across the room to where the -two cousins were standing. - -'George Downing? I remember your father bringing a youth called by that -name to our house, many years ago, when you were a child, my love.' She -hesitated, as if seeking to remember something which only half lingered -in her memory. - -Her daughter waited in painful silence. 'Would the ghost of that old -story of disgrace and pain never be laid?' she asked herself -rebelliously. - -But Lady Wantley was not the woman to recall a scandal, even had she -been wont to recall such things, of one who was now under her daughter's -roof. Her next words were, however, if a surprise, even less welcome to -one of her listeners than would have been those she expected to hear. - -'There was an American Mrs. Downing, a lady who came with an -introduction to see your father. She wished to consult him about a home -for emigrant children, and I heard--now what did I hear?' Again Lady -Wantley paused. - -Mrs. Robinson straightened her well-poised head. - -'You probably heard, mamma, what is, I believe, true: that Lady Downing, -as she is of course now, is not on good terms with her husband. They -parted almost immediately after their marriage, and I believe that they -have not met for years.' - -Wantley looked at his cousin with some surprise; she spoke impetuously, -a note of deep feeling in her voice, and as if challenging -contradiction. Then, suddenly, she held up her hand with a quick warning -gesture. - -Her ears had caught the sound of footsteps for whose measured tread she -had learnt to listen, and a moment later the door opened, and the man of -whom they had been speaking, advancing into the great room, stood before -them. - - -IV - -Few of us realize how very differently our physical appearance and -peculiarities strike each one of any new circle of persons to whose -notice we are introduced; and, according to whether we are humble-minded -or the reverse, the results of such inspection, were they suddenly -revealed, would surprise or amaze us. - -When Sir George Downing came forward to greet his hostess, and to be -introduced to her mother and to her cousin, his outer man impressed each -of them with direct and almost startling vividness. But in each case the -impression produced was a very different one. - -The first point which struck Lady Wantley in the tall, loosely-built -figure was its remaining look of youth, of strength of will, and of -purpose. This woman, to whom the things of the body were of such little -moment, yet saw how noteworthy was the brown sun-burnt face, with its -sharply-outlined features, and she gathered a very clear impression of -the distinction and power of the man who bowed over her hand with -old-fashioned courtesy and deference; more, she felt that there had been -a time in her life when her daughter's guest would have attracted and -interested her to a singular degree. - -As he raised his head, their eyes met--deep-sunk, rather light-grey -eyes, in some ways singularly alike, as Penelope had perceived with a -certain shock of surprise, very soon after her first meeting with Sir -George Downing. As these eyes, so curiously similar, met for a moment, -fixedly, Downing, with a tightening of the heart, said to himself: 'She -I must count an enemy.' - -Lord Wantley, as he came forward to meet the distinguished stranger to -whom he had just been told he must play host, observed him at once more -superficially, and yet more narrowly and in greater detail, than -Penelope's mother had done. - -In the pleasant country-house--of the world worldly--from which Wantley -had come, the man before him had been the subject of eager, amused -discussion. - -One of the talkers had known him as a youth, and had some recollection -(of which he made the most) of the romantic circumstances which had -attended his disgrace. His return was generally approved, all hoped to -meet him, and even, vaguely, to benefit in purse by so doing; but it had -been agreed that the recent change of Government lessened Downing's -chances of persuading the Foreign Office to carry out the policy which -he was known to have much at heart, and on which so many moneyed -interests depended. It was said that the Prime Minister had refused to -see him, that the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs had left town -to avoid him! On the other hand, a lady present had heard, 'on the best -authority,' that he had not been in England two days before he had been -sent for by the Sovereign, with whom he had had a long private talk. - -It was further declared that 'the city,' that mysterious potentate, more -powerful nowadays than any Sovereign, held him in high esteem, regarding -him as a benefactor to that race of investors who like to think that -they have Imperial as well as personal interests at heart. And even -those who deprecated the fact that one holding no official post should -be allowed to influence the policy of their country, admitted that, in -the past, England had owed much to such men as Persian Downing. 'Yes, -but in these days the soldier of fortune has been replaced by the banker -of fortune,' an ex-diplomatist had observed, and the _mot_ had been -allowed to pass without challenge. - -'And so,' thought Wantley, remembering the things which had been said, -'this is Persian Downing!' - -The lean, powerful figure, habited in old-fashioned dress-clothes, -looked older than he had imagined the famous man could be. The bushy, -dark-brown moustache, streaked with strands of white hair, and the -luminous grey eyes, penthoused under singularly straight eyebrows, gave -a worn and melancholy cast to the whole countenance. - -The younger man also noticed that Downing's hands and feet were -exceptionally small, considering his great height. 'I wonder if he will -like me,' he said to himself, and this, it must be admitted, was -generally Wantley's first thought; but he no longer felt as he had done -but a few moments before, listless and discontented with life--indeed, -so keenly interested had he, in these few moments, become in Penelope's -famous guest that he scarcely noticed the entrance into the room of the -young girl of whom his cousin had spoken, and whom she had specially -commended to his good offices. - -Dressed in a plain white muslin frock, presenting her aunt's excuses in -a low, even voice, Cecily Wake suggested to Lady Wantley, who had never -seen her before, the comparison, when standing by Penelope, of a -snowdrop with a rose. Perhaps this thought passed in some subtle way to -Wantley's mind, for it was not till he happened to glance at the girl, -across the round table which formed an oasis in the tapestry-hung -dining-room, that he became aware that there was something attractive, -and even unusual, in the round childish face and sincere, unquestioning -eyes. - -None of the party, save perhaps Wantley himself, possessed the art of -small-talk. Penelope was strangely silent. 'Even she,' her cousin -thought with a certain satisfaction, 'is impressed by this remarkable -man, who has done her the honour of coming here.' - -Then he asked himself, none too soon, what had brought Persian Downing -to Monk's Eype? The obvious explanation, that Downing had been attracted -by the personality of one who was universally admitted to have an almost -uncannily compelling charm, when she cared to exercise it, he rejected -as too evident to be true. - -Wantley thought he knew his beautiful cousin through and through; yet in -truth there were many chambers of her heart where any sympathetic -stranger might have easy access, but the doors of which were tightly -locked when Wantley passed that way. Like most men, he found it -difficult to believe that a woman lacking all subtle attraction for -himself could possibly attract those of his own sex whom he favoured -with his particular regard. David Winfrith was the exception which -always proves a rule, and Wantley admitted unwillingly that in that case -there was some excuse; for here, at any rate, had been on Penelope's -part a moment of response. But to-night, and for many days to come, he -was strangely, and, as he often reminded himself in later life, -foolishly, culpably blind. - -Gradually the conversation turned on that still so secret and mysterious -country with which Sir George Downing was now intimately connected. His -slow voice, even, toneless, as is so often that of those who have lived -long in the East, acted, Wantley soon found, as a complete screen, when -he chose that it should be so, to his thoughts. - -Suddenly, and, as it appeared, in no connection with what had just been -said at the moment, Lady Wantley, turning to Downing, observed, 'I -perceive that you have a number-led mind?' - -Penelope looked up apprehensively, but her brow cleared as the man to -whom had been addressed this singular remark replied simply and -deferentially: - -'If you mean that certain days are marked in my life, it is certainly -so. Matters of moment are connected in my mind with the number seven.' - -Wantley and Cecily Wake both looked at the speaker with extreme -astonishment. 'I felt sure that it was so!' exclaimed Lady Wantley. -'Seven has also always been my number, but the knowledge inspires me -with no fear or horror. It simply makes me aware that my times are in -our Father's hands.' She added, in a lower voice: 'All predestination is -centralized in God's elect, and all concurrent wills of the creature are -thereunto subordinated.' - -'He may be odd, but he must certainly think us odder,' thought Wantley, -not without enjoyment. - -But a cloud had come over Penelope's face. 'Mamma!' she said anxiously, -and then again, 'Mamma!' - -'I think he knows what I mean,' said Lady Wantley, fixing the grey eyes -which seemed to see at once so much and so little on the face of her -daughter's guest. - -Again, to Wantley's surprise, Downing answered at once, and gravely -enough: 'Yes, I think I do know what you mean, and on the whole I -agree.' - -Mrs. Robinson, glancing at her cousin with what he thought a look of -appeal, threw a pebble, very deliberately, into the deep pool where they -all suddenly found themselves. 'Do you really believe in lucky numbers?' -she asked flippantly. - -Downing looked at her fixedly for a moment. 'Yes,' he replied, 'and also -in unlucky numbers.' - -'I hope,' she cried--and as she spoke she reddened deeply--'that your -first meeting with David Winfrith will take place on one of your lucky -days. He is believed to have more influence concerning the matter you -are interested in just now than anyone else, for he claims to have -studied the question on the spot.' - -'Ah!' thought Wantley, pleased as a man always is to receive what he -believes to be the answer to a riddle; 'I know now what has brought -Persian Downing to Monk's Eype!' and he also took up the ball. - -'Winfrith claims,' he said, 'to have made Persia his special study. I -believe he once spent six weeks there, on the strength of which he wrote -a book. You probably came across him when he was in Teheran.' - -But as he spoke he was aware that in Winfrith's book there was no -mention of Downing, and that though at the time of the writer's sojourn -in Persia no other Englishman had wielded there so great a power, or so -counteracted influences inimical to his country's interests. - -'No, I did not see him there. At the time of Mr. Winfrith's stay in -Teheran'--Downing spoke with an indifference the other thought -studied--'I was in America, where I have to go from time to time to see -my partners.' He added, with a smile: 'I think you are mistaken in -saying that Mr. Winfrith only spent six weeks in Persia. In any case, -his book is good--very good.' - -'I suppose,' said Wantley, turning to his cousin, 'that you have -arranged for Winfrith to come over to-morrow, or Monday?' - -'Oh no,' she answered hurriedly. 'He is going to be away for the next -few days; after that, perhaps, Sir George Downing will meet him.' She -spoke awkwardly, and Wantley felt he had been clumsy. But he thought -that now he thoroughly understood what had happened. Winfrith had -evidently no wish to meet informally the man whom his chief had not been -willing to receive. Doubtless Penelope had done her best to bring her -important new friend in contact with her old friend. She had failed, -hence her awkward, hesitating answer to his question. But the young man -knew his cousin, and the potency of her spell over obstinate Winfrith; -he had no doubt that within a week the two men would have met under her -roof, 'though whether the meeting will lead to anything,' he said to -himself, 'remains to be seen.' - - -Wantley was, however, quite wrong. During the hours which Mrs. Robinson -had spent that day riding with the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, -the name of Persian Downing had not once been mentioned, and at this -very moment David Winfrith, playing, after an early dinner, a game of -chess with his old father, saw in imagination his lovely friend acting -as kind hostess to her mother, for whom he himself had never felt any -particular liking, and to Miss Wake and her niece, against both of whom -he had an unreasonable prejudice. Lord Wantley he believed to be still -away; and, as he allowed his father to checkmate him, he felt a pang of -annoyance at the thought that he himself was going to be absent during -days of holiday which might have been so much better employed, in part -at least, in Penelope's company. Not for many months, not, when he came -to think of it, for some two years, had Mrs. Robinson been at once so -joyously high-spirited and yet so submissive, so intimately confidential -while yet so willing to take advice--in a word, so enchantingly near to -himself, as she had been that day, riding along the narrow lanes which -lay in close network behind the bare cliffs and hills bounding the -coast. - -But to Wantley, doing the honours of his smoking room to Sir George -Downing, and later when taking him out to the terrace where Mrs. -Robinson and Cecily were pacing up and down in the twilight, the -presence of this distinguished visitor at Monk's Eype was fully -explained by the fact that Winfrith was not only the near neighbour, but -also the very good friend, of Mrs. Robinson, and, the young man ventured -to think, of himself. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - 'Qui, la moitie et la plus belle moitie de la vie est cachee a - l'homme qui n'a pas aime avec passion.'--STENDHAL. - - 'Madrid la antesala del cielo.' - _Spanish Saying._ - - -I - -Above, close to the window of a high narrow room which had once been the -Catholic Lord Wantley's oratory, and which was next to the bedroom -always occupied by Penelope herself, sat in the darkness Mrs. Mote. - -The window directly overlooked the flagged terrace, the leafy scented -gardens, and the sea, and there were members of Mrs. Robinson's -household who considered it highly unfitting that an apartment so -pleasantly situated should be the 'own room' of the plain, sturdy little -woman who, after having been Penelope Wantley's devoted and skilful -nurse for close on twenty years, had been promoted on her nursling's -marriage to be her less skilful but equally devoted maid. - -Mrs. Mote had never been what we are wont to call a pleasant woman. She -was over thirty when she had first entered Lord and Lady Wantley's -service as nurse to their only child, and as the years had gone on her -temper had not improved, and her manner had not become more -conciliating. Even in the days when Penelope had been a nervous, -highly-strung little girl, Lady Wantley had had much to bear from -'Motey,' as the nurse had been early named by the child. Very feminine, -under a hard, unprepossessing exterior which recalled that of Noah's -wife in Penelope's old-fashioned Noah's ark, Motey instinctively -disliked all those women--and, alas! there were many such, below and -above stairs--who were more attractive than herself. - -Lady Wantley, beautiful, beloved, and enjoying, even among many of the -servant's own sort, a reputation for austere goodness and spiritual -perfection, was for long years the object of poor Motey's special -aversion. Singularly reticent, and taking pride in 'keeping herself to -herself,' the woman never betrayed her feelings, or rather she did so in -such small and intangible ways as were never suspected by the person -most closely concerned. Lady Wantley recognised the woman's undoubted -devotion to the child to whom she was herself so devoted, and she simply -regarded Mrs. Mote's sullen though never disrespectful behaviour to -herself as one of those unfortunate peculiarities of manner and temper -which often accompany sterling worth. Lord Wantley had been so far -old-fashioned that he disliked going anywhere without his wife, and the -mother had felt great solace to leave her daughter in such sure hands; -but she had sacrificed excellent maids of her own, and innumerable -under-servants, to the nurse's peculiar temper and irritability. - -There had been a moment, Penelope being then about seventeen, when Mrs. -Mote's supremacy had trembled in the balance. The trusted nurse had -played a certain part in the girl's first love affair, acting with a -secretiveness, a lack of proper confidence in her master and mistress, -which had made them both extremely displeased and angry, and there had -been some question as to whether she should remain in their service. -Mrs. Mote never forgot having overheard a short conversation between the -headstrong girl and her mother. 'If you tell me it must be so, I will -give up David Winfrith,' Penelope had declared, sobbing bitterly the -while; 'but if you send Motey away I will throw myself into the sea!' - -All this was now, however, ancient history. Mrs. Mote had been forgiven -her plunge into vicarious romance, and a day had come, not, however, -till after Lord Wantley's death, when Penelope's mother had admitted to -herself that perhaps Motey had been more clear-sighted than herself. In -any case, the old nurse had firmly established her position as a member -of the family. She and Lady Wantley had grown old together, and even -before Penelope's marriage the servant had learnt to regard her mistress -not only with a certain affection, but with what she had before been -unwilling to give her--namely, real respect. To her master she had -always been warmly attached, and she mourned him sincerely, being -pathetically moved when she learnt that he had left her, as 'a token of -regard and gratitude,' the sum of five hundred pounds. - -The phrase had touched her more than the money had done. Motey, as are -so many servants, was lavishly generous, and she had helped with her -legacy several worthless relations of her own to start small businesses -which invariably failed. These losses, however, she bore with great -philosophy. Her home was wherever her darling, her 'young lady,' her -'ma'am,' happened to be, and her circle that of the family with whose -fortunes hers had now been bound up for so many years. - -Mrs. Robinson's faithful affection for this old servant was one of the -best traits in a somewhat capricious if generous character, the more so -that the maid by no means always approved of even her mistress's most -innocent actions and associates. Thus, she had first felt a rough -contempt, and later a fierce dislike, of poor Melancthon Robinson. - -There were two people, both men, whom Motey would have been willing to -see more often with her mistress. - -The one was David Winfrith, who, if now a successful, almost it might be -said a famous man, had played a rather inglorious part in Penelope's -first love affair. The other was young Lord Wantley, of whom the old -nurse had constituted herself the champion in the days when her master -and mistress had merely regarded the presence of the nervous, sensitive -boy as an unpleasant duty. - -Mrs. Mote's liking for these two young men was completely subordinate to -her love for her nursling; she would cheerfully have seen either of them -undergo the most unpleasant ordeal had Penelope thereby been saved the -smallest pain or hurt. In fact, it was because she well knew how stanch -a friend Winfrith could be, and how useful, in perhaps a slightly -whimsical way, Lord Wantley had more than once proved himself in his -cousin's service, that she would have preferred to see more of these two -and less of certain others. - -Ah, those others! There had always been a side of Mrs. Robinson's nature -which thirsted for sentimental adventure, and yet of the three women who -in their several ways loved her supremely--her mother, Cecily Wake, and -the old nurse--only the last was really aware of this craving for -romantic encounter. Mrs. Mote had too often found herself compelled to -stand inactive in the wings of the stage on which her mistress was wont -to take part in mimic, but none the less dangerous, combat, for her to -remain ignorant of many things, not only unsuspected, but in a sense -unthinkable, by either the austere mother or the girl friend. - -Perhaps this blindness in those who yet loved her well was owing to the -fact that, in the ordinary sense of the term, Penelope was no flirt. -Indeed, those among her friends who belonged to a society which, if -over-civilized, is perhaps the more ready to extend a large measure of -sympathy to those of its number who feel an overmastering impulse to -revert, in affairs of the heart, to primitive nature, regarded the -beautiful widow as singularly free from the temptations with which they -were themselves so sorely beset. - -Doubtless because she was herself so physically perfect, physical -perfection held for Penelope none of that potent, beckoning appeal it so -often holds for even the most refined and intelligent women. Rather had -she always been attracted, tempted, in a certain sense conquered, by the -souls of those with whom her passion for romance brought her into -temporary relation. Even as a girl she had disdained easy conquest, and -at all times she had been, when dealing with men, as a skilful musician -who only cares to play on the finest instruments. Often she was -surprised and disturbed, even made indignant, both by the harmonies and -by the discords she thus produced; and sometimes, again, she made a -mistake concerning the quality of the human instrument under her hand. - - -II - -As Mrs. Mote sat by her open window, her eyes seeking to distinguish -among those walking on the terrace below the upright, graceful form of -her mistress, she deliberately let her thoughts wander back to certain -passages in her own and Mrs. Robinson's joint lives. In moments of -danger we recall our hairbreadth escapes with a certain complacency; -they induce a sense of sometimes false security, and just now this old -woman, who loved Penelope so dearly, felt very much afraid. - -The memory of two episodes came to still her fears. Though both long -past, perhaps forgotten by Penelope, to Mrs. Mote they returned to-night -with strange, uncomfortable vividness. - -The hero of the one had been a Frenchman, of the other a Spaniard. - -As for the Frenchman, Motey thought of him with a certain kindness, and -even with regret, though he, too, as she put it to herself, had 'given -her a good fright.' The meeting between the Comte de Lucque and Mrs. -Robinson had taken place not very long after Melancthon Robinson's -death, in that enchanted borderland which seems at once Switzerland and -Italy. - -The French lad--he was little more--was stranded there in search of -health, and Penelope had soon felt for him that pity which, while so -little akin to love, so often induces love in the creature pitied. She -allowed, nay, encouraged, him to be her companion on long painting -expeditions, and he soon made his way through, as others had done before -him, to the outer ramparts of her heart. - -For a while she had found him charming, at once so full of surprising -naivetes and of strange, ardent enthusiasms; so utterly unlike the -younger Englishman of her acquaintance and differing also greatly from -the Frenchmen she had known. - -Brought up between a widowed mother and a monk tutor, the young Count -was in some ways as ignorant and as enthusiastic as must have been that -ancestor of his who started with St. Louis from Aiguesmortes, bound for -Jerusalem. His father had been killed in the great charge of the -Cuirassiers at the Battle of Reichofen, and Penelope discovered that he -above all things wished to live and to become strong, in order that he -might take a part in 'La Revanche,' that fantasy which played so great a -role in the imagination of those Frenchmen belonging to his generation. - -But when one evening Mrs. Robinson asked suddenly, 'Motey, how would you -like to see me become a French Countess?' the nurse had not taken the -question as put seriously, as, indeed, it had not been. Still, even the -old servant, who regarded the fact of any man's being made what she -quaintly called 'uncomfortable' by her mistress as a small, -well-merited revenge for all the indignities heaped by his sex on -hers--even Motey felt sorry for the Count when the inevitable day of -parting came. - -At first, Penelope read with some attention the long, closely-written -letters which reached her day by day with faithful regularity, but there -came a time when she was absorbed in the details of a small exhibition -of the very latest manifestations of French art, and the Count's letters -were scarcely looked at before they were thrown aside. Then, suddenly he -made abrupt and most unlooked-for intrusion into Mrs. Robinson's life, -at a time when the old nurse was accustomed to expect freedom from -Penelope's studies in sentiment--that is, during the few weeks of the -years which were always spent by Mrs. Robinson working hard in the -studio of some great Paris artist. - -Penelope had known how to organize her working life very intelligently; -she so timed her visits to Paris as to arrange with a French painter, -who was, like herself, what the unkind would call a wealthy amateur, to -take over his flat, his studio, and his servants. - -During nine happy weeks each spring Mrs. Robinson lived the busy -Bohemian life which she loved, and which, she thought, suited her so -well; but Mrs. Mote was never neglected, or, at least, never allowed -herself to feel so, and occasionally her mistress found her a useful, if -over-vigilant, chaperon. Mrs. Mote was on very good terms with the -French servants with whom she was thus each year thrown into contact. -Their easy gaiety beguiled even her grim ill-temper, and, fortunately, -she never conceived the dimmest suspicion of the fact that they were all -firmly persuaded that she was the humble, but none the less authentic, -'mere de madame'! - - -Now in the spring following her stay in Switzerland, not many days after -she had settled down to work in Paris, Mrs. Robinson desired the -excellent _maitre d'hotel_ to inform Mrs. Mote that she was awaited in -the studio. 'Motey, you remember the French count we met in Switzerland -last year?' Before giving the maid time to answer, she continued: 'Well, -I heard from him this morning. He asks me to go and see him. He says he -is very ill, and I want you to come with me.' Penelope spoke in the -hurried way usual to her when moved by real feeling. - -Then, when the two were seated side by side in one of the comfortable, -shabby, open French cabs, of which even Mrs. Mote recognized the charm, -Penelope added suddenly: 'Motey--you don't think--do you doubt he is -really ill? It would be a shabby trick----' - -'All gentlemen, as far as I'm aware, ma'am, do shabby tricks sometimes. -There's that saying, "All's fair in love and war"; it's very -advantageous to them. I don't suppose the Count's heard it, though; he -knew very little English, poor young fellow!' But Motey might have -spoken more strongly had she realized how very passive was to be on this -occasion her role of duenna. - -At last the fiacre stopped opposite a narrow door let into a high blank -wall forming the side of one of those lonely quiet streets, almost -ghostly in their sunny stillness, which may yet be found in certain -quarters of modern Paris. Penelope gave her companion the choice of -waiting for her in the carriage or of walking up and down. Mrs. Mote did -not remonstrate with her mistress; she simply and sulkily expressed -great distrust of Paris cabmen in general, and her preference for the -pavement in particular. Then, with some misgiving, she saw Mrs. Robinson -ring the bell. The door in the wall swung back, framing a green lawn, -edged with bushes of blossoming lilac, against which Penelope's white -serge gown was silhouetted for a brief moment, before the bright vision -was shut out. - -First walking, then standing, on the other side of the street, finally -actually sitting on the edge of the pavement, but not before she had -assured herself even in the midst of her perturbation of spirit that it -was spotlessly clean, the old nurse waited during what seemed to her an -eternity of time, and went through what was certainly an agony of -fright. - -The worst kind of fear is unreasoning. Mrs. Mote's imagination conjured -up every horror; and nothing but the curious lack of initiative which -seems common to those who have lived in servitude held her back from -doing something undoubtedly foolish. - -At last, when she was making up her mind to something very desperate -indeed, though what form this desperate something should take she could -not determine, there fell on her ears, coming nearer and nearer, the -sound of deep sobbing. A few moments later the little green door, -opening slowly, revealed two figures, that of Mrs. Robinson, pale and -moved, but otherwise looking much as usual, and that of a stout, -middle-aged woman, dressed in black, who, crying bitterly, clung to her, -seeming loth to let her go. - -Very gently, and not till they were actually standing on the pavement -outside the open door, did Penelope disengage herself from the trembling -hands which sought to keep her. Motey did not understand the words, 'Mon -pauvre enfant, il vous aime tant! Vous reviendrez demain, n'est ce pas, -madame?' but she understood enough to say no word of her long waiting, -to give voice to no grumbling, as she and her mistress walked slowly -down the sunny street, after having seen the little green door shut -behind the short, homely figure, lacking all dignity save that of grief. - -In those days, as Mrs. Mote, sitting up there remembering in the -darkness, recalled with bitterness, Mrs. Robinson had had no confidante -but her old nurse, and Penelope had instantly begun pouring out, as was -her wont, the tale of all that had happened in the hour she had been -away. - -'Oh, Motey, that is his poor mother! It is so horribly sad. He is her -only child. Her husband was killed in the Franco-Prussian War when she -was quite a young woman, and she has given up her whole life to him. Now -the poor fellow is dying'--Penelope shuddered--'and I have promised to -go and see him every day till he does die.' - - -III - -It was with no feeling of pity that Mrs. Mote now turned in her own mind -to the second episode. - -A journey to Madrid in search of pictured dons and high hidalgos had led -Mrs. Robinson to make the acquaintance of a Spanish gentleman, a certain -Don Jose Moricada; and the old Englishwoman, with her healthy contempt -of extravagance of behaviour and language, could now smile grimly as she -evoked the striking individuality of the man who had given her the worst -quarter of an hour she had ever known. - -At the time of their first meeting Don Jose had seemed to Penelope to -embody in his single person all the qualities which may be supposed to -have animated the noble models whose good fortune it was to be -immortalized by Velasquez; indeed, he ultimately proved himself -possessed to quite an inconvenient degree of the passion and living -fervour which the great artist, who was of all painters Penelope's most -admired master, could so subtly convey. - -With restrained ardour the Don had placed himself, almost at their first -meeting, at the beautiful Englishwoman's disposal, and Penelope had -seldom met with a more intelligent and unobtrusive cicerone. At his -bidding the heavy doors of old Madrid mansions, embowered in gardens, -and hidden behind gates which had never opened even to the most -courteous of strangers, swung back, revealing treasures hitherto -jealously hidden from the foreign lover of Spanish art. Together they -had journeyed to the Escurial in leisurely old-world fashion, driving -along the arid roads and stony tracks so often traversed at mule gallop -by Philip of Arragon; and the mouldering courts of the great -death-haunted palace through which her Spanish gallant led Mrs. Robinson -had rarely seen the passage of a better contrasted couple. - -Softer hours were spent in the deserted scented gardens of Buen Retiro, -and not once did the Spaniard imply by word or gesture that he expected -his companion's assent to the significant Spanish proverb, _Dame ye -darte he_ (Give to me, and I will give to thee). - -Penelope had never enjoyed a more delicate and inconsequent romance, or -a more delightful interlude in what was then a life overfull of unsought -pleasures and of interests sprung upon it. In those days Mrs. Robinson -had not found herself. She was even then still tasting, with a certain -tearfulness, the joys of complete freedom, and those who always lie in -wait, even if innocently, to profit by such freedoms, soon called her -insistently back to England. - -They had an abettor in Mrs. Mote, whose long-suffering love of her -mistress had seldom been more tried than during the sojourn in Spain, -spent by the maid in gloomy hotel solitude, or, more unpleasing still, -in company where she felt herself regarded by the Spaniard as an -intolerable and somewhat grotesque duenna, and by her mistress as a -bore, to be endured for kindness' sake. But the boredom of her old -nurse's companionship was not one which Penelope often felt called upon -to share with her indefatigable cavalier, and, as there came a time when -Don Jose and Mrs. Robinson seemed to the old nurse to be scarcely ever -apart, Mrs. Mote often felt both angry and lonely. - -Suddenly Penelope grew tired, not of Spain, but of Madrid, perhaps also -of her Spanish friend, especially when she discovered, with annoyance, -that he had arranged, if not to accompany her, at least to travel on -the same days as herself first to Toledo, and thence to Seville. Also -something else had happened which had proved very distasteful to Mrs. -Robinson. - -The English Ambassador, an old friend of her parents, and a man who, as -he had begun by reminding Penelope at the outset of their detestable -conversation, was almost old enough to be her grandfather, had called on -Mrs. Robinson and said a word of caution. - -The word was carefully chosen; for the old gentleman was not only a -diplomatist, but he had lived in Spain so many years that he had caught -some of the Spanish elusiveness of language and courtesy of phrase. -Penelope, with reddening cheek, had at first made the mistake of -affecting to misunderstand him. Then, with British bluntness, he had -spoken out. 'Spaniards are not Englishmen, my dear young lady. You met -your new friend at my house, and so I feel a certain added -responsibility. Of course, I know you have been absolutely discreet; -still, I feel the time has come when I should warn you. These Spanish -fellows when in love sometimes give a lot of trouble.' He had jerked the -sentence out, angry with her, angrier perhaps with himself. - - -The day before Mrs. Robinson was leaving Madrid, and not, as she -somewhat coldly informed Don Jose Moricada, for Toledo, there was a -question of one last expedition. - -On the outskirts of the town, in an old house reputed to have been at -one time the country residence of that French Ambassador, Monsieur de -Villars, whose wife had left so vivid an account of seventeenth-century -Madrid, were to be seen a magnificent collection of paintings and -studies by Goya. According to tradition, they had been painted during -the enchanted period of the Don Juanesque artist's love passages with -the Duchess of Alba, and very early in her acquaintance with the -Spaniard Penelope had expressed a strong desire to see work done by the -great painter under such romantic and unusual circumstances. And Don -Jose had been at considerable pains to obtain the absent owner's -permission. His request had been acceded to only after a long delay, and -at a moment when Mrs. Robinson had become weary both of Madrid and of -her Spanish gallant's company. - -It seemed, however, churlish to refuse to avail herself of a favour -obtained with so much difficulty. For awhile she had hesitated; not only -did the warning of the old Ambassador still sound most unpleasantly in -her ears, but of late there had come something less restrained, more -ardent, in the attitude of the Spaniard, proving only too significantly -how right the old Englishman had been. But even were she to return -another year to Madrid, the opportunity of visiting this curious old -house and its, to her, most notable contents, was not likely to recur. - -The appointment for the visit to Los Francias was therefore made and -kept; but when Don Jose, himself driving the splendid English horses of -which he was so proud, called at the hotel for Mrs. Robinson, he found, -to his angry astonishment, that her old nurse, the maid he so disliked, -was to be of the company. - -During the drive, Mrs. Mote, in high good-humour at her approaching -release from Madrid, noticed with satisfaction that her mistress's -Spanish friend seemed preoccupied and gloomy, though Mrs. Robinson's -high spirits and apparent pleasure in the picturesque streets and byways -they passed through might well have proved infectious. - -At last Los Francias was reached; and after walking through deserted, -scented gardens, where Nature was disregarding, with triumphant success, -the Bourbon formality of myrtle hedges, marble fountains, and sunk -parterres, the ill-assorted trio found themselves being ushered by a -man-servant, with great ceremony, into a large vestibule situated in the -centre of a house recalling rather a French chateau than a Spanish -country-house. - -In answer to a muttered word from the Spaniard, Mrs. Mote heard her -mistress answer decidedly: 'My maid would much prefer to come with us -than to stay here with a man of whose language she doesn't know a word. -Besides, this is _not_ the last time. I hope to come back some day, and -you will surely visit England.' - -On hearing these words Don Jose had turned and looked at his beautiful -companion with a curious gleam in his small, narrow-lidded eyes, and a -foreboding had come to the old servant. - -The high rooms, opening the one into the other, still contained shabby -pieces of fine old French furniture, of which the faded gilding and -moth-eaten tapestries contrasted oddly with the vivid, strangely living -paintings which seemed ready to leap from the walls above them. The -heavy stillness, the utter emptiness, of the great salons oddly affected -the old Englishwoman, walking behind the other two; she felt a vague -misgiving, and was more than ever glad to remember that in a few days -Mrs. Robinson would have left Madrid. - -Suddenly, when strolling through the largest, and apparently the last of -the whole suite of rooms, Mrs. Mote missed her mistress and Don Jose. - -Had they gone forward or turned back? She looked round her, utterly -bewildered, then spied in the wall a narrow aperture to which admission -was apparently given by a hinged panel, hung, as was the rest of the -salon, with red brocade. - -This, then, was where and how the other two had disappeared. She felt -relieved, even a little ashamed of her unreasoning fear. - -For a moment she hesitated, then stepped through the aperture into a -narrow corridor, shaped like an S, and characteristic--but Motey knew -nothing of this--of French chateau architecture; for these curiously -narrow passages, tucked away in the thickness of the wall, form a link -between the state rooms of many a great palace and the 'little -apartments' arranged for their owner's daily and familiar use. - -The inner twist of the S-shaped corridor was quite dark, but very soon -Mrs. Mote found that the passage terminated with an ordinary door, -through which, the upper half being glazed, she saw her mistress and the -Spaniard engaged in an apparently very animated conversation. - -The room in which stood the two she sought was almost ludicrously unlike -those to which it was so closely linked by the passage in which the -onlooker was standing. Perhaps the present owner of the old house, or -more probably his wife, had found the Goyas oppressive company, for here -no pictures hung on brocaded walls; instead, the round, domed room, -lighted only from above, was lined with a gay modern wall-paper, of -which the design simulated a fruitful vine, trained against green -trellis-work. Modern French basket furniture, the worse for wear, was -arranged about a circular marble fountain, which, let into the tiled -floor, must have afforded coolness on the hottest day. - -Memories of former occupants, and of another age, were conjured up by a -First Empire table, pushed back against the wall; and opposite the door -behind which the old nurse stood peering was the entrance, wide open, to -a darkened room, while just inside this room Mrs. Mote was surprised to -see a curious sign of actual occupancy--a small, spider-legged table, on -which stood a decanter of white wine, a plate of chocolate cakes, and a -gold bowl full of roses. - -But these things were rather remembered later, for at the time the old -woman's whole attention was centred on her mistress and the latter's -companion. Mrs. Robinson, her back turned to the darkened room beyond, -was standing by a slender marble pillar, rimmed at the top with a -tarnished gilt railing; a long grey silk cloak and boat-shaped hat, -covered with white ostrich feathers, accentuated her tall slenderness, -for in these early days of widowhood Penelope was exquisitely, -miraculously slender. With head bent and eyes cast down, she seemed to -be listening, embarrassed and ashamed, to Don Jose Moricada. One arm and -hand, the latter holding a glove, rested on the marble pillar, and her -whole figure, if instinct with proud submissiveness, breathed angry, -embarrassed endurance. - -As for the Spaniard, always sober of gesture, his arms folded across his -breast in the dignified fashion first taught to short men by Napoleon, -he seemed to be pouring out a torrent of eager, impassioned words, every -sentence emphasized by an imperious glance from the bright dark eyes, -which, as Mrs. Mote did not fail to remind herself, had always inspired -her with distrust. - -The unseen spectator of the singular scene also divined the -protestations, the entreaties, the reproaches, which were being uttered -in a language of which she could not understand one word. - -For a few moments she felt pity, even a certain measure of sympathy for -the man. To her thinking--and Mrs. Mote had her own ideas about most -matters--Penelope had brought this torrent of words and reproaches on -herself; but when the old nurse heard the voice of the Spaniard become -more threatening and less appealing, when she saw Mrs. Robinson suddenly -turn and face him, her head thrown back, her blue eyes wide open with -something even Motey had never seen in them before--for till that day -Penelope and Fear had never met--then the onlooker felt the lesson had -indeed lasted long enough, and that, even at the risk of angering her -mistress, the time had come when she should interfere. Her hand sought -and found the handle of the door. She turned and twisted it this way and -that, but the door remained fast, and suddenly she realized that -Penelope was a prisoner. - -In this primitive, but none the less potent, way had the Spaniard made -himself, in one sense at least, master of the situation--the old eternal -situation between the man pursuing and the woman fleeing. - -Caring little whether she was now seen or not, Mrs. Mote pressed her -face closely to the glass pane. She looked at the lithe sinewy figure of -Penelope's companion with a curiously altered feeling; a great sinking -of the heart had taken the place of the pity and contempt of only a -moment before. - -For awhile neither Penelope nor Don Jose saw the face behind the door. -Mrs. Robinson had turned away, and had begun walking slowly round the -domed hall, her companion following her, but keeping his distance. At -last, when passing for the second time the open door leading to the -darkened room beyond, she had looked up, uttered an exclamation of angry -disgust, and had slackened her footsteps, while he, quickening his, had -decreased the space between them.... - -When, in later life, Penelope unwillingly recalled the scene, her memory -preferred to dwell on the grotesque rather than on the sinister side of -the episode. But at the moment of ordeal--ah, then her whole being -became very literally absorbed in supplication to the dead two who when -living had never failed her: her father and Melancthon Robinson. - -They may have been permitted to respond, or perhaps a more explicable -cause may have brought about a revival of pride and good feeling in the -Spanish gentleman; for when there came release it seemed as if Mrs. Mote -was the unwitting _dea ex machina_. - -The two, moving within panther and doe wise, both saw, simultaneously, -the plain, homely face of Mrs. Robinson's old nurse staring in upon -them, and the sight, affording the woman infinite comfort and courage, -seemed to withdraw all power from the man, for very slowly, with -apparent reluctance, Don Jose Moricada turned on his heel, and unlocked -the door. - -The maid did not reply to the rebuke, uttered in a low tone, 'Oh, Motey, -we've been waiting for you such a long time.' Instead, she turned to the -Spaniard. 'My lady is tired, sir. Surely you've showed her enough by -now.' - -He bent his head, silently opening again the glazed door and waiting for -them to pass through, as his only answer. - -But Penelope's nerve had gone. She was clutching her old nurse's arm -with desperate tightening fingers. 'I can't go through there, Motey, -unless'--she spoke almost inaudibly--'unless you can make him walk -through first.' - -Mrs. Mote was quite equal to the occasion. 'Will you please go on, sir? -My mistress is nervous of the dark passage.' - -Again the Spaniard silently obeyed the old servant, and Penelope never -saw the look, full of passionate humiliation and dumb craving for -forgiveness, with which he uttered the words--though they brought vague -relief--explaining that he was leaving his groom to drive her and her -maid back to the hotel alone. - -During the moments which followed, Mrs. Robinson, looking straight -before her, spoke much of indifferent matters, and pointed out to Mrs. -Mote many an interesting and characteristic sight by the roadside; but -both the speaker's knee and the hands clasped across it trembled -violently the while, and when they were at last safely back again in the -hotel, after Mrs. Robinson had said some gracious words to Don Jose -Moricada's English groom, and had given him more substantial tokens of -her gratitude for the many pleasant drives she had taken with his noble -master, a curious thing happened. - -Having prepared the bath which had been her mistress's first order when -they found themselves in their own rooms, Motey, now quite her stolid -self again, on opening the sitting-room door, found her mistress engaged -in a strange occupation. Mrs. Robinson, still standing, was cutting the -long grey silk cloak, which she had been wearing but a moment before, -into a thousand narrow strips. The maid's work-basket, a survival of -Penelope's childhood--for it had been the little girl's first -birthday-gift to her nurse--had evidently provided the sharp cutting-out -scissors for the sacrifice. - -To a woman who has done much needlework there is something dreadful, -unnatural, in the wanton destruction of a faithful garment, and Mrs. -Mote stood looking on, silent indeed, but breathing protest in every -line of her short figure. But Penelope, after a short glance, had at -once averted her eyes, and completed her task with what seemed to the -other a dreadful thoroughness. - -Then the relentless scissors attacked the charming hat. Each long white -plume was quickly reduced to a heap of feathery atoms, and the -exquisitely plaited straw was slashed through and through. 'You can give -all the other things I have worn to-day to the chambermaid,' Mrs. -Robinson said quickly, 'and Motey--never, never speak of--of--our stay -here, in Madrid I mean, to me again. We shall leave to-night, not -to-morrow morning.' - - -And now, looking down below, seeing the moving figures pacing slowly all -together, then watching two of the shadowy forms detach themselves from -the rest, and wander off into the pine-wood, then back again, down the -steps which led to the lower moonlit terraces and so to the darker -sea-shore, Mrs. Mote felt full of vague fears and suspicions. - -Again she felt as if she were standing behind a door, barred away from -her mistress. But, alas! this time it was Penelope who had turned the -key in the lock, Penelope pursuing rather than pursued, and longing for -the moment of surrender. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - 'L'Amour est comme la devotion: il vient tard. On n'est - guere amoureuse ni devote a vingt ans ... les predestinees - elles-memes luttent longtemps contre cette grace d'aimer, - plus terrible que la foudre qui tomba sur le chemin de Damas.' - - ANATOLE FRANCE. - - ... 'a Shepherdess, and fair was she. - He found she dwelt in Stratford, E., - Which ain't exactly Arcadee.' - - -I - -The radiant stillness of early summer morning lay over the gardens of -Monk's Eype; and though the wide stone-flagged terrace was in shadow, -the newly-risen sun rioted gloriously beyond, flecking with pink and -silver the sheets of sand which spread their glistening spaces from the -shore to the sea. - -Cecily Wake, already up and dressed, sitting writing by her open window, -felt exquisitely content. The pungent scent thrown out by the geranium -bushes which rose from the curiously twisted vases set at intervals -along the marble balustrade floated up to where she sat, giving a -delicate keenness to the warm sea-wind. She longed to go out of doors -and make her way down to the little strip of beach which she knew lay -below the terraces and gardens; but the plain gold watch which had been -her father's, and a treasured possession of her own since she had left -the convent school, told her that it was only a quarter to six. - -Alone the birds, the butterflies, and herself seemed to be awake, in -this enchanting and enchanted place, and she put the longing from her. -Now and again, as she looked up from the two account-books lying open -before her on the old-fashioned, rather rickety little table set at -right angles to the window, and saw before and below her the splendid -views of land and sea, came joyous anticipations of pleasant days to be -spent in the company of Mrs. Robinson. To her fellow-guests--to Downing, -to Wantley--she gave no thought at all. Winfrith alone was a possible -rival. She sighed a little as she remembered that Penelope had seen him -yesterday, and would doubtless see him to-morrow. - -The girl was well aware--for only the vain and the obtuse are not always -well aware of such things--that David Winfrith had no liking for her; -more, that he regarded her affection for Mrs. Robinson as slightly -absurd; worst of all, that he viewed with suspicion and disapproval her -connection with the Melancthon Settlement and its affairs. - -Some folk are born to charity--such was Cecily Wake; and some, in these -modern days at any rate, have charity thrust upon them--such, in the -matter of the Melancthon Settlement, was David Winfrith. Problems -affected him far more than persons; and though the apparently insoluble -problems of London poverty, London overcrowding, and London -thriftlessness, had become to him matters full of poignant concern, he -gave scarcely a thought to the individuals composing that mass of human -beings whose claims upon society he recognized in theory. What thought -he did give was extremely distasteful to him, perhaps because he -regarded those who now provided these problems as irrevocably condemned -and past present help. - -Winfrith had never cared to join in the actual daily effort made by the -small group of educated, refined people, who were the precursors of the -many now trying to grapple with a state of things which the thinkers of -that time were just beginning to realize. Still, his hard good sense had -been of the utmost use to the Settlement, or rather to Mrs. Robinson, -during the years which immediately followed her husband's death. - -But though he had been the terror, and the vigorous chaser-forth, of the -sentimental faddist, he had at no time understood the value of that -grain of divine folly without which it is difficult to regain those, -themselves so foolish, that seem utterly lost. - -Winfrith had been astonished, and none too well pleased, when he had -found that certain of Cecily Wake's innovations, especially a -day-nursery where mothers could leave their babies throughout their long -working hours, had received the flattery of imitation from several of -the new philanthropic centres then beginning to spring up in all the -poorer quarters of the town. Cecily was full of the eager constructive -ardour of youth, and during the two years spent by her at the Settlement -her infectious energy had quickened into life more than one of the paper -schemes evolved by Melancthon Robinson. - -To the girl, in this early, instinctive stage of her life, problems were -nothing, individuals everything. The Catholic Church enjoins the duty of -personal charity, insisting upon its efficacy, both to those who give -and to those who receive, as opposed to that often magnificent -impersonal institutional philanthropy so much practised in this country. -Thus, Cecily's instinct in this direction had never been checked, and -the first sermon to which, as a child, she had listened with attention -and understanding had been one in which a Jesuit had insisted on the -duty of helping those who cannot, rather than those who can, help -themselves. - -But even if Cecily Wake had never been taught the duty of charity, her -nature and instinct would have always impelled her to lift up those who -had fallen by the way, and to seek a cure for the apparently incurable. -Then, as sometimes happens, the burdens which others had refused became, -when she assumed them, surprisingly light; and often she felt abashed to -find with what approval, and openly-expressed admiration, her two -mentors at the Settlement, Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret, regarded -some action or scheme which had cost her nothing but a happy thought and -a little hard work to carry through. - -Cecily, an old-fashioned girl, was humble-minded, and far more easily -cast down by a word of admonition concerning some youthful fault or want -of method than lifted up by successes which sometimes seemed to those -about her to be of the nature of miracles. - -Even now, on this the first morning of her holiday, she was struggling -painfully with the simple accounts of the day-nursery; for she had -promised Mrs. Pomfret to make out a detailed statement of what its cost -had actually been during the past month, and as she caught herself -repeating 'Five and four make fifty-four,' she felt heartily ashamed of -herself, knowing that Winfrith would indeed despise her if he knew how -difficult she found this simple task! - - -II - -There came a sudden sound below her window, the muffled tread of steps -on the stone flags, and the tall, angular figure of Sir George Downing -strode into view. He was bare-headed, but about his square, powerful -shoulders hung the old-fashioned cloak which had attracted Wantley's -attention the afternoon before. When he reached the marble parapet -Cecily saw that he was carrying a large red despatch-box, which he -placed, and then leant upon, across the flat, weather-stained top of the -balustrade. - -As she gazed at the motionless, almost stark figure, of which the head -was now sunk between the shoulders, Cecily felt that he strangely -disturbed her peaceful impression of the scene, and that, while in no -sense attracted by, or even specially interested in him, she was -curiously conscious of his silent, pervading presence. - -She tried to remember what Lord Wantley had said to her the evening -before concerning this same fellow-guest, for after the two men had -joined their hostess on the terrace, Mrs. Robinson and Downing, leaving -the younger couple, had wandered off into the pine-wood which formed a -scented rampart between Monk's Eype, its terraces and gardens, and the -open down. - -At once Wantley had spoken to his companion of the famous man, and of -his life-history, which he seemed to think must be familiar to Cecily as -it was to himself. 'If you are as romantic as all nice young ladies -should be, and as, I believe, they are,' he had said, 'you must feel -grateful to Mrs. Robinson for giving you the opportunity of meeting such -a remarkable man. Even I, _blase_ as I am, felt a thrill to-day when I -realized that Persian Downing was actually here.' There had been a -twinkle in his eye as he spoke, but even so his listener had felt that -he meant what he said. - -Like most young people, Cecily dreaded above all things being made to -look foolish, and so, not knowing what to answer--for she knew but -little of Persia and nothing at all of Sir George Downing--she had -wisely remained silent. But now she reddened as she remembered how -ignorant and how awkward she must have seemed to her dear Penelope's -cousin, and she made up her mind that she would this very day ask Mrs. -Robinson why Sir George Downing was famous, and why Lord Wantley -considered him specially interesting to the romantic. - - -Almost at once came the opportunity. There was a light tap at the door, -and as it opened Cecily saw Penelope, a finger to her lips, standing in -the wide corridor, of which the citron-coloured walls were hung with -large, sharply-defined black-and-white engravings of Italian scenery and -Roman temples. - -For a moment they stood smiling at one another; then Mrs. Robinson -beckoned to the girl to come to her. 'I thought it just possible you -might already be up,' she whispered, 'and that you would like to come -down to the shore. Last night I promised Sir George Downing to take him -early to the Beach Room, which I have had arranged in order that he may -be able to work there undisturbed.' Then, as together they walked down -the corridor, she added: 'I am afraid he has been already waiting some -time, for I found it so difficult to dress myself--without Motey, I -mean!' and, with a graver note in her voice, 'It's rather terrible,' she -said, 'to think how dependent one may become on another human being. -Poor old Motey! from her point of view I could not possibly exist -without her. When I was abroad--last spring, I mean--I often got up -quite early to paint, but Motey always managed to be earlier--I never -could escape her! However, to-day I've succeeded, and you, child, are a -quite as efficient, and a much pleasanter chaperon.' - -Cecily did not stop to wonder what Mrs. Robinson could mean by these -last words, uttered with strange whispering haste. She had at once -noticed, as people generally do notice any change in a loved or admired -presence, that her friend this morning looked unlike herself; but a -moment's thought had shown that this was owing to the way in which -Penelope had dressed her hair. The red-brown masses, instead of being -cunningly coiled above and round the face, had been thrust into a gold -net, thus altering in appearance the very shape of their owner's head, -of her slender neck, and even, or so it seemed to her companion, of the -delicate, cameo-like features. Cecily was not sure whether she approved -of the change, and Mrs. Robinson caught the look of doubt in the girl's -ingenuous eyes. - -'Yes, I know I failed with my hair! In that one matter Motey will be -able to exult; but, fortunately, I remembered that I had a net. My -father had it made in Italy for mamma, and all through my childhood she -always wore it, I envying her the possession. One day when I was ill -(you know I was far too cosseted and pampered as a child) I said to her: -"I'm sure I should get well quicker if you would only lend me your gold -net!"--for I was a selfish, covetous little creature--and, of course, -she did give it me. But poor mamma never got back her net. After I was -tired of wearing it, or trying to wear it, I made a breastplate of it -for my favourite doll. I kept it more than twice seven years, and now -you see I've found a use for it!' - -They were already halfway down the staircase which connected the upper -story of Monk's Eype with the hall, when came the earnest question: -'Penelope, I want to ask you--now--before we go out, why Sir George -Downing is famous, and what he has done to make him so?' - -For a moment Mrs. Robinson made no answer. Then Cecily, her feet already -on the rug laid below the lowest marble stair, felt a firm hand on her -shoulder. Surprised, she turned and looked up. Penelope stood two or -three steps higher, and though the younger woman in time forgot the -actual words, she always remembered their gist, and the rapt, glowing -look, the deliberation, with which they had been uttered. - -'I am glad you have asked me this. I meant--I wanted--to speak to you -of him yesterday, before you met him. For, Cecily'--the speaker's hand -leaned heavily on the girl's slight shoulder, and her next words, though -not uttered loudly, rang out as a confession of faith,--'if my -acquaintance with Sir George Downing has been short, and I admit that it -has been so, measured by time, his friendship and--and--his regard have -become very much to me. I reverence the greatness of his mind, of his -heart, and of his aims. Some day you will be proud to remember that you -once met him.' - -A little colour suffused the speaker's face, seeming to intensify the -blue of her clear, unquailing eyes, to make memorable the words she had -said. - -More indifferently she presently added: 'As to why he has lately become -what you call famous, ask the reason of my cousin, Lord Wantley. He will -give what is, I suppose, the true explanation--namely, that Sir George -Downing has of late years revealed himself as a brilliant diplomatist, -as well as a remarkable writer, able to describe, as no one else has -been able to do, the strange country which has become his place of work -and dwelling. Other circumstances have also led, almost by accident, to -his name becoming known, and his life in Persia discussed, by the sort -of people whose approval and interest confer fame.' - -In silence they walked together across the hall to the glass door, -through which could be seen, darkly outlined against the line of sea, -the angular, bent figure of the man of whom they had been speaking. - -And then Mrs. Robinson again opened her lips; again the clear voice -vibrated with intense, unaccustomed feeling: 'I should like to say one -more thing--Always remember that Sir George Downing has never sought -recognition; and though it has come at last, it has come too late. Too -late, I mean, to atone for a great injustice done to him as a young -man--too late to be now of any real value to him, unless it helps him -to achieve the objects he has in view.' - -But though the words were uttered with a solemnity, a passion of -protest, which made the voice falter, when speaker and listener joined -Downing, it was Cecily whose hazel eyes were full of pity, Penelope -whose radiant and now softened beauty made the man, tired and seared -with life, whose cause she had been so gallantly defending, feel, as he -turned to meet her, once more young and glad. - -That sunny morning hour altered, and in a measure transformed and -deepened, Cecily Wake's emotional nature. Then was she brought into -contact, for the first time, with the rarefied atmosphere of a great, -even if unsanctified passion, and that she was, and for some -considerable time remained, ignorant of its presence and nearness made -the effect on her mind and heart, if anything, more subtle and enduring. - -To this convent-bred orphan girl Love was the lightsome pagan deity, -synonymous with Youth, whose arrows sometimes stung, perhaps even -fastened into the wound, but who threw no shadow as he walked the earth, -seeking the happy girls and boys who had leisure and opportunity--Cecily -was very human, and sometimes found time to sigh that she had -neither--to enjoy the pretty sport of love-making, with the logical -outcome of ideal marriage. - -Life just then would have been a very different matter had she realized -that Cupid spent a considerable portion of his time in the neighbourhood -of the Settlement, and not always with the happiest results. Of course, -Cecily knew that even in Stratford East there were happy lovers, such, -for instance, the girl for whom she destined Penelope's wedding-ring; -but on the whole she was inclined to believe that Cupid reserved his -attentions, or at any rate his swiftest arrows, for those young people -who enjoy the double advantage of good birth and wealth. Even them she -would have thought more likely to meet with Cupid in the country than in -the town, just as the believer in fairyland finds it impossible to -associate the Little People with the London pavement, however much he -may hope to meet with them some day sporting in grassy glades or under -the hedgerows. - -And so, while the other two were well aware that Love walked with them, -down the steep steps cut out of the soft blue lias rock, Cecily Wake was -utterly unconscious of his nearness, and this although the unseen -presence quickened her own sensibilities, and made her more ready to -receive new and unsought emotions. - - -III - -To Mrs. Robinson, looking up into Downing's face, full of fearful, -exultant joy in his presence--she had not felt sure that he would really -come to Monk's Eype--the Beach Room, as arranged by her for her great -man, cried the truth aloud. - -Very divergently does love act on different natures, sometimes, alas! -bringing out all that is grotesque and absurd in a human being, happily -more often evoking an intelligent tenderness which seeks to promote the -material happiness of the beloved. - -Penelope had spent happy hours preparing the place where Downing, while -under her roof, was to do the work he had so much at heart, and nothing -had been omitted from the Beach Room which could minister to his -peculiar ideals of comfort. - -On the large table, where twenty odd years before the little Penelope -Wantley and the dour-faced boy, David Winfrith, had set up their mimic -fleets of wooden boats, were many objects denoting how special had been -her care. Thus, in addition to the obvious requirements of a writer, -stood a replica of the old-fashioned opaquely-shaded reading-lamp which -she knew was always included in his travelling kit; close to the lamp -were simple appliances for the making of coffee, for she was aware of -Downing's almost morbid dislike to the presence, about him, of servants; -and, behind a tall eighteenth-century screen, brought from China to Wyke -Regis by some seafaring man a hundred years ago, was a camp-bed which -would enable the worker, if so minded, to remain with his work all -night. - -Apart from these things, the large room had been left bare of ordinary -furniture, but across the uneven oak boards, never wholly free from -cobweb-like sheets of glittering grey sand, were strips of carpet, for -Penelope had remembered Downing's once telling her that he generally -came and went barefooted in that mysterious Persian dwelling--part -fortress, part palace--to which her thoughts now so often turned with a -strange mingling of dread and longing. - - -The man for whom all these preparations had been made, after passing -through the heavy wooden door which shut out wind, sand, and spray, -paused a moment and looked about him abstractedly. - -Downing had always been curiously sensitive to the spirit and influence -of place, and the oddly-shaped bare room, partly excavated from the -cliff, into which for the moment no sun penetrated, struck him with -sudden chill and gloom. Mrs. Robinson, intently watching him, aware of -every flicker of feeling sweeping over the lean, strongly-accentuated -features, saw the momentary hesitation, the darkening of his face, and -there came over her, also, a feeling of sharp misgiving, a fear that all -was not well with him. - -Since they had first looked into one another's eyes, Penelope had never -felt Downing to be so remote from herself as during the brief hours they -had spent together the evening before; and now he still seemed to be -mentally withdrawn, communing apart in a place whither she could not -follow him. - -Standing there in the Beach Room, she asked herself whether, after all, -she had not been wrong to compel him to come to Monk's Eype, imprudent -to subject him, and herself, to such an ordeal. Yet, at the time she had -first proposed his coming, she had actually made herself believe that in -this way would be softened the blow she knew herself about to inflict on -those who loved her, and those whose respect she was eager to retain. 'I -want my mother to meet you,' she had said, in answer to a word of -hesitation, even, as she now saw looking back, of repugnance, on -Downing's part, 'for then, later, she will understand, even if she does -not approve, what I am about to do.' - -And so at her bidding he had come; and now, this morning, they both -knew, and felt ashamed to know, how completely successful they had been -in concealing the truth from those about them. - -That first night, when out of earshot of Lord Wantley and Cecily Wake, -Downing's words, uttered when they had found themselves alone for the -first time for many days, had been: 'I feel like a thief--nay, like a -murderer--here!' And yet, as she had eagerly reminded herself, he had -stolen nothing as yet--that is to say, nothing tangible--only her -heart--the heart which had proved so enigmatical a Will-o'-the-wisp to -many a seeker. - -And now, returning up the steep steps, going up slowly, as if she were -bearing a burden, with Cecily silent by her side, respecting her mood, -Mrs. Robinson blamed herself, with something like anguish, for not -having been content to let Downing stay on in London. When there he had -written to her twice, sometimes three times, a day, letters which seemed -to bring him much nearer to herself than she felt him to be now, for -they had been of ardent prevision of a time when they would be always -together, side by side, heart to heart, in that far-away country which -had become to her full of mysterious glamour and delight. - -She stayed her steps, and, turning, looked at the sea with a long -wavering look, as she remembered, and again with a feeling of shame, -though she was glad to know that this could not be in any sense shared -by Downing, that one reason she had urged for his coming had been the -nearness to Monk's Eype of David Winfrith's home. - -She had become aware that, by lingering with her so long in France while -on his way to England, Downing had lost a chance of furthering his -political and financial projects. - -The former Government had consisted of men who, even if not friendly to -himself, sympathized with his aims; but now, among the members of the -incoming Liberal Ministry, Persian Downing was looked at with suspicion, -and regarded as one who desired to embroil his country with the great -European Power who is only dangerous, according to Liberal tradition, -when aggressively aroused from her political torpor. - -Winfrith alone among the new men was known to have other views. He had -in a sense made his name by a book concerning Asian problems, and Mrs. -Robinson, with feminine shrewdness, felt sure that he would not be able -to resist the chance of meeting, in an informal way, the man who -admittedly knew more of Persia and its rulers than any Englishman alive. - -No woman, save, perhaps, she who only lives to make a sport of men, -cares to be present as third at the meeting of a man who loves her and -of the man whom she herself loves. And so Penelope had arranged in her -own mind that her cousin, Lord Wantley, should be the link between -Winfrith and Downing. - -She had, however, meant to prepare the way, and it was with that object -in view that she had asked Winfrith to ride with her the day before. But -to her surprise, almost to her indignation and self-contempt, she had -found that the name of Sir George Downing, from her to her old friend, -had literally stuck in her throat, and she had been relieved when she -found that Winfrith was to be for some days absent from the -neighbourhood. - - -When she and Cecily were once more standing on the broad terrace spread -out before the villa, Mrs. Robinson broke her long silence. Resolutely -she put from her the painful thoughts and the perplexities which had -possessed her, and 'It must be very nice,' she said, 'to be a good girl. -I was always a very naughty girl; but I am good now, and I want to beg -your pardon for having been so very horrid to you yesterday--I mean -about the ring.' - -'Be horrid to me again,' said Cecily, 'but never beg my pardon; I don't -like to hear you do it. Besides,' she added quaintly, 'you can never be -really horrid to me, for I shall not let you be.' - -'You are a comfortable friend, child, if even rather absurd at times. -But now about this morning. I have arranged for Ludovic to drive you and -Miss Theresa over to the monastery. We won't mention the plan to mamma, -because she thinks Beacon Abbas the abiding-place of seven devils.' - -'I'm afraid Aunt Theresa won't be well enough to get up to-day; but, of -course, I can go to church by myself.' - -'In that case, you and Ludovic can walk across the cliffs. It will be a -good opportunity for you to describe to him the delights of the -Settlement, and perhaps to make him feel a little ashamed of having done -so little to help us.' - -They were now close to the open windows of the dining-room, and Cecily -could see the stately figure of Lady Wantley bending over a small table, -on which lay, open, a large Bible. - - -IV - -An hour later an oddly-assorted couple set out for Beacon Abbas, bound -for the monastery which had been so great an eyesore to the famous -Evangelical peer. - -Wantley's critical taste soon found secret fault with the blue-and-white -check cotton gown, which, if it intensified the wearer's pure colouring, -was surely unsuited to do battle with sea-wind; the sailor-hat, however, -was more what the young man, to himself, called _de circonstance_; but -he groaned inwardly over the clumsy shape of the brown laced shoes which -encased what he divined to be the pretty, slender feet of his companion, -and he thoroughly disapproved of a shabby little black bag fastened to -her belt. - -It must be admitted that Cecily did not compare, outwardly at least, -very favourably with the three girls who had formed part of the -house-party he had left the day before, though even in them, as regarded -their minds, however, not their appearance, Wantley had found plenty to -cavil at. - -Perhaps Cecily's critic would have been surprised and rather nettled, -had he known that he also was undergoing a keen scrutiny, and one not -altogether favourable, from the candid eyes which he had soon decided -were the best feature in the girl's serious face. - -Wantley's loosely-knit figure, of only medium height, clad in what even -she realized were somewhat unconventional clothes for church-going; the -short pointed beard (Cecily felt sure that only old gentlemen were -entitled to wear beards); the grey eyes twinkling under light eyebrows; -the nondescript light-brown hair brushed sleekly across the lined -forehead--these did not compose a whole according well with her ideal of -young manhood. But, after all, Penelope had declared her cousin to be -quite clever enough to be of use to the Settlement. There, as Cecily -knew well, even the most unpromising educated human material could -almost always be made useful: already, in imagination, she saw Lord -Wantley teaching an evening class of youths to draw, for surely Mrs. -Robinson had said he was a good artist. - -As they walked along the path through the pine-wood, the fresh, keen -air, the sunlight falling slantwise through the pine-trees, softened the -young man's mood. He felt inclined to bless the girl for her silence: -inpertinent appreciation of nature was one of the traits he found most -odious in those of his young countrywomen with whom fate--and -Penelope--had hitherto brought him in contact. Wantley far preferred the -honest--but, oh, how rare!--girl Philistines who bluntly avowed -themselves blind to the charms of sea, land, and sky. - -Not that he felt inclined to include Cecily Wake among these. He had -seen her face when a sudden bend of the path had revealed the long -turning coast-line, and spread the wide seas below them; but she had -uttered no exclamation, refrained from trite remark, and so the heart of -this rather fantastic young man warmed to her. - -'And now,' he said, holding open the wicket-gate which led from the wood -to the open stretch of down--'and now that the moment has come to reveal -our mutual aversions, I will begin by confessing that quite my pet -aversion in life has long been your Settlement.' Then, as his companion -only reddened by way of answer, he altered his tone, and added more -seriously: 'I esteem all that I have ever heard of Melancthon Robinson. -I never saw him, for I was in America both when the marriage and when -his death took place, but I have no patience with sham playing at -Christian Socialism. Of course, I know that the Melancthon Settlement -was but a pioneer of better things, and that it has led the way to the -establishment of several more practical undertakings.' (Here Cecily bit -her lip.) 'But when I think of all that my uncle--I of course mean -Penelope's father--accomplished in the way of really benefiting and -bettering the condition of our working people, and that, I imagine, -without ever even seeing the East End--when I consider how he would have -regarded the Melancthon Settlement----' - -He smiled a rather ugly smile, but still Cecily Wake made no answer. -Nettled by her silence, he added suddenly: 'I will give you an instance -of what I mean. You know my cousin Penelope?' - -For the first time Wantley realized that the girl walking by his side -had a peculiarly charming smile, and he altered, because of that smile, -what he had meant to be a franker expression of feeling. - -'Now, honestly, Miss Wake, can you imagine Penelope, even in intention, -living an austere life among the London poor, and occasionally pulling -them up by the roots to see if they were growing better under her -earnest guidance? The fact that young Robinson thought it possible that -she should ever do so added, to my mind, a touch of absurdity to what -was, after all, a sad business.' - -'And yet he and she did really live and work at the Settlement,' -objected Cecily quietly, and he was rather disappointed that she showed -so little vehemence in defence of her friend. - -'That's true, tho' I believe Penelope was very often away during the -four months the marriage lasted, it was a new experience, and we all -enjoy--Penelope more than most of us, perhaps--new experiences and new -emotions.' - -'But our people'--the girl spoke as if she had not heard his last words, -and Wantley was pleased with the low, rounded quality of her voice--'our -people, those of them who are still there, for you know that they come -and go in that part of London, have never forgotten that time: I mean -when Penelope lived at the Settlement. Perhaps you think that poor -people do not care about beautiful things; if so, you would be surprised -to see how those to whom Mrs. Robinson gave drawings treasure them, how -they ask after her, how eager they are to see her!' - -'She doesn't often give them that pleasure.' The retort was too obvious. -He delighted in being Devil's Advocate, and it amused him to see the -colour at last come and go in cheeks still pale from too long -acquaintance with London air. - -But the time had come to call a truce. The little town of Wyke Regis lay -below them, looking, even to the boats lying on the sea, like a medieval -map, and, for some time before they reached the road leading to the -monastery, they could see streams of people passing through the great -doors, which, forming a true French _porte-cochere_, gave access first -to monastic buildings built round three sides of a vast paved courtyard, -and then to the spacious gardens and orchard, where jutted out the -curious miniature basilica which had been the pride and pleasure of the -Popish Lord Wantley. - -To Cecily's surprise, perhaps a little to her disappointment, Wantley -refused to accompany her into the chapel; instead, he remained outside -in the sunshine, smoking one cigarette after another, and amusing -himself by deciphering the brief inscriptions on the plain slabs of -stone which, sunk into the grass under and among the apple-trees, marked -the graves of two generations of French monks. - -Meanwhile, Cecily Wake--for they had arrived some minutes late, and Wyke -Regis was now full of summer visitors--knelt down at the back of the -chapel, among the curiously miscellaneous crowd of men and women -generally to be found gathered together just within the doors of a -Catholic place of worship. - -After she had said her simple prayers, not omitting the three requests, -one of which at least she trusted would be granted, according to the old -belief that such a favour is extended to those who enter for the first -time a duly consecrated church, Cecily, during the chanting of the -Creed, allowed her eyes to wander sufficiently to enjoy the singular -beauty and ornate splendour of the monastery chapel. - -She soon saw which were the windows connected with Penelope's family. On -the one was emblazoned the mailed figure of St. George crushing the -dragon, presumably of Wantley, under his spurred heel. Obviously of the -same period was the St. Cecilia, who, sitting at an old-fashioned -Italian spinet, seemed to be charming the ears of two musically-minded -angels. More crude in colouring, and more utilitarian in design, was the -figure of good St. Louis dispensing justice under the traditional rood: -this last window, as the girl was aware, was that which the young man, -who had refused to come into the chapel, had raised to the memory of his -own father. - -Just as the bell rang, warning those not in sight of the high-altar that -the most solemn portion of the Mass was about to begin, there arose, -close to where Cecily was kneeling with her face buried in her hands, -the loud, discordant cry of an ailing child. - -Various pious persons at once turned and threw shocked glances at a -woman who, alone seated among the kneeling throng, and herself nodding -with fatigue, was shifting from one arm to another a fat curly-headed -little boy, whom Cecily, now well versed in such lore, instinctively -guessed to be about two years old. - - -A few minutes later, Wantley, tired of waiting in the deserted orchard, -pushed open the red-baize door. - -At first he saw nothing; then, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the -dimmer light, he became aware that at the end of a little lane of -people, and outlined against a rose-coloured marble pillar, stood the -blue-clad figure of a young woman holding to her breast a little child, -the two thus forming the immemorial group which has kept its hold on the -imagination of Christendom throughout the ages. - -Cecily was swaying rhythmically, now forward, now backward, her head -bent over that of the child. She did not see Wantley, being wholly -absorbed in her task of quieting and comforting the little creature now -cradled in her arms; but he, as he looked at her, felt as if he then saw -her for the first time. - -Over the whole scene brooded a curious stillness, the stillness with -which he was already familiar, owing to his haunting, when abroad, the -long Sunday services held alike in the great cathedrals and the little -village churches of France and Italy. - -Long years afterwards, Wantley, happening to be present at one of those -futile conversations in which are discussed the first meetings of those -destined to know each other well, in answer to the somewhat impertinent -question, uttered, however, by a youthful and therefore privileged -voice, 'And do you, Lord Wantley, remember your first meeting with her?' -answered in all good faith: 'I first saw her in our Roman Catholic -chapel at Beacon Abbas, nursing a little beggar child. She wore a bright -blue frock, and what I took to be a halo; as a matter of fact it was a -sailor-hat!' And then, from more than one of those that were present, -came the words, 'How nice! and how exactly what one would have expected -from what one knows of her now!' And Wantley, happy Wantley, saw no -cause to say them nay. - -Yet the half-hour which followed might well have effaced the memory of a -more tangible vision, and have impressed a man less whimsical and -easy-going as almost intolerably prosaic. - -After the congregation had dispersed, he had had to wait at a short -distance, but not, as he congratulated himself, out of earshot, while -Cecily Wake and the Irish mother of the ailing child held what seemed to -be an interminable conversation. The listener then became acquainted, -for the first time, with certain not uninteresting data as to how the -citizens of our great Empire are prepared for their struggle through -existence. He learnt that the child's first meal that Sunday, -administered by the advice of 'a very knowing woman,' had consisted of a -half-glass of the best bitters and of a biscuit; he overheard Cecily's -realistic if gently worded description of what effect this diet was -likely to have on an unfortunate baby's interior, and he admired the way -in which the speaker mingled practical advice with praise of the poor -little creature's prettiness. - -Finally, from the shabby waist bag Wantley had looked at with so much -disfavour a couple of hours before, Cecily took a leaflet, which she -handed to the woman, the gift being softened by the addition of a -two-shilling piece. He heard her say, 'This is milk money; you will not -spend it on anything else, will you?' And there had followed a few -mysterious sentences, uttered in lower tones, of which Wantley had -caught the words, 'afternoon,' 'Benediction,' 'fits,' and 'doctor.' - -At last the woman had shuffled away with her now quiescent burden, and -as they passed through the monastery gates Wantley saw with concern that -his companion looked pale and tired. 'If you propose coming back here -this afternoon, and seeing that woman again,' he said with kindly -authority, 'I will drive you over. Perhaps by that time your aunt will -be well enough to come too.' - -'Oh, I hope not!' Cecily's expression of dismay was involuntary. 'Aunt -Theresa only likes my helping poor people whom I know about already,' -she explained. - -'And does she approve of the Settlement?' He could not forbear the -question. The girl blushed and shook her head, smiling. 'Of course not. -She feels about the Settlement much as you do, only she thinks all that -sort of work ought to be left to nuns. But Mrs. Robinson persuaded the -Mother Superior of the convent where I was brought up, to write and tell -Aunt Theresa that she might at least let me try and see if I could do -what Penelope proposed.' - -'I think that Penelope has had decidedly the best of the bargain,' -Wantley rejoined dryly; for now, looking at his companion with new eyes -of solicitude, he saw the effects of that work which he also thought -might well be left to nuns, or at any rate to women older than Cecily. -But he was somewhat taken aback when, encouraged by the kindly glance, -his young companion exclaimed impulsively, 'Why are you--what makes -you--so unfair to Penelope? And why have you always refused to have -anything to do with the Settlement?' - -Wantley turned and looked at her rather grimly. 'So ho!' he said to -himself, 'my shortcomings have evidently been revealed. That's too bad!' -And then, aloud, he answered, quite gravely, 'If I am unfair to my -cousin--I mean, of course, unduly so--she is suffering for the sins of -her parents, or perhaps I should say of her father, by whom, as you are -possibly aware, I was adopted in a sort of fashion after the death of my -mother.' - -Cecily looked at him surprised. To her apprehension, the great Lord -Wantley had been one of those men who, in another and a holier age, -might well have been canonized. Of Lady Wantley she knew, or thought she -knew, less--indeed, they had never met till the evening before; but, -while admitting to herself her own complete lack of comprehension of the -older woman's peculiar religious views, Cecily was prepared to idealize -her in the double character of the famous philanthropist's widow and as -Penelope's mother. - -But Wantley, his easy-going nature now singularly moved and stirred, was -determined not to spare her. - -In short, dry sentences he told her of his happy childhood, of his -father's conversion to the Catholic faith, followed shortly after by -that now ruined father's death. Of Lord Wantley's reluctant adoption of -him, coupled with a refusal to give him the education he had himself -received, and which is, in a sense, the birthright of certain -Englishmen. - -He described, shortly indeed, but with a sharpness born of long-endured -bitterness, the years which he had spent as an idle member of Lord and -Lady Wantley's large household. Instinct warned him to pass lightly over -Penelope's share in his early troubles and humiliations; but there were -things in his recital which recalled, as almost every moving story -generally does recall, episodes in the listener's own life; and when at -last he looked at her, partly ashamed of his burst of confidence, he saw -that he had been successful in presenting his side of the story, more, -that Cecily was looking at him with new-born sympathy and interest. - -Then a slight accident turned the current of their thoughts into a -brighter and a lighter channel. Wantley suddenly dropped the heavy old -Prayer-Book of which he had taken charge, and, as it fell on to the -path, what seemed a page detached itself, and, fluttering out, was -caught between the tiny twigs of a briar-bush. As he bent to rescue and -restore, he could not help seeing that what was lying face upwards on -the mass of little leaves was one of the 'Holy Pictures' so often placed -by Catholics as markers in their books of devotion. - -On the upper half of the small white card had been pasted an inch-square -engraving of a little child guided by its guardian angel, while -underneath was rudely written, in a childish handwriting, each word so -formed as to resemble printing: 'Dear Angel, help me to-day to practise -Obedience, Punctuality, and Kindness, for the love of the Holy Child and -His blessed Mother.' - -As Wantley placed the little card back again between the leaves of -Cecily's shabby Prayer-Book, of which the title, 'The Path to Heaven,' -pleased him by its unquestioning directness, he said, smiling, 'And may -I ask if you still believe, Miss Wake, in the actual constant presence, -near to you, of a guardian angel?' - -'Of course I do!' She looked at him with wide-open eyes of surprise. - -'But,' he said deferentially, 'isn't that a little awkward sometimes, -even for you?' - -Cecily made what was for her a great mental leap. - -'Isn't everything--of that sort--a little awkward, sometimes, for all of -us?' she asked. - -'Yes,' he said; 'there must be times when guardian angels must feel -inclined to edge off somewhat, eh? or do you think they fly off for rest -and change when their charges annoy them by being contrary?' - -Cecily looked at him doubtfully. He spoke quite seriously, but she -thought it just possible that he was laughing at her. 'I suppose that -they do not remain long with very wicked people,' she said at last, and -he saw a frown of perplexity pucker her white forehead. 'But I'm sure -they do all they can to keep us good.' - -'I wonder,' he said reflectively, 'what limitation you would put to -their power? To give you an instance; you admit that had your aunt been -at church to-day you could not have taken charge of that poor baby, or -afterwards helped, as you most certainly did help, its tired mother. -Now, do you suppose that this baby's guardian angel provoked, by some -way best known to itself, your excellent aunt's headache?' - -'Laugh at me,' she said, smiling a little vexedly, 'but not at our own -or at other people's guardian angels; for I suppose even you would admit -that if they are with us they have feelings which may be hurt?' - -As he held the wicket-gate open for her to pass through from the cliff -path into the pine-wood boundary of Monk's Eype, Wantley said suddenly: -'I wonder if you have ever read a story called "In the Wrong Paradise"?' -and as Cecily shook her head he added: 'Then never do so! I am sure your -guardian angel would not at all approve of the moral it sets out to -convey.' And then, just as she was going up from the flagged terrace -into the central hall of the villa, he said, the laughter dying wholly -out of his voice: 'And if I may do so, let me tell you that I hope, with -all my heart, that I may ultimately be found worthy to enter whichever -may happen to be _your_ Paradise.' - -A look of great kindness, of understanding more than he had perhaps -meant to convey, came over Cecily's candid eyes. She made no answer, but -as she ran upstairs to her aunt's room she said to herself: 'Poor -fellow! Of course he means the Church. Oh, I must pray hard that he may -some day find his way to his father's Paradise and mine!' - - -She found her aunt lying down, and apparently asleep, on the broad -comfortable old sofa which was placed across the bottom of the bed, -opposite the window. The pretty room, hung with blue Irish linen forming -an admirable background to Mrs. Robinson's fine water-colours, looked -delightfully cool to the girl's tired eyes; the blinds had been pulled -down, and Cecily, walking on tiptoe past her aunt, sat down in a low -easy-chair, content to wait quietly till Miss Wake should open her eyes. -But the long walk, the sea-air, had made the watcher drowsy, and soon -Cecily also was asleep. - -Then, within the next few moments, a strange thing happened to Cecily -Wake. - -After what seemed a long time, she apparently awoke to a sight which -struck her as odd rather than unexpected. - -On the elder Miss Wake's chest, nestling down among the folds of her -white shawl, sat a tiny angel, whose chubby countenance was quite -familiar to Cecily, as his brown curls and pale, sensitive face -recalled, though, of course, in a benignant and peaceful sense, the -little child whom she had soothed in church. - -Cecily tried to get up and go to her aunt's assistance but something -seemed to hold her down in her chair. 'Please go away,' she heard -herself say, quite politely, but with considerable urgency. 'How can my -aunt's headache get better as long as you sit there? Besides, your -little charge is much in need of you!' - -But the angelic visitor made no response, and she noticed, with dismay, -that he wore on his chubby little face the look of intelligent obstinacy -so often seen on the faces of very young children. - -Again she said: 'Please go away. You are really not wanted here'--as a -concession she added, 'any more!' But he only flapped his little wings -defiantly, and seemed to settle down among the warm folds of Miss -Theresa's shawl as if arranging for a long stay. - -Cecily was in despair; and she began to think that everything was -strangely topsy-turvy. 'Perhaps,' she said to herself, 'he only -understands Irish, so I'll try him with French!' and, speaking the -language, to her so dear, which lends itself so singularly well to -courteous entreaty, she again begged her aunt's strange guest to take -his departure, pointing out that his mission was indeed fulfilled, and -there were reasons, imperative reasons, why he should go away. Then, to -her dismay, the little angel's eyes filled with tears, and at last he -spoke impetuously: 'Mais oui, j'ai de quoi!' he cried angrily in an -eager childish treble. - -Cecily felt herself blush as she answered hurriedly, soothingly: 'Mais, -petit ange, mon cher petit ange, je ne dis pas le contraire!' and she -had hardly time to add to herself, 'Then he _was_ Irish, after all,' -when the blinds, which were drawn down, all flapped together, although, -as Cecily often assured herself afterwards, there was absolutely no -wind, and the girl, rubbing her eyes, once more saw the white shawl as -usual crossed over primly on her aunt's chest, while Miss Theresa Wake, -opening her eyes, suddenly exclaimed: 'Is that you, my dear? I have not -been asleep exactly, but I now feel much better and less oppressed than -I did a few moments ago.' - -Cecily never told her curious experience, but a day came when the -dearest of all voices in the world asked imperiously: 'Mammy, do angels -ever come and talk to people? I mean to usual people, not to saints and -martyrs. Of course, I _know_, they do to _them_.' And Cecily answered, -very soberly: 'I think they do sometimes, my Ludovic, for an angel once -came and talked to me.' But not even to this questioner did she reveal -what the angelic visitant had said to her. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - L'amour est de toutes les passions la plus forte, parce qu'elle - attaque a la fois la tete, le coeur et le corps. - - -I - -All over the East, and even nearer home, on the Continent, old women -take a great place, and are even permitted to play a great role, in the -human affairs of those about them. Here in England it is otherwise. Here -they are allowed but grudgingly the privilege of standing on the bank -whence they see helpless boats, laden with freights to them so precious, -drifting down a current of whose dangerous places, of whose shoals and -shallows, their knowledge and experience are counted of no moment. - -In a French country-house three such women as Lady Wantley, Theresa -Wake, and the old nurse, Mrs. Mote, would have been the pivots round -which the younger people would have naturally revolved. At Monk's Eype -their presence--and this although each was singularly individual in -character and disposition--did not affect or modify one jot the actions -of the men and women about them. - -Mrs. Robinson, now weaving with unfaltering hand her own destiny, -absorbed in her own complicated emotions of fear, love, and pain, would -have listened incredulously indeed, had a seer, greatly daring, warned -her that each of these three old women might well, were she not careful -to respect their several prejudices, bring her to shipwreck. - -Downing, whose business it had long been to study those about him with -reference to their attitude to himself, instinctively avoided the -solitary company of Lady Wantley, for in her he recognized a possible -and formidable opponent. But of old Miss Wake's presence in the villa he -was scarcely conscious. Penelope's maid he knew to be a point of danger, -the living spark which might set all ablaze. - -The day after his coming to Monk's Eype, Sir George Downing and Mrs. -Mote had met face to face, and he had turned on his heel without a word -of greeting. Yet when he had last seen her they had parted pleasantly, -the servant believing, foolishly enough, that she and her mistress were -then seeing the last of one who had been their inseparable companion for -many, to her increasingly anxious, days. - -Mrs. Mote's crabbed face and short, ungainly figure were burnt into -Downing's memory as having cast the only shadow on the sunny stretch of -time which had so marvellously renewed his youth, brought warmth about -his chilled heart, and made the future bright exceedingly. And so the -meeting with the old nurse had been to him a sharp reminder that one -person at least at Monk's Eype already wished him ill, and would fain -see him go away for ever. - -The maid also avoided him, though she sat long hours at her window, -taking note of his comings and goings, jealously counting the moments -that her mistress chose to spend in his company, either down in the -Beach Room, or, more often, pacing up and down on the broad terrace, and -under the ilex-trees which protected from relentless sea-winds the -delicate flowering shrubs that were counted among the greatest glories -of Monk's Eype. - -It was there, under those trees, completely screened from the windows -which swept the terrace, that Mrs. Robinson preferred to spend what -leisure Sir George Downing allowed himself from his work. More than once -Motey had come down from her watching-place, and had crept into the -little pine-wood to watch, to overhear, what was being done and what was -being said in the ilex grove. But the old woman's unhappy, suspicious -eyes only saw what they had seen so often before: her mistress and -Downing walking slowly side by side, she listening, absorbed, to his -utterances. Sometimes Penelope would lay her hand a moment on his arm, -with a curious, familiar, tender gesture--curious as coming from one who -avoided alike familiarity and tenderness when dealing with her friends. - -Only once, however, had Mrs. Mote surprised a gesture which might not -have been witnessed by all the world. One afternoon when a strand of -Mrs. Robinson's beautiful hair had become loosened, and so uncoiled its -length upon her shoulder, Downing, turning towards her, had suddenly -taken it up between his fingers and raised it to his lips. Then the old -nurse had seen the bright gleam of what was so intimately a part of her -mistress mingling for a moment with the dark moustache heavily streaked -with white, and she had clenched her hands in impotent anger and -disgust. - - -II - -Her aunt's presence at Monk's Eype scarcely affected Cecily Wake. The -two had never become intimate; the girl's young eagernesses and -enthusiasms disturbed Miss Wake, and even her sunny good temper and -buoyancy were a source of irritation to one who had led so grey and -toneless a life. - -On the other hand, Miss Theresa Wake was really attached to the -beautiful woman whom she called cousin. - -She watched Penelope far more closely than the latter knew during those -still, hot August days, when the thin, shrunken figure of the spinster -lady, wrapped, in spite of the heat, in an old-fashioned cashmere shawl, -sat back in one of the hooded chairs set on the eastern side of the -terrace. When out in the open air Miss Wake always armed herself with -one of the novels which had been thoughtfully provided by her kind -hostess for her entertainment; but often she would lay the volume down -on her knee, and gaze, her dim eyes full of speculation, at Mrs. -Robinson's brilliant figure coming and going across the terrace, to and -from the studio, sometimes--nay, generally--accompanied, shadow-wise, by -the tall, lean form of Sir George Downing. - -After watching these two for a while, Miss Wake would find her -interrupted novel oddly uninteresting and dreary. - -To Cecily these holiday days were not passing by as happily as she had -thought they would. She felt for the first time in her short life -disturbed, she knew not why; distressed, she knew not by what. - -The hours spent with Mrs. Robinson, doing work she had looked forward to -doing, seemed strangely dull compared with those briefer moments when -Wantley strolled or sat by her side, looking down smiling into her eyes, -asking whimsical questions concerning the Settlement, with a view--or so -he said--of settling there himself, if Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret -would accept him as a disciple! - -Twice in those ten days he had gone with her to early Mass at Beacon -Abbas; and oh, how pleasant had been the walks along the cliff path, how -soothing the half-hours spent in the beautiful chapel, with Wantley -standing and kneeling by her side. But on the second occasion of their -return from Beacon Abbas Penelope had greeted the two walkers, or rather -had greeted Cecily, with a questioning piercing look. Was it one of -dissatisfaction, of slight jealousy, or simply of surprise? That one -glance--and Wantley was well aware that it was so--put an end to any -further joint expeditions to the monastery chapel. - -During these same unquiet days, when Cecily's heart would beat without -reason, when she seemed to be always waiting, she knew not for what, the -girl became fond, in a shy, childish way, of Penelope's mother. - -Perhaps because she was utterly unlike any other woman Cecily Wake had -ever seen, or even imagined, Lady Wantley exercised a curious -fascination over her heart and mind. The tall, stately figure, wrapped -in sweeping black and white garments, was seen but seldom in the -sunshine, out of doors. Since her widowhood she had lived a life -withdrawn from the world about her, and she had occupied what had been a -sudden and unwelcome leisure by writing two mystical volumes, which had -enjoyed great popularity among those ever ready to welcome a new -interpretation of the more esoteric passages of the Scriptures. - -When staying at Monk's Eype, Lady Wantley would spend long hours of -solitude in the Picture Room; and there Cecily would sometimes find -her, absorbed in a strangely-worded French or English book of devotion, -from which, looking up, she would make the girl read her short passages. -At other moments Cecily would discover her engaged in writing long -letters of spiritual advice to correspondents, almost always unknown to -her, who had read her books, and who wished to consult her concerning -their own spiritual difficulties and perplexities. - -When not thus employed Lady Wantley sat idle, her long, -delicately-modelled hands clasped loosely together, enjoying, as she -believed, actual communion with her own dead--with the fine, -true-hearted father, whose earthly memory was so dear to her; with the -beloved mother, to whom as she grew older she felt herself to be growing -more alike and nearer; with the husband who, however stern and -awe-inspiring to others, had ever been fond and tender to herself. The -little group of strangely assorted souls seemed ever gathered about her, -and in no distant, inaccessible heaven. - -Once, when Cecily Wake had come upon her in one of these strange -companied trances, Lady Wantley had said very simply: 'I have been -telling Penelope's father of her many perfections: of her goodness to -those who, if they are the disinherited of the earth, are yet the heirs -of the kingdom--those whom he himself ever made his special care. I -think, dear child, that, if you would not mind my doing so, I will also -some day tell him--my husband, I mean--of you, and of Penelope's love -and care for you.' And she had added, as if to herself: 'But how could -she be otherwise? Was she not, even before her birth, dedicated to the -Lord in His temple?' - -Lady Wantley was sometimes in a sterner mood, when hell seemed as near -as--ay, nearer than--heaven. Evil spirits then appeared to encompass -her, and she would feel herself to be wrestling with their dread master -himself. When this was so, her delicate, bloodless face would become -transfigured, and the large, heavy-lidded grey eyes would seem to flash -out fire, while Cecily listened, awed, to strange majestic utterances, -of which she knew not that their source was the Apocalypse. - -That this convent-bred girl had a genuine belief in the Evil One, and a -due fear of his cunning ways, was undoubtedly a link between Lady -Wantley and herself; as was also the softer fact of her great affection -for the one creature whom Lady Wantley loved with simple human devotion. -After hearing the older woman talk, as she so often did talk, of her -loved and admired daughter, Cecily would feel grieved, even a little -perplexed, when next she perceived how lightly Penelope esteemed this -boundless mother-love. - -In no material thing did Mrs. Robinson neglect Lady Wantley. Every -morning she would make her way into the Picture Room, ready with some -practical suggestion designed to further her mother's comfort during the -coming day; but to Penelope, much as she loved her, Lady Wantley never -alluded to the matters which lay nearest to her heart. She found it -easier to do so to the Catholic girl than to the creature she had -herself borne, over whose upbringing she had watched so zealously, and, -as she sometimes admitted to herself in moments of rare self-sincerity, -with so little success. - - -III - -Wantley only so far remembered the presence at Monk's Eype of Penelope's -mother as to thank Heaven that she had nothing in common with the -match-making dowagers, of whom he had met certain types in his way -through life, and who at this moment would have brushed some of the -bloom from his fragrant romance. - -Absorbed as he had already become in the novel feeling of considering -another more than himself, he yet found the time now and again to wonder -why it was that he saw so little of the remarkable man to whom he stood -in at least the nominal relation of host. That first evening they had -sat up together long into the night, and there had been, not only no -apparent barrier between them, but the younger man had been both -fascinated and interested by the other's account of the land where he -had already spent the best half of his life. Such had been the magic of -Downing's manner, such the infectious quality of his sustained -enthusiasm, that for a moment Wantley had wondered whether he also might -not create a career for himself in that country of which the boundless -resources and equally boundless necessities had now been made real to -him for the first time. - -Then, as it had seemed, gradually, but looking back he saw that the -change had come very quickly, Wantley had perceived that Downing avoided -instead of seeking or welcoming his company. True, the other man was -engaged in heavy work, spending much of his time in the Beach Room, and -often returning there late in the evening; but even so Wantley could not -understand why Downing now seemed desirous of seeing as little of him as -possible. The knowledge made him a little sore, the more so that he -attributed the change in the other's manner to some careless word -uttered by Penelope. - -Another grievance, and one which pushed the other into the background of -his mind, was the fact that Mrs. Robinson, more capricious, more -restless than her wont, absorbed each day much of the time and attention -of Cecily Wake. That the latter apparently regarded this constant call -on her leisure as a privilege, in no sense softened the young man's -irritation: it seemed to him that his cousin took an impish delight in -frustrating his attempts--somewhat shamefaced at first, openly eager as -time went on--to be with the girl. - -Wantley consoled himself by bestowing on the aunt the time and the -attention he would fain have bestowed on the niece. The elder Miss Wake -soon came to regard him as an exceptionally agreeable and well-bred man, -with a strong leaning to Catholicism--even, she sometimes ventured to -hope, to the priesthood; for many were Lord Wantley's questions -concerning monasteries and convents, and had he not on two week-day -mornings escorted her niece to Mass at Beacon Abbas? According to Miss -Wake's limited knowledge of the ways of men, and especially of the ways -of noblemen, such zeal, if it involved early rising, was quite -exceptional, and must surely be done with an object. - -Poor Wantley, unconscious of these hopes, his sense of humour for the -moment more or less suspended, found the mornings especially hang heavy -on his hands, for Cecily, after an hour spent with Penelope in the -studio, generally disappeared upstairs into her own room till lunch; and -this absorption, as he supposed, in business connected with the -Melancthon Settlement did not increase his liking for the place which -filled so much of Cecily's heart, and took up so much of the time he -might have spent with her. - -At last the day came when the young man solved the innocent mystery of -how Cecily Wake spent her mornings. Passing along the terrace, he -overheard a fragmentary conversation which showed him that his cousin -was using her young friend as secretary, handing over to her the large -correspondence which dogs the hours of every man and woman known to have -the disposal of great wealth. When there had been no one at hand more -compliant, Wantley had himself undertaken the task of dealing with the -hundred and one absurd, futile, often pathetic, requests for help, -which filled by far the greater part of Mrs. Robinson's letter-bag. Too -well he knew the tenor of the various remarks which now fell upon his -ear; one sentence, however, at once compelled closer attention: 'I have -had a letter--to which I should like you also to send an answer. It's -from David Winfrith. Please say I'm glad he's back, and that we will -drive over there to-morrow. Write to him and say I have asked you to do -so, as I am too busy to answer his letter to-day.' - -Wantley, with keen irritation, heard the low, hesitating answer: 'If you -don't mind, I would so much prefer not to write to Mr. Winfrith. You -know he has never liked me, and I am sure he would feel very much -annoyed if he thought'--the soft voice paused, but went bravely on--'if -he thought I had seen any letter of his to you----' - -'But you have not seen his letter! Still, I dare say you're right. We -will drive over there to-day--the more so that I have something else to -do in that neighbourhood.' - -A moment later Wantley heard the door of the studio opening and -shutting, and knew that his cousin was alone. He walked in through the -window prepared to tell Mrs. Robinson, and that very plainly, his -opinion of what he considered her gross selfishness. But quickly she -carried the war into the enemy's country. - -'I saw you,' she said, with heightened colour, 'and I didn't think it -very pretty of you to stand listening out there!' - -Then, struck by the look of suppressed anger which was his only answer, -she added: 'Perhaps I've been rather selfish the last few days, but you -and she see quite as much of each other as is good for you, just at -present. And, Ludovic, I've been longing to show you something which, I -think even you will agree, exactly fits your present condition.' - -She took from the table a prettily bound volume, in which had been -thrust an envelope as marker. 'Listen!' she cried, and then declaimed -with emphasis, and partly in the faultless French which he had always -envied her: - -'_First Old Bachelor_: "Et les jeunes filles? Aime-tu ca? Toi?" - -'_Second Old Bachelor_: "Helas! mon ami, je commence!"' - -Wantley bit his lip. He could not help smiling. 'You have not shown her -that?' he asked suspiciously. - -'No, indeed! How could you think such a thing, even of me?' Mrs. -Robinson rose; she came and stood by him, and as their eyes met he saw -that she was strangely moved. 'Ah, Ludovic,' she said softly, 'you are a -lucky man!' - -He looked away. 'Do you really think that she likes being with me?' he -asked awkwardly. - -'Yes, even better than with me--now!' The young man knew, rather than -saw, that her eyes were full of tears, and in spite of his absorption in -himself and his own affairs, he found time to wonder why Penelope was so -unlike herself--so gentle, so moved. Her next words confirmed his -feeling of uneasy astonishment, for, 'You won't ever set her against -me,' she asked, 'whatever happens, will you?' - -Wantley felt amused and a little touched. 'My dear Penelope!' he cried, -'I think it's my turn now to ask you how you could think such a thing, -even of me? Also I must say you do her a great injustice. Why, she loves -you with all her heart! Not even'--he used the first simile that came -into his mind--'not even an angel with a flaming sword would keep her -from you.' - -'No; but some Roman Catholic notion of obedience to one's lawful owner -might prove more tangible than a flaming sword!' - -The harsh words grated on Wantley's ear; he wondered why women -sometimes put things so much more coarsely than a man, in a similar -case, would do. - -But before he could answer Penelope had moved away, and, with a complete -change of voice, and a return of her usual rather disdainful serenity of -manner, was saying: 'I see Sir George Downing coming up from the Beach -Room. By the way, I want to tell you that he finds he can't work -properly with so many people about, and I have suggested that he should -put in a few days at Kingpole Farm. I believe the lodgings there are -very comfortable, and the place has the further advantage of being near -Shagisham. You know he wishes to meet David Winfrith, and I thought, -perhaps, that the introduction'--Penelope now spoke with nervous -hesitation--'would come better from you.' - -Wantley assented cordially, pleased that his cousin should for once -propose a common-sense plan in which he, Wantley, would play a proper -part. - - -Wantley, as Penelope shrewdly suspected--for to her he had never worn -his heart upon his sleeve--had spent from boyhood onwards much more time -than was good for his soul's health in self-pity and self-examination. - -This was especially true during that portion of the year when he was in -England, and especially the case when he was staying, as he did each -summer, at Monk's Eype. In his heart he grudged his beautiful cousin the -possession of a place created by a man to whom they stood in equal -relationship, but which, as he never failed to remind himself when in -Dorset, had always belonged to the Lord Wantley of the day. At Monk's -Eype he felt himself a stranger where he ought to have felt at home; and -this was the more painful to him because the villa had been the creation -of the one man with whom he believed himself to be in closer affinity -than with any other former bearer of his name. - -During his long idle youth, Wantley's happiest moments had been those -spent in wandering along the byways of France, Spain, and Germany. He -had been denied the ordinary upbringing of his rank and race, but, -during the long Continental journeys in which he had been the companion -of Lord and Lady Wantley and their daughter, he had learnt and seen much -which in later life was to cause him abiding pleasure and comfort, the -more so as he was a fair artist, and came of scholar stock. - -Brought up by a mother to whom her son's future had been the only -consoling thought in a middle age of singular trials and perplexities, -Ludovic Wantley had from childhood realized, to an almost pathetic -extent, the pleasant possibilities of life as a British peer. But very -soon after he had succeeded his cousin he discovered that much of the -glories, and all the pleasures attached to the position would be denied -him, partly from want of means, more perhaps from lack of that -robustness of outlook induced, not wholly to his spiritual advantage, in -the average public school boy. - -When abroad Wantley never became, as it were, forgetful of his -identity--never affected the incognito so dear, and sometimes so useful, -to the travelling English peer. Indeed, young Lord Wantley had soon -become the Continental innkeeper's ideal 'milord,' content to pay well -for indifferent accommodation, delighted rather than otherwise to meet -with those trifling mishaps which annoy so acutely the ordinary tourist, -and content to come back, winter after winter, to the same auberge, -osteria, or gasthaus. - -In yet another matter he differed greatly from the conventional -travelled and travelling Englishman: he came and went alone, apparently -feeling no need, as did most of his countrymen, of congenial -companionship. One day the kindly landlady of one of those stately -posting inns, yclept 'Le Tournebride,' which may still be found -scattered through provincial France, had ventured to suggest that the -next time she had the pleasure of seeing him she hoped he would come -accompanied by 'une belle milady.' He had smiled as he had answered: -'Jamais! jamais! jamais!' But that particular 'Tournebride' had known -him no more. - -Wantley had thought much of marriage. What man so situated does not do -so? He knew, or thought he knew, that to him money and marriage must be -synonymous terms, and the knowledge had angered him. In one of his rare -moments of confidence he had said to his cousin: 'Like your eccentric -friend who always knew when there was a baronet in the room, I always -know when there's an heiress there. And, what is more serious, her -presence always induces a feeling of repulsion!' - -Penelope had laughed suddenly, and then changed the subject. Any -allusion to Wantley's monetary affairs held for her a sharp if small -pin-prick of conscience. For a while she had tried, it must be admitted -in but a fitful and desultory way, to bring him in contact with the type -of English girl, often, let it be said in parenthesis, a not unpleasing -type of modern girlhood, who is willing to consider very seriously, and -in all good faith, the preliminaries to a bargain in which she and her -fortune, a peer and his peerage, are to be the human goods weighed -opposite one another in the balance of life. - -There had also been periods in Wantley's life when he had found himself -in love with love, and ready to weave an ardent romance round every -pretty sentimentalist in search of an adventure. But these feelings had -never deepened into one so strong as to compel the thought of an -enduring tie. His fastidious critical temperament shrank from concrete -realities, and as time went on he had felt, over-sensitively, how little -he had to offer to a woman of the kind to whom he sometimes felt a -strong if temporary attraction. - -As he grew older, passed the border-line of thirty, the longing for the -stability afforded by a happy marriage appealed to him, for awhile, far -more than it had done when he was a younger man. And so for some two -years, being then much abroad, he had toyed with the idea of making, in -France or in Italy, a _mariage de convenance_ with some well-born, -well-dowered girl who should leave her convent-school to become his -wife, and with whom he would promise himself, when in the mood, an -after-marriage romance not lacking in piquancy. - -Unfortunately, Wantley was an Englishman, and by no means as -unconventional as he liked to think himself. Accordingly, when he came -to consider, and even more when he came to discuss, with some -good-natured French or Italian acquaintance, the preliminaries of such a -marriage as had appealed to his fancy, his gorge rose at certain sides -of the question then closely presented to his notice, and finally he put -the idea from him. - - -This spring Wantley had returned to England, ready, as usual, to spend -the summer in half-unwilling attendance on his lovely cousin, and -further than he had been for many years from all thought of marriage. - -Then, with what seemed at times incredible and disconcerting swiftness, -had come over him, in these few days of sunny quietude, a limitless -unreasoning tenderness for a young creature utterly unlike his former -ideals of womanhood. Even when aghast at the thought of how easily he -might have missed her on the way of his life--even when he felt her -already so much a part of himself that he could no longer have described -her, as he had first seen her, to a stranger--Wantley admitted, nay, -forced on himself the knowledge, that she was not beautiful, not even -particularly gifted or clever. One reason why he had always displayed so -sincere a lack of liking for the heiresses, willing to be peeresses, -whom Penelope had thrust upon his notice, had been that to him they had -all looked so unaccountably plain; and yet, compared with Cecily Wake, -he knew that more than one of these young women might well have been -considered a beauty. - -Wantley had always been fond of analyzing his own emotions, and now the -simplicity, as well as the strength, of his feeling amazed him. When -with Cecily Wake he felt that he was journeying through some delicious -unknown country, the old Paradise rediscovered by them two, she still a -sweet mysterious stranger, whose better acquaintance he was making day -by day. But when she was no longer by his side, and there were many -hours he could only spend in thinking of her, then Wantley felt as a -mother feels about her own little child, as if he had always known her, -always loved her with this placid and yet uneasy care, this trusting and -yet watchful tenderness. - -He had ever deprecated enthusiasm, and had actively disliked -philanthropists, as only those who in early youth are constrained to -endure the company of enthusiasts and the atmosphere of philanthropy can -deprecate the one and dislike the other. Well, now, so the young man -whimsically told himself, had come what his old enemies--those who had -gathered about his uncle and aunt in days he hated to remember--would -doubtless have recognised as a distinct 'call.' It seemed to him that he -had made a good beginning that first Sunday afternoon, when he had kept -the aunt in play while the niece had accomplished her prosaic errand of -mercy. - - -The same evening, late at night, he had gone into the room which had -been the great Lord Wantley's study, and, under the grim eyes of the man -who had never judged him fairly, he had pulled out faded Blue-Books, -reports, and pamphlets which had been the tools of a mighty worker for -his kind. Then, lamp in hand, he had wandered on into the studio, and -there, oddly out of keeping with their fellows on the pretty quaintly -placed white shelves framing the door, he had found newer, more -digestible, contributions to the problems to which he was now, half -unwillingly, turning his mind. - -He took down a slim, ill-printed volume, bearing on the title-page the -name of Philip Hammond, and composed of essays which had first appeared -in the more serious reviews. Setting down his lamp on Penelope's deal -painting-table, he opened the little book with prejudice, read on with -increasing attention, and finally placed it back on the shelf with -respect. - -Even so, his lips curled as he remembered the only time he had seen the -writer. The two men had met by accident in Mrs. Robinson's London house, -and Wantley had been amused by Hammond's obvious--too obvious--devotion -to the beautiful widow of the man whose aims and whose ideals he had -known how to describe so well in this very book. For the hundredth time -Wantley asked himself in what consisted Penelope's power of attracting -such men as had been apparently Melancthon Robinson, as was undoubtedly -Philip Hammond, as had become--to give the clinching instance--David -Winfrith. - -The day before, when driving back to Monk's Eype from the place where he -had been spending a few pleasant days, he had passed the two riders, and -had seen them so deeply absorbed in one another's conversation that they -had ridden by without seeing him. - -For a moment, as he had driven by quickly in a dogcart belonging to his -late host, and therefore unfamiliar to Penelope and her companion, he -had caught a look--an unguarded, unmasked, passionate look--on -Winfrith's strong, plain face. - -What glance, what word on his companion's part, had brought it there? -That Winfrith should allow himself to be thus moved angered Wantley. He -set himself to recall very deliberately certain things that his mother, -acting with strange lack of good feeling, had told him, when he was -still a boy, concerning Lady Wantley's mother, Penelope's grandmother. -He wondered if Penelope _knew_. On the whole he thought not. But in any -case, who could doubt from whom she had had transmitted to her that -uncanny power of bewitching men, of keeping them faithful to herself, -while she remained, or at least so he felt persuaded, quite unaffected -by the passions she delighted in unloosing? - -In his own mind, and not for the first time, he judged his cousin very -hardly. And yet, after that evening, Wantley never thought so really ill -of her again, for, when he felt tempted to do so, he seemed to hear the -words which he had heard said that day for the first, though by no means -for the last, time: 'Why are you--what makes you--so unfair to -Penelope?' - -And even as he walked through the sleeping, silent house he reminded -himself, repentantly, that his cousin's love-compelling power extended -to what was already to him the best and purest, as it was so soon to be -the dearest, thing on earth. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - 'La Passion, c'est l'ascetisme profane, aussi rude que ascetisme - religieux.'--ANATOLE FRANCE. - - -I - -Within two hours of his curious conversation with his cousin, Wantley -saw Mrs. Robinson and Cecily Wake start off, alone, for Shagisham. - -With his hands in his pockets, his head slightly thrown back, standing -in a characteristic attitude, the young man watched them drive away in -the curious low dogcart which had been designed by Penelope for her own -use. As he turned back into the hall an unaccountable depression seized -on him. The memory of his cousin's words concerning Cecily was far from -giving him pleasure. He felt as if in listening he had been treacherous, -not so much to the girl as to their own ideal relation to one another. - -It is surely a mistake to say, as is so often said, that uncertainty and -doubt are the invariable accompaniments of the beginning of a great -passion. Wantley had felt, almost from the first, as sure of her as he -had felt of himself, and yet his reverence for Cecily was great, and his -opinion of his own merits most modest. - -Death might come, and now he had become strangely afraid of death, but -Cecily, living, he knew would and must belong to him. He was so sure of -this, and he loved her so well as she was, that he had no desire, as -yet, to do that which would let all the world share his dear mysterious -secret, become witness of his deep content. And so, though Penelope had -been very gentle--indeed, save at one moment, very delicate in what she -had implied rather than said--Wantley would have been better pleased -had the words remained unuttered. - -Then his mind went on to wonder why his cousin had seemed so distressed -and so unlike her restrained and, with him, always wholly possessed -self. What had signified her odd words, her pleading look, so full of -unwonted humility? Things were not going well with Wantley to-day, and -his vague discontent was suddenly increased by the recollection that -George Downing was leaving Monk's Eype. - -Since Downing's arrival Wantley had not once been down to the Beach -Room. Mrs. Robinson knew how to insure that her wishes, whatever they -might be, should be known and respected, and so, partly in obedience to -a word said by her regarding her famous guest's dislike of interruption, -partly because he had felt Downing's manner become more and more frigid -during the brief moments when the two men were obliged to place -themselves in the courteous juxtaposition of host and guest, the younger -had studiously avoided forcing his company on the elder. - -Now, remembering Penelope's words concerning the part he was to play in -the matter of introducing Downing to David Winfrith, he felt that he -might without indiscretion seek the other out. - - -Wantley was surprised by the warmth of his welcome. Downing seemed -really glad to have his solitude invaded, and a moment later his -visitor, sitting with his back to the broad window, at right angles to -the older man's powerful figure, was realizing with some amusement and -astonishment how carefully Penelope's old play-room had been arranged -with a view to its present occupant's convenience and even comfort. - -His cool, observant eyes first took note of the camp-bed, only partly -hidden by the splendid Chinese screen, never before moved from its place -in the great Picture Room of the villa; then of the strips of felt laid -down over the oak floor; of the comfortable chair in which Downing was -now leaning back--lastly, his glance rested on the wide writing-table, -covered with papers, note-books, and a map held flatly to the wind-swept -surface of the table by a small revolver. - -Wantley also perceived a pile of rugs, generally kept in the hall of the -villa, for which he had searched in vain a day or two before, when he -wanted something to wrap about the knees of old Miss Wake. This, then, -was where they had been spirited away! - -He charitably reminded himself that Persian Downing, in spite of his -straight, long figure, his keen eyes, his powerful chin and jaw, was no -longer a young man, and with much living alone had doubtless found time -to acquire the art of securing for himself the utmost physical comfort. -Wantley's admiration for him somewhat unreasonably declined in -consequence, and no suspicion that these little arrangements, these -little luxuries, might be the sole fruit of another person's intelligent -thoughtfulness even crossed his mind. - -They were both smoking--Downing an old-fashioned pipe, and his visitor -one of the small French cigarettes of which he always carried a store -about with him, and which had been the most tangible sign of his release -from thraldom, the great Lord Wantley's horror and contempt of smoking -and of smokers having been only equalled by his abhorrence of drinking -and of drunkards. - -The early afternoon light, reflected from the sea and sand outside, -flooded the curious cavernous room with radiance, throwing the upper -half of Downing's broad, lean figure in high relief. Wantley, himself in -shadow, looked at him with renewed interest and curiosity, and as he did -so he realized that there must have been a time when the man before him -would have been judged singularly handsome. Now the large features were -thin to attenuation--the brown skin roughened by much exposure to heat -and dust; the grey eyes, gleaming under the bushy eyebrows, sunken and -tired; while the thick moustache, streaked with white, hid the firm, -delicately modelled mouth, and gave an appearance of age to the face. - -'If you do not find the farm comfortable,' said Wantley, breaking what -had begun to be an oppressive silence, 'I hope you will return here for -awhile. There won't be a soul in London yet.' - -'Excepting my old friend, Mr. Julius Gumberg,' objected Downing. 'I -believe he has not been out of town for years, and I sometimes think -that in this, at any rate, he has proved himself wiser than some of his -fellows.' - -'Mr. Julius Gumberg,' said the other, smiling, 'has always seemed to me, -since I first had the honour of his acquaintance, to be the ideal -Epicurean--the man who has mastered the art of selecting his pleasures.' - -'True!' cried Downing abruptly. 'But you must admit that not the least -of his pleasures has always been that of benefiting his friends.' - -'But that, after all, is only a refined form of self-indulgence,' -objected Wantley, who had never been in a position so to indulge -himself. - -An amused smile broke over the other's stern mouth and jaw. 'That theory -embodies the ethical nihilism of the old Utilitarians. Of course you are -not serious; if you were, your position would be akin to that of the -Persian mystics who teach the utter renunciation of self, the sinking of -the ego in the divine whole. But then,' added Downing, fixing his eyes -on his companion, and speaking as if to himself--'but then comes the -question, What is renunciation? The Persian philosopher would give an -answer very different from that offered by the Christian.' - -'Renunciation is surely the carrying out of the ascetic ideal--something -more actively painful than the mere doing without.' Wantley spoke -diffidently. - -'Undoubtedly that is what the Christian means by the word, but is there -not the higher degree of perfection involved in the French saint's -dictum?' Downing stopped short; then, with very fair, albeit -old-fashioned, accent, he uttered the phrase, '_Rien demander et rien -refuser._ Of course, the greatest difference between the point of view -held by the Persian sages and, say, the old monkish theologians is that -concerning human love.' - -Wantley leaned forward; he threw his cigarette out of the window. 'Ah,' -he said, 'that interests me! My own father became a Roman Catholic, an -act on his part, by the way, of supreme renunciation. I myself can see -no possible hope of finality anywhere else; but I think that, as regards -human love, I should be Persian rather than monkish.' He added, smiling -a little: 'I suppose the Persian theory of love is summed up by -FitzGerald;' and diffidently he quoted the most famous of the quatrains, -lingering over the beautiful words, for, as he uttered them, he applied -them, quite consciously, to himself and Cecily Wake. What wilderness -with her but would be Paradise? - -Her face rose up before him as he had seen it for a moment the day -before, when, coming suddenly upon her in the little wood, her honest -childish eyes had shone out welcome. - -Downing looked at him thoughtfully. 'Ah, no; the Persian mystic of -to-day would by no means assent to such simplicity of outlook. Jami -rather than Omar summed up the national philosophy. The translation is -not comparable, but, still, 'twill serve to explain to you the Persian -belief that renunciation of self may be acquired through the medium of a -merely human love;' and he repeated the lines: - - - 'Though in this world a hundred tasks thou tryest, - 'Tis love alone which from thyself will save thee; - Even from earthly love thy face avert not, - Since to the real it may serve to raise thee.' - - -'That,' cried Wantley eagerly, 'absolutely satisfies me, and strikes me -as being the highest truth!' - -Downing again smiled--a quick, humorous smile. 'No doubt,' he said -rather dryly, 'so thought the student who, seeking a great sage in order -to be shown the way of spiritual perfection, received for answer: "If -your steps have not yet trod the pathway of love, go hence, seek love, -and, having met it, then return to me." The theory that true love, even -if ill-bestowed, partakes of the Divine, is an essential part of the -Sufi philosophy.' - -'And yet,' objected Wantley, 'there are times when love, even if well -bestowed, may have to be withdrawn, lest it should injure the creature -beloved.' - -'So I should once have said,' answered Downing, leaning forward and -straightening himself in his chair; 'but now I am inclined to think that -that theory has been responsible for much wrong and pain. I myself, as a -young man, was greatly injured by holding for a time this very view. I -was attracted to a married woman, who soon obtained over me an -extraordinary and wholly pure influence. But you know what the world is -like; I cannot suppose that in these matters it has altered since my -day. It came to my knowledge that our friendship was arousing a certain -amount of comment, and so, after much painful thought and discussion -with myself, I made up my mind--wrongly, as I now believe--to withdraw -myself from the connection.' He added with a certain effort: 'To this -determination--come to, I can assure you and myself, from the highest -motives--I trace, in looking back, some unhappiness to her, and to me -the utter shipwreck of what were then my worldly chances. My withdrawal -from this lady's influence brought me into contact with another and a -very evil personality. Now, had I been then, as I now am, a student of -Persian philosophy, I might be----' - -Downing stopped speaking abruptly. As he threw himself back, his great -powerful figure seemed to collapse. Wantley looked at him, surprised and -greatly touched by the confidence. - -'I will tell you,' resumed Downing, after a long pause, 'of another -Persian belief, to which I now fully adhere. The sages say that as God -is, of course, wholly lacking in _bukhl_--that is, stinginess or -meanness--it is impossible for him to withhold from any man the thing -for which he strives with sufficient earnestness; and this,' he added, -looking at his companion, 'I have myself found to be true. If a man -devotes all his energies to the pursuit of spiritual knowledge, he -becomes in time----' - -'Automatically holy,' suggested Wantley, smiling. - -'And capable,' concluded Downing, 'of accomplishing what we call -miracles.' - -'But to such a one surely human love would be denied, even in Persia?' - -'Undoubtedly, yes. But the man who has striven successfully on a lower -plane, whose object has been to compass worldly power and the defeat of -his enemies--to him human love is not only not denied, but may, as we -have seen, bring him nearer to the Divine.' - -'But meanwhile,' objected Wantley, 'love, and especially the pursuit of -the beloved, must surely stay his ambition, and even interfere with his -success?' - -'Only inasmuch as it may render him more sensitive to physical danger -and less defiant of death.' - -The young man had expected a very different answer. 'Yes,' he said -tentatively; 'you mean that a soldier, if a lover, is less inclined to -display reckless bravery than those among his comrades who have not the -same motive for self-preservation?' - -'No, no!' exclaimed Downing impatiently; 'I do not mean that at all! All -history is there to prove the contrary. I was not thinking of -straightforward death in any shape, but of treachery, of assassination. -The man who loves'--he hesitated, his voice softened, altered in -quality--'above all, the man who knows himself to be beloved, is more -alive, more sensitive to the fear of annihilation, than he who only -lives to accomplish certain objects. The knowledge that this is so might -well make a man pause--during the brief moments when pausing is -possible--and it has undoubtedly led many a one to put deliberately from -himself all thought of love.' - -Wantley looked at him with some curiosity, wondering whether his words -had a personal application. - -'Now, take my own case,' continued Downing gravely. 'I am in quite -perpetual danger of assassination, and in this one matter, at any rate, -I am a fatalist. But should I have the right to ask a woman to share, -not only the actual risk, but also the mental strain? I once should have -said no; I now say yes.' - -Wantley was too surprised to speak. - -There was a pause, then Downing spoke again, but in a different tone: -'Oddly enough, the first time was the most nearly successful. In fact, -the person who had me drugged--perhaps I should say poisoned--succeeded -in his object, which was to obtain a paper which I had on my person. -Papers, letters, documents of every kind, are associated in my mind with -mischief, and I always get rid of them as soon as possible. Mr. Gumberg -has boxes full of papers I have sent him at intervals from Persia. I -have arranged with him that if anything happens to me they are to be -sent off to the Foreign Office. Once there'--he threw his head back and -laughed grimly--'they would probably never be looked at again. In no -case have I ever about me any papers or letters; everything of the kind -is locked away.' - -'Yes; but you have to carry a key,' objected Wantley. - -'There you have me! I do carry a key. One is driven to trust either a -human being or a lock. I prefer the lock.' - - -Wantley, as he left the Beach Room, felt decidedly more cheerful. The -conversation had interested and amused him. Above all, he had been moved -by the recital of Downing's early romance, and he wondered idly who the -lady in question could have been, whether she was still living, and -whether Downing ever had news of her. - -During the whole of their talk there had been no word, no hint, of the -existence of the other's wife, who, as Wantley, by a mere chance word -uttered in his presence in the house where he had recently been staying, -happened to know, was even now in England, the honoured guest of one of -his uncle's old fellow-workers. - -He said to himself that there was a fascination about Downing, a -something which might even now make him beloved by the type of -woman--Wantley imagined the meek, affectionate, and intensely feminine -type of woman--who is attracted by that air of physical strength which -is so often allied, in Englishmen, to mental power. He felt that the man -he had just left, sitting solitary, had in his nature the capacity of -enjoying ideal love and companionship, and the young man, regarding -himself as so blessed, regretted that this good thing had been denied to -the man who had spoken of it with so much comprehension. - -Slowly making his way upwards from the shore, Wantley turned aside, and -lingered a few moments on the second of the three terraces. Here, in -this still, remote place, on this natural ledge of the cliff, guarded -by a stone balustrade which terminated at intervals with fantastic urns, -now gay with geranium blossoms, gaining intensity of colour by the -background of blue sky and bluer waters, he had only the day before, for -a delicious hour, read aloud to Cecily Wake. - -From his father Wantley had inherited, and as a boy acquired, an -exceptional love and knowledge of old English poetry, and, giving but -grudging and unwilling praise to modern verse, he had been whimsically -pleased to discover that to the girl Chaucer and La Fontaine were more -familiar names than Browning and Tennyson, of whose works, indeed, she -had been ignorant till she went to the Settlement, where, however, -Philip Hammond had soon made her feel terribly ashamed of her ignorance. - -Standing there, his thoughts of Cecily, of Downing, of Persian -mysticism, chasing one another through his mind, Wantley suddenly -remembered Miss Theresa Wake, doubtless still sitting solitary in her -hooded chair. - - -II - -Cecily's aunt, whom he himself already secretly regarded with the not -altogether uncritical eye of a relation, was to Wantley a new and -amusing variety of old lady. Miss Theresa Wake had the appearance, -common to so many women of her generation, of having been petrified in -early middle age. A brown hair front lent spurious youth to the thin, -delicate face, and her slight, elegant figure was only now becoming -bent. It was impossible to imagine her young, but equally difficult to -believe that she would ever grow really old. - -The young man who aspired to the honour of becoming in due course her -kinsman, found a constant source of amusement in the fact that her -sincere, unaffected piety was joined to a keen, almost morbid, interest -in any worldly matter affecting her acquaintances. When with Miss Wake -it was positively difficult for a sympathetic person to keep from -mentioning people, and so, 'I think we shall have David Winfrith here in -a few minutes,' he said, when, having sought her out, he was anxious to -make amends for his neglect. 'Penelope and your niece will probably -bring him back. My cousin is very anxious that he should meet Sir George -Downing, who is leaving soon.' - -'Leaving soon? He will be greatly missed.' - -The remark was uttered primly, and yet, as Wantley felt, with some -significance. The phrase diverted him, it seemed so absurdly -inappropriate; for Downing had stood, and that to a singular degree, -apart from the ordinary life of the villa. - -But the old spinster lady was pursuing her own line of thought. 'I -suppose,' she said hesitatingly, 'that the Settlement would not be -affected should Penelope marry again? Of course, I am interested in the -matter on account of my niece.' - -Wantley looked at her, surprised. 'I don't see why it should make the -slightest difference, the more so that David Winfrith has of late years -taken a great part in the management of the Melancthon Settlement--in -fact, the place has been the great tie between them. I should not care -myself to spend the money of a man to whom my wife had once been -married, but I am sure Winfrith will feel no such scruple, and the -possession of the Robinson fortune might make years of difference to him -in attaining what is, I suppose, his supreme ambition. After all, and of -course you must not think that I am for a moment comparing the two men, -where would Dizzy have been without Mrs. Lewis?' - -'But what would Mr. Winfrith have to do with it?' inquired Miss Wake. -'Was he a friend of Penelope's husband? How could he influence the -disposal of the Robinson fortune?' - -It was Wantley's turn to look, and to be, astonished. 'I understood we -were speaking of Penelope's marrying again,' he said quickly, 'and I -thought that you, like myself, had come to the conclusion that she would -in time make up her mind to marry Winfrith. He's been devoted to her -ever since she can remember. Why, they were once actually engaged, and I -should never be surprised any time, any moment--to-day, for -instance--were she to tell us that they were to be married.' - -The old lady remained silent, but he realized that her silence was not -one of consent. 'Surely you were thinking of David Winfrith?' he -repeated. 'There has never been, in a serious sense, anyone else.' - -A little colour came to Miss Wake's thin, wrinkled cheeks, and she began -to look very uncomfortable. 'I was thinking of someone very different,' -she said at last, 'but you have made me feel that I was quite wrong.' - -An odious suspicion darted into the young man's mind. He suddenly felt -both angry and disgusted. After all this constant dwelling on other -people and their affairs must often lead to ridiculous and painful -mistakes, to unwarrantable suspicions. 'You surely cannot mean----' he -began rather sternly, and waited for her to speak. - -'I was thinking of Sir George Downing,' she answered, meeting his -perturbed look with one of calm confidence. 'Surely, Lord Wantley, now -that I have suggested the idea, you must admit that they are greatly -interested in one another? At no time of my life have I seen much of -lovers; but, though I have not wished in any way to watch Penelope and -this gentleman, and though I have, of course, said nothing to my niece -Cecily, it has seemed to me quite dear that there is an attachment. In -fact'--she spoke with growing courage, emboldened by his silence--'I -have no doubt about my cousin's feelings. Would not the marriage be a -suitable one? Of course there must be a certain difference of age -between them, but she seems, indeed I am sure she is, so very devoted to -him.' - -'I confess the thought of such a thing never occurred to me.' - -Wantley spoke slowly, unwillingly; and even while he uttered the words -there came to him, as in an unbroken, confirmatory chain, the memory of -little incidents, words spoken by Penelope, others left unsaid, her -altered manner to himself--much unwelcomed evidence that Miss Wake had -been perhaps clear-sighted when they had all been blind. He felt a -sudden pang of pity for his cousin, a feeling as if he had suddenly -seen, through an open door, a sight not meant for his eyes. For a moment -he deliberated as to whether he should tell Miss Wake of the one fact -which made impossible any happy ending to what she believed was true of -the relations between Mrs. Robinson and Sir George Downing. - -'I think I ought to tell you,' he said at length, 'that a marriage -between them is out of the question. Sir George Downing has a wife -living. They are separated, but not divorced.' There was a painful -moment of silence; then he added hastily: 'I know that my cousin is -fully aware of the fact.' - -Then, to his relief, Miss Wake spoke as he would have had her speak. 'If -that is so,' she cried,' I have been utterly mistaken, and I beg your -and Penelope's pardon. It is easy to make mistakes of the kind. You see, -I have lived so long out of the world.' - -There was a note of appeal in the thin, high voice. - -'But indeed,' said Wantley quickly, 'my cousin is very unconventional, -and your mistake was a natural one. I myself, had I not known the -circumstances, would probably have come to the same conclusion.' - -Their eyes met, and for a brief moment unguarded glances gave the lie to -their spoken words. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - 'On ne choisit pas la femme que l'on doit aimer.' - - -I - -The Rectory at Shagisham had the great charm of situation. In his study -old Mr. Winfrith stood on the same level as the top of his church -steeple, and his windows commanded wide views of the valley where lay -the scattered houses composing his cure, of the low hills beyond, and of -the sea. The best had been done that could be done with the steep, -wind-swept garden, and the square, low rooms, which had seen little, if -any, alteration in forty years, opened out upon a lawn kept green with -constant watering. - -To Cecily the old-fashioned house, with its curious air of austere, -unfeminine refinement, was very interesting. She had never seen a -country clergyman at home, and her imagination had formed a picture of -Winfrith's father very different from the small, delicate-looking old -man who welcomed her and Mrs. Robinson with great warmth of manner, -while Winfrith himself showed almost boyish pleasure at the unexpected -visit. 'They must be very lonely here sometimes,' was Cecily's unspoken -thought, as the old clergyman ushered her with some ceremony into the -drawing-room, which had the curious unlived-in look so often seen in a -room associated, to those still living, with a dead woman's presence. - -Before passing out on to the lawn Mr. Winfrith directed Cecily's -attention to a portrait which hung over the mantelpiece. It was that of -a brilliant-looking girl, dressed more or less gipsy-fashion, the -colouring of her red cheeks, so bright as to give the impression that -the sitter had rouged, being daringly repeated in a scarf twisted round -her dark hair. 'David's mother,' he said proudly. 'Do you not think -there is a great likeness between them?' - -Cecily looked doubtfully at the picture. 'Of course he is not nearly so -handsome'--Mr. Winfrith spoke rather plaintively--' but I assure you he -is really very like her. This portrait was painted before our marriage. -Lord Wantley--I mean Mrs. Robinson's father--thought it one of the best -ever painted by the artist'--Mr. Winfrith looked puzzled--' I forget his -name, though at one time I knew him quite well. I'm sure you would know -it, for he's a great man. He was often at Monk's Eype, and painted Lady -Wantley several times. But this was one of his early efforts, and I -myself'--the old man lowered his voice, fearing lest the stricture -should be overheard by his other guest--' much prefer his earlier -manner.' And then he led her out into the garden, and handed her over to -the care of his son, while he himself turned eagerly, confidingly, to -Penelope. - -David Winfrith at Shagisham, waiting on his old father, acting as -courteous host to his own and that dear father's guest, seemed a very -different person from the man who acted as mentor to the Melancthon -Settlement. - -Only the most unemotional, and, intellectually speaking, limited, human -being is totally unaffected by environment. Winfrith, when at home, not -only appeared another person to his London self, but he behaved, and -even felt, differently. At Shagisham he came under the only influence to -which he had ever consciously submitted himself--that of his simple and -spiritually minded father, a man so much older than himself that he -seemed a survival from a long-past generation. - -Another cause, one known fully to very few beside himself, made him a -different man when at home. There, at Shagisham, he never forgot certain -facts connected with the early life of his parents--facts made known to -him in a letter written by his mother before her death, and handed to -him by his father when they had returned, forlornly enough, from her -funeral. And after the boy--he was sixteen at the time--had read and -burnt the letter, he had looked at the lovely valley, the beautiful old -church, and the pretty rectory, with altered, alien eyes. - -Had Winfrith followed his instinct he would never have come there again, -but he had forced himself to keep this feeling hidden from his father, -and many times, both when at college and, later, through his working -year, he took long journeys in order to spend a few brief hours with the -old man. - -But he had no love for the place where he had spent his lonely -childhood, and he did not like Shagisham any the better when he -perceived that he had become in the opinion of the neighbourhood which -had once looked askance at Mr. Winfrith and his only child, an important -personage, able to influence the fate of lowly folk seeking a job, and -that of younger sons of the great folk, bound, with less excuse, on the -same errand. - -Walking beside Penelope's young friend, he took pains to make himself -pleasant, and, happily inspired, he at last observed: 'And so you have -made friends with Lord Wantley? He's a very good fellow, and there's -much more in him than Mrs. Robinson is ever willing to admit. He might -be very useful to the Settlement.' Cecily said to herself that she had -perhaps misjudged her companion, and she determined that she would -henceforth listen to his criticisms of her schemes with more submission. - - -But what mattered to David Winfrith the young girl's good opinion? -Penelope's unexpected coming had put him in charity with all the world. - -Certain men are instinctive monogamists. For this man the world held no -woman but she whom he still thought of as Penelope Wantley. There had -been times when he would willingly have let his fancy stray, but, -unfortunately for himself, his fancy had ever refused to stray. - -Of late years he had been often thrown with beautiful and clever women, -some of whom had doubtless felt for him that passing, momentary -attraction which to certain kinds of natures holds out so great an -allurement. But Winfrith, in these matters, was wholly apart from most -of those who composed the world in which he had to spend a certain -portion of his time. - -Even now, while making conversation with Cecily Wake, he was longing to -hear what Penelope could be saying that appeared to interest his father -so much. Mrs. Robinson had taken the arm of the little old clergyman; -they had turned from the wide lawn and steep garden beyond, and were -looking at the house, Penelope talking, the other listening silently. -'No doubt,' said Winfrith to himself, 'they are only discussing what -sort of creeper ought to be added to the west wall this autumn!' - -At last he and his father changed partners, and when the latter, taking -charge of Cecily, had led her off to the sloping kitchen-garden, where -stood the well, the boring of which had been the old man's one -extravagance since he had first come to Shagisham, unnumbered years -before, Mrs. Robinson said abruptly: 'Whenever I see your father, David, -I can't help wishing that you were more like him! He is so much broader -and more kindly than you are--in fact, there seems very little of him in -you at all----' - -'If you are so devoted to him,' he said, smiling, but rather nettled, -'I wish you would come and see him oftener. You know how fond he is of -you.' He added, but in a tone which destroyed the sentiment conveyed in -the phrase: 'In that one matter, at any rate, you must admit that he and -I are very much alike!' - -Something in the way he said the words displeased Mrs. Robinson. To her -Winfrith's deep, voiceless affection was as much her own, to do what she -willed with, as were any one of her rare physical attributes. The -thought of this deep feeling lessening in depth or in extent was even -now intolerable; and, while giving herself every licence, and arrogating -every right to go her own way, it incensed her that he should, even to -herself, allude lightly to his attachment. She answered obliquely, eager -to punish him for the lightest deviation from his usual allegiance. - -'I know I ought to come oftener,' she said coolly, 'but then, of course, -you yourself hitherto have always been the magnet--not, to be sure, a -very powerful magnet, for 'tis a long time since I've been here.' - -Winfrith reddened. Try as he would--and as a younger man he had often -tried--he could not cure himself of blushing when moved or angered. His -mother, to the very end of her life, had been proud of a beautiful -complexion. - -'I was just telling your father'--she gave him a strange sideway -glance--'the story of the traveller who, crossing the border of a -strange country, came upon a magnificent building which seemed familiar, -though he knew it to be impossible that he had ever seen it before. Then -suddenly he realized that it was one of the castles he had built in -Spain! Now, there, David,' said Mrs. Robinson, pointing with her parasol -to the old-fashioned house before them, 'is the only castle I ever built -in Spain, and I never come here without wondering what sort of dwelling -I should have found it.' As he made no answer, she turned and drew -nearer to him, exclaiming as she did so: 'Ah, que j'etais heureuse, dans -ces bons jours ou nous etions si malheureux!' - -French was to Winfrith not so much a language as a vocabulary for the -fashioning of treaties and protocols, a collection of counters on whose -painfully considered, often tortuous combinations the fate of men and -nations constantly depended. It may be doubted therefore, whether, if -uttered by any other voice, he would have understood the significance of -the odd phrase in which his companion summed up the later philosophy of -so many women's lives. As it was, its meaning found its way straight to -his heart. He turned and looked at his companion fixedly--a long, -searching look. He opened his lips---- - -But Penelope had said enough--had said, indeed, more than she had meant -to say, and produced a far stronger effect than she had intended to -produce. - -Mentally and physically she drew back, and as she moved away, not very -far, but still so as to be no longer almost touching him, 'You owe my -visit to-day,' she cried quickly, and rather nervously, 'to the fact -that Sir George Downing, the man they call Persian Downing, is anxious -to make your acquaintance. He and Ludovic have made friends, and I think -Ludovic wants to bring him over to see you.' - -'Do you mean that Sir George Downing is actually staying with you?' he -asked, with some astonishment. 'I had no idea that any of you knew him.' - -'We met him abroad, and he has just been staying a few days at Monk's -Eype. He wanted to finish an important paper or report, and we had the -Beach Room arranged as a study for him. But he is rather peculiar, and -he fancies he could work better in complete solitude, and so, on our way -back from here, Cecily and I are going to see if we can get him lodgings -at Kingpole Farm. But, David, he really is most anxious to meet you. He -says you are the only man in the new Government who knows anything about -Persia; one of the chapters in your book seems to have impressed him -very much, and he wants to talk to you about it.' - -As she spoke her eyes dropped. She avoided looking at his face. The bait -was a gross one, but then the hand which held it was so delicate, so -trusted, and so loved. - -'A friend of Wantley's?' he repeated. 'I wish I had known that before.' - -'I don't think the acquaintance has been a long one, but they seem to -get on very well together.' The words were uttered hurriedly. Penelope -was beginning to feel deeply ashamed of the part she was playing. - -Winfrith went on, with some eagerness: 'How extraordinary that Persian -Downing should find his way down here! He is one of the few people whom -I have always wished to meet.' - -Her task was becoming almost too easy, and with some perverseness she -remarked coldly: 'And yet I believe your present chief--I mean Lord -Rashleigh--refused to see him when he was in London?' - -'Refused is not quite the word. Of course, such a man as Downing has the -faults of his qualities. He arrived in town on a Tuesday, I believe; he -requested an interview on the Wednesday; and then, while the chief was -humming and hawing, and consulting the people who were up on the whole -matter, and who could have told him what to say and how far he could go -in meeting Downing--who, of course, has come back to England with his -head packed full of schemes and projects--the man suddenly disappeared, -leaving no address! Rashleigh was very much put out, the more so that, -as you doubtless know, our people distrust Downing.' - -Penelope was looking down, digging the point of her parasol into the -soft turf at their feet. 'There was some story, wasn't there, when Sir -George Downing was a young man? Some woman was mixed up with it. What -was the truth of it all?' - -He hesitated, then answered unwillingly: 'The draft of an important -paper disappeared, and was practically traced from Downing's possession -to that of a Russian woman with whom he was known to have been on -friendly terms. But it's admitted now that he was very harshly treated -over the whole affair. I believe he had actually met the lady at a F.O. -reception! He may have been a fool--probably he was a fool--but even at -the time no one suspected him of having been anything else. The woman -simply and very cleverly stole the paper in question.' - -'I am sure he ought to be very much obliged to you for this kind version -of what took place.' - -'Well,' he said good-humouredly, 'I happen to have taken some trouble to -find out the truth, and I'm sorry if the story isn't sensational enough -to please you. But the consequences were serious enough for Downing. He -was treated with great severity, and finally went on to America. It was -there, at Washington, that he became acquainted with my uncle, and, -oddly enough, I have in my possession some of the letters written by him -when first in Persia. I shall now have the opportunity of giving them -back to him.' - -'And out there--in Persia, I mean--did you never come across him?' - -'Unfortunately, I just missed him. No one here understands the sort of -position he has made for himself--and indeed, for us--out there. It was -the one country, till he came on the scene, where we were not only -lacking in influence, but so lacking in prestige that we were being -perpetually outwitted. Downing, as I reminded Rashleigh the other day, -has always been pulling our chestnuts out of the fire. Of course, you -can't expect such a man to have the virtues of a Sunday-school teacher.' - -Penelope still kept her eyes averted from Winfrith's face, still -ruthlessly dug holes in her old friend's turf. - -'And when in Persia, in Teheran, what sort of life does he lead there?' -She tried to speak indifferently, but her heart was beating fast and -irregularly. - -But Winfrith, seeing nothing, answered willingly enough: 'Oh, a most -extraordinary sort of life. One of amazing solitariness. He has always -refused to mix with the social life of the Legations. Perhaps that's why -he acquired such an influence elsewhere. Of course, I heard a great deal -about him, and I'll tell you what impressed me most of the various -things I learned. They say that no man--not even out there--has had his -life attempted so often, and in such various ways, as has Persian -Downing. All sorts of people, native and foreign, have an interest in -his disappearance.' - -Penelope's hand trembled. The colour left her cheek. - -'How does he escape?' she asked. 'Has he any special way of guarding -himself from attack?' - -'If he has, no one knows what it is. He has never asked for official -protection, but it seems that from that point of view his G.C.B. has -been quite useful, for now there's a sort of idea that his body and soul -possess a British official value, which before they lacked. He's been -"minted" so to speak.' - -But Mrs. Robinson hardly heard him. She was following her own trend of -thought. There was a question she longed, yet feared, to ask, and though -desperately ashamed at what she was about to do, she made up her mind -that she could not let pass this rare, this unique, opportunity of -learning what she craved to know. 'I suppose that he really _has_ lived -alone?' she asked insistently. And then, seeing that she must speak yet -more plainly: 'I suppose--I mean, was there anything against his -private character, out there, in Teheran?' - -A look of annoyance crossed Winfrith's face. He was old-fashioned enough -to consider such questions unseemly, especially when asked by a woman. -'Certainly not,' he replied rather stiffly. 'I heard no whisper of such -a thing. Had there been anything of the kind, I should, of course, have -heard it. Teheran is full of petty gossip, as are all those sorts of -places.' - -As they turned to meet old Mr. Winfrith and Cecily Wake, Penelope -thought, with mingled feelings of relief and pain, of how easy it had -all been, and yet how painful--at moments, how agonizing--to herself. - -The father and son were loth to let them go, and even after the old man -had parted from his guests David Winfrith walked on by the side of the -low cart, leading the pony down the steep, stone-strewn hill which led -to the village, set, as is so often the way in Dorset, in an oasis of -trees. As they rounded a sharp corner and came in sight of a large house -standing within high walls, surrounded on three sides by elms, but on -one side bare and very near to the lonely road, he suddenly said -'Good-bye,' and, turning on his heel, did not stay a moment to gaze -after them, as Cecily, looking round, had thought he would. - - -II - -Penelope checked the pony's inclination to gallop along the short, -smooth piece of road which lay before them, and, when actually passing -the large house which stood at the beginning of the village, she almost -brought him to a standstill. - -Cecily then saw that the blinds, bright red in colour, of the long row -of upper windows--in fact, all those that could be seen above the high -wall--were drawn down. - -'Look well at that place,' said her companion suddenly, 'and I will -tell you why David Winfrith never willingly passes by here when he is -staying at Shagisham.' - -Till that moment Mrs. Robinson had had no intention of telling Cecily -anything about this place, or of Winfrith's connection with its solitary -occupant, but she wished to escape from her own thoughts, to forget for -a moment certain passages in a conversation, the memory of which -distressed and shamed her. - -To attain this end she went further on the road of betrayal, telling -that which should not have been told. 'It's a very curious story,' she -said, 'and David will never know that I have told it to you.' - -As she spoke she shook the reins more loosely through her hand, and gave -the pony his head. - -'I must begin by telling you that Mrs. Winfrith, David's mother, was -much younger than her husband, and in every way utterly unlike him. -Before her marriage she had been something of a beauty, a spoilt, -headstrong girl, engaged to some man of whom her people had not -approved, and who finally jilted her. She came down here on a visit, met -Mr. Winfrith, flirted with him, and finally married him. For a time all -seemed to go very well: they had no children, and as he was very -indulgent she often went away and stayed with her own people, who were -rich and of the world worldly. It was from one of them, by the way--from -a brother of hers, a diplomatist--that David got his nice little -fortune. But at the time I am telling you of there was no thought of -David. Not long after Mr. and Mrs. Winfrith's marriage, another couple -came to Shagisham, and took Shagisham House, the place we have just -passed. Their name was Mason, and they were very well off. But soon it -became known that the wife was practically insane--in fact, that she had -to have nurses and keepers. One of her crazes was that of having -everything about her red; the furniture was all upholstered in -bright-red silk, the woodwork was all painted red, and people even said -she slept in red linen sheets! Mrs. Winfrith became quite intimate with -these people. She was there constantly, and she was supposed to have a -soothing effect on Mrs. Mason. In time--in fact, in a very short -time--she showed her sympathy with the husband in the most practical -manner, for one day they both disappeared from Shagisham together.' - -'Together?' repeated Cecily, bewildered. 'How do you mean?' - -'I mean'--Penelope was looking straight before her, urging the pony to -go yet faster, although they were beginning to mount the interminable -hill leading to Kingpole Farm--'I mean that Mrs. Winfrith ran away from -her husband, and that Mr. Mason left his mad wife to take care of -herself. Of course, as an actual fact, there were plenty of people to -look after her, and I don't suppose she ever understood what had taken -place. But you can imagine how the affair affected the neighbourhood, -and the kind of insulting pity which was lavished on Mr. Winfrith. My -father, who at that time only knew him slightly, tried to induce him to -leave Shagisham, and even offered to get him another living. But he -refused to stir, and so he and Mrs. Mason both stayed on here, while -Mrs. Winfrith and Mr. Mason were heard of at intervals as being in -Italy, apparently quite happy in each other's society, and quite -unrepentant.' - -'Poor Mr. Winfrith!' said Cecily slowly. But she was thinking of David, -not of the placid old man who seemed so proud of his flowers and of his -garden. - -'Yes, indeed, poor Mr. Winfrith! But in a way the worst for him was yet -to come. One winter day a lawyer's clerk came down to Shagisham House to -tell the housekeeper and Mrs. Mason's attendants that their master was -dead. He had died of typhoid fever at Pisa, leaving no will, and having -made no arrangements either for his own wife, or for the lady who, in -Italy, had of course passed as his wife. Well, Mr. Winfrith started off -that same night for Pisa, and about a fortnight later he brought Mrs. -Winfrith back to Shagisham.' - -Penelope waited awhile, but Cecily made no comment. - -'For a time,' Mrs. Robinson went on, 'I believe they lived like lepers. -The farmers made it an excuse to drop coming to church, and only one -woman belonging to their own class ever went near them.' - -'I know who that was,' said Cecily, breaking her long silence--'at -least, I think it must have been your mother.' - -'Yes,' said Penelope, 'yes, it was my mother. How clever of you to -guess! Mamma used to go and see her regularly. And one day, finding how -unhappy the poor woman seemed to be, she asked my father to allow her to -ask her to come and stay at Monk's Eype. Very characteristically, as I -think, he let mamma have her way in the matter; but during Mrs. -Winfrith's visit he himself went away, otherwise people might have -thought that he had condoned her behaviour.' - -She paused for a moment. - -'Something so strange happened during that first stay of Mrs. Winfrith's -at Monk's Eype. Mamma found out, or rather Mrs. Winfrith confided to -her, that she had fallen in love, rather late in the day, with Mr. -Winfrith, and that she could not bear the gentle, cold, distant way in -which he treated her. Then mamma did what I have always thought was a -very brave thing. She went over to Shagisham, all by herself, and spoke -to him, telling him that if he had really forgiven his wife he ought to -treat her differently.' - -'And then?' asked Cecily. - -'And then'--Penelope very shortly ended the story--'she--mamma, I -mean--persuaded him to go away for six months with Mrs. Winfrith. They -spent the time in America, where her brother was living as attache to -the British Legation. After that they came home, and about five years -before I made my appearance, David was born.' - -'And Mrs. Mason?' asked Cecily. - -'Mrs. Mason has lived on all these years in the house we passed just -now. I have myself seen her several times peeping out of one of the -windows. She has a thin, rather clever-looking face, and long grey -curls. She was probably out just now, for she takes a drive every -afternoon; but she never leaves her closed carriage, and, though she can -walk quite well, they have to carry her out to it. She is intensely -interested in weddings and funerals, and, on the very rare occasions -when there is anything of the sort going on at Shagisham, her carriage -is always drawn up close to the gate of the churchyard. She was there -the day Mrs. Winfrith was buried. My father, who came down from London -to be present, was very much shocked, and thought someone ought to have -told the coachman to drive on; but of course no one liked to do it, and -so Mrs. Mason saw the last of the woman who had been her rival.' - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - 'Est-ce qu'une vie de femme se raconte? elle se sent, elle passe, - elle apparait.'--SAINTE BEUVE. - - -I - -That Sir George Downing should spend the last days of his sojourn in -Dorset at Kingpole Farm, a seventeenth-century homestead, where, -according to local tradition, Charles II. had spent a night in hiding -during his hurried flight after the Battle of Worcester, had been Mrs. -Robinson's wish and suggestion. He had welcomed the idea of leaving -Monk's Eype with an eagerness which had pained her, though in her heart -she was aware that she had thus devised a way out of what had become to -them both a most difficult and false situation. - -Very soon after Downing's arrival at Monk's Eype Penelope had become -acutely conscious of the mistake she had made in asking him to come -there. After painful moments spent with him--moments often of -embarrassed silence--she had divined, with beating heart and flushed -cheek, why all seemed to go ill between them during this time of waiting -and of suspense, which she had actually believed would prove a -prolongation of the halcyon, dream-like days that had followed their -first meeting. - -This beautiful, intelligent woman, with her strange half-knowledge of -the realities of human life, and the less strange ignorances, which she -kept closely hidden from those about her, had often received, especially -in her 'Perdita' days, confidences which had inspired her with a deep -distaste of those ignoble shifts and ruses which perforce so often -surround a passion not in itself ignoble, or in any real sense impure. - -She had been glad to assure herself that in this case--that of her own -relation to Downing--nothing of the kind need sully the beginnings of -what she believed with all her heart would be a noble and lifelong -love-story. Accordingly, there had been a tacit pact as to the reserve -and restraint which should govern their relations the one to the other -during the few weeks of Downing's stay in England. - -When the time came they would leave together openly, and with a certain -measured dignity, but till then they would be friends, merely friends, -not lovers. - -But Mrs. Robinson had not considered it essential, or indeed desirable, -that there should be no meeting in the interval, and she had seen no -reason why her friend's schemes should not have what slender help was -possible from the exercise of her woman's wits. Hence she had planned -the meeting with David Winfrith; hence she had asked Downing to become -one of her guests at Monk's Eype, and after some demur he had -reluctantly obeyed. - -During the days that had immediately followed his coming, days which saw -Downing avoiding rather than seeking his hostess's presence, Penelope -often pondered over the words, the first he had uttered when they had -found themselves alone: 'I feel like a thief--nay, like a -murderer--here!' Extravagant, foolish words, uttered by one whose -restraint and wisdom had held for her from the first a curious -fascination. - -Alas! She knew now how ill-advised she had been to bring him to Monk's -Eype, to place him in sharp juxtaposition with her mother, with her -cousin Wantley, even with such a girl as Cecily Wake. The very -simplicity of the life led by Mrs. Robinson's little circle of -unworldly, simple-minded guests made intimate talk between herself and -Downing difficult, the more so that feminine instinct kept few her -visits to the Beach Room. - -Now and again, however, a softened glance from the powerful lined face, -a muttered word expressive of deep measureless feeling, the feel of his -hand grasping hers, would suddenly seem to prove that everything was -indeed as she wished it to be between them, and for a few hours she -would feel, if not content, at least at peace. - -But even then there was always the haunting thought that some extraneous -circumstance--sometimes she wondered if it could have been any foolish, -careless word said by Wantley--had modified the close intimacy of their -relation. - - -II - -There had been a week of this strain and strange chill between them, -when one night Penelope, feeling intolerably sore and full of vague -misgivings, suddenly determined to seek Downing out in the Beach Room. -It fell about in this wise. After the quiet evening had at last come to -an end, she went upstairs with Cecily and old Miss Wake, dismissed -Motey, and then returned to the studio, hoping he would come to her -there. - -But an hour wore itself away, and he did not come. - -Mrs. Robinson went out on to the moonlit terrace, and for awhile paced -up and down, watching the lights in the villa being put out one by one. -She knew that her old nurse would not go to sleep till she, Penelope, -were safe in bed; and she felt, though she could not see them, Mrs. -Mote's eyes peering down at her, watching this impatient walking up and -down in the bright moonlight. But what would once have so keenly annoyed -her no longer had power to touch her. She even smiled when the candle in -Mrs. Mote's room was extinguished, and the blind carefully and -ostentatiously drawn down. She knew well that the old woman would sit -behind it, waiting impatiently, full of suspicious anger, till she saw -her mistress return from the place whither she was now bound. - -As she went down the steps leading to the shore, Penelope, her eyes cast -down, pitied herself with the frank self-pity of a child deprived of -some longed-for happiness; she had so looked forward to these days with -Downing, spent in this beloved place, which she was about to give up, -perhaps never to see again, for his sake. - -At last, when standing on the strip of dry sand heaped above the wet, -glittering expanse stretching out to the dark sea, Penelope came upon -the circle of bright light, warring with the moonlit shore below, thrown -by Downing's lamp through the window of the Beach Room. - -The sight affected her curiously. For a moment she felt as if she must -turn back; after all, he was engaged upon matters of great moment, -perhaps of even greater moment to himself than the question of their -relation the one to the other. She suddenly felt ashamed of disturbing -him at his work--real work which she knew must be done before he went -back to town. - -But the window, through which streamed out the shaft of greenish-white -light, was wide open, and soon Downing heard, mingling with the surge of -the sea, the sound, the unmistakable dragging sound, of a woman's long -clinging skirt. - -He got up, opened the door, and, coming out took her in his arms and -drew her silently back with him into the Beach Room. Then, bending down, -his lips met and trembled on hers, and Penelope, her resentment gone, -felt her eyes fill with tears. - -A kiss, so trifling a gift on the part of some women as to be scarcely -worth the moments lost in the giving and receiving, is with other women, -indeed with many other women, the forerunner of complete surrender. - -In her thirty years of life two men only had kissed Penelope -Wantley--the one Winfrith, the other Downing. - -To-night there came to her with amazing clearness the vision of a -garden, ill-cared for, deserted, but oh! how beautiful, stretching -behind a Savoy inn in the mountainous country about Pol les Thermes. -There she and Downing, drawn--driven--to one another by a trembling, -irresistible impulse, had kissed for the first time, and for a moment, -then as now, she had lain in his arms, looking up at him with piteous, -questioning eyes. How long ago that morning seemed, and yet how few had -been the kisses in between! - -Suddenly she felt him loosen his grip of her shoulders; and he held her -away from himself, at arms' length, as deliberately, in the tone of one -who has a right to an answer, he asked her a certain question regarding -herself and Melancthon Robinson. - -She was pained and startled, reluctant to tell that which she had always -kept secret, and which she believed--so little are we aware that most -things concerning us are known to all our world--had never been -suspected. But she admitted his right to question her, and found time to -whisper to her secret self, 'My answer must surely make him glad'; and -so, her eyes lowering before his piercing, insistent gaze, she told him -the truth. - -But, as he heard her, Downing relaxed his hold on her, and with -something like a groan he said: 'Why did I not know this before? Why -should I have had to wait till now to learn such a thing from you?' And -as she, surprised and distressed, hesitated, not knowing what to say, he -to her amazement turned away, and in a preoccupied tone, even with a -smile, said suddenly: 'Go. Go now, my dear. It is too late for you to be -down here. I have work to finish to-night.' Then he opened the door, -and, with no further word or gesture of affection, shut her out in what -seemed for the moment utter darkness. - -But as she slowly began groping her way up the steps, sick at heart, -bewildered by the strangeness, by the coldness, of his manner, the door -of the Beach Room again opened, and she heard him calling her back with -a hoarse, eager cry. - -She hesitated, then turned to see his tall, lean figure filling up the -doorway, and outlined for a moment against the bright lamplit room, -before he strode across the sand to where she stood, trembling. - -Once more he took her in his arms, once more he murmured the words of -broken, passionate endearment for which her heart had hungered, only, -however, at last again to say, but no longer with a smile: 'Go. Go now, -my beloved--for I am only a man after all--only a man as other men are.' - -Then for some days Penelope had found him again become strangely cold -and alien. She had felt the situation between them intolerable, and -suddenly she had suggested the sojourn at Kingpole Farm. And on the eve -of his departure Downing again seemed to become instinct with the -mysterious ardour he had shown from the first moment they had met, from -the flash of time during which their eyes had exchanged their first -long, intimate, probing look. - - -Mrs. Mote had followed, with foreboding, agonizing jealousy, this -interlude of days in a drama of which she had seen the first, and of -which she was beginning to divine the last, act. - -It is not the apparently inevitable sin, so much as the apparently -avoidable folly, which most distresses those onlookers who truly love -the sinners and the foolish. During those still summer days the old -nurse felt she could have borne anything but this strange beguilement of -her mistress, by one whom the maid regarded as having outlived the age -when men make women happy. The sight of Mrs. Robinson, with whom, to -Motey's doting eyes, time had stood still, hanging on his words, having -eyes only for this man, who, though no longer young, yet seemed even -older than his age, struck the watcher as monstrous because unnatural. - -So far, Mrs. Mote had been unselfish in her repugnance for the -irrevocable step towards which she felt Penelope to be drifting, but of -late a nearer and more personal terror had taken possession of the old -woman. She was beginning to suspect that she herself was to have no part -in Mrs. Robinson's new life, and the suspicion drove her nearly beside -herself with anger and impotent distress. - -Many incidents, of themselves trifling, had instilled this suspicion in -her mind. Mrs. Robinson was trying to do for herself all the things that -Motey, first as nurse, and later as maid, had always done for her. -Sitting in her own room, next door to that of her mistress, and feeling -too proud and sore to come unless sent for, Mrs. Mote would hear the -opening and shutting of cupboards and drawers, the seeking and the -putting away by Penelope--this last an almost incredible portent--of her -own hat, veil, gloves, and shoes! - -Even more significant was the fact that of late Penelope had become so -considerate, so tender, of the old woman who had always been about her. -How happy a sharp, impatient word would now have made Mrs. Mote! But no -such word was ever uttered. Instead, Mrs. Robinson had actually -suggested that her maid should have a holiday. 'Me? A holiday? and what -should I do with a holiday?' Motey had repeated, bewildered, and then -with painful sarcasm had added, 'I suppose, ma'am, that is why you are -learning to do your own hair?' - -She had watched her enemy's departure for Kingpole Farm with sombre eyes -and sinking heart, wondering what this unexpected happening might -portend to her mistress. - -The day after that which had seen Downing leaving Monk's Eype, Mrs. -Robinson had found her riding-habit, and also a short skirt she often -wore when driving herself, laid out with some elaboration. 'I have -everything ready,' had said the old nurse sourly, 'for there will be -many rides and drives now, I reckon.' And Penelope, forgetting her new -gentleness, had exclaimed angrily: 'Motey, you are intolerable! Put -those things away at once!' - - -III - -In most people's lives there has come, at times, a sequence of days, -full of deep calm without, full of inward strife and disturbance within. - -The departure of Sir George Downing from Monk's Eype brought no peace to -the two women to whom his presence there had been of moment. Mrs. Mote -believed that his going heralded some immediate change in Mrs. -Robinson's life; as far as possible she never let her mistress out of -her sight, and the tarrying of Penelope from the villa an hour later -than she had been expected to do, more than once threw the old nurse -into a state of abject alarm. But Motey, during those still days, had -lost the clue to her nursling's heart and mind. - -For some days and nights after Downing had left her, and she had -deliberately denied herself the solace of his letters, Mrs. Robinson was -haunted by the thought--sometimes, it seemed, by the actual physical -presence--of her first love, David Winfrith. - -The memory of the hours spent by her with him at Shagisham constantly -recurred, bringing a strange mingling of triumph and pain. How badly she -had behaved to him that day! how treacherously! it might almost be said, -how wantonly! And yet, at the time, during that moment when she had come -close to him, and uttered those plaintive words which had so greatly -moved him, Downing for the moment had been blotted out of her memory, so -intense had been her desire to bring Winfrith back to his old -allegiance. - -Now, looking back at the little scene, she knew that she had succeeded -in her wish--but at what a cost! And in a few weeks, she could now count -the time by days, it would become the business of Winfrith's life to -forget her. She knew how his narrow, upright mind would judge her -action; with what utter condemnation and horror he would remember that -conversation held between them, especially that portion of it which -concerned Sir George Downing. - -The knowledge that Winfrith must in time realize how ill she had used -him that day brought keen humiliation in its train. 'I have been far -more married to him than I was to poor Melancthon!' she cried half aloud -to herself during one of the restless, unhappy nights, spent by her in -thinking over the past and considering the present; and the thought had -come into her mind: 'If I had married David, and then if he, instead of -Melancthon, had died, how much happier I should be to-day than I am -now!' - -But even as she had uttered the words, and though believing herself to -be the only creature awake in the still house, Penelope in the darkness -had blushed violently, marvelling to find herself capable of having -conceived so monstrous an idea. - -It added to Mrs. Robinson's unrest and disquiet to know, as she had done -through Wantley, now--oh, irony!--the only link between herself and -Kingpole Farm, that Downing and Winfrith had met more than once. The -interviews, or so she gathered from her cousin, had been, from Downing's -point of view, satisfactory, but she longed feverishly to know more--to -learn how David Winfrith had comported himself, what impression he had -made on the older man. - -It was significant that Penelope never gave a thought as to how Downing -had impressed Winfrith. To her mind the matter could not admit of -doubt--his personality must dominate all those with whom it came into -contact. - -Neither man knew of her relation, past or present, to the other. Still, -she felt a longing to be assured that all had gone well between them. It -added to her vague discomfort that Wantley, when telling her of what had -been the first meeting between the two men, had given her a quick, -penetrating look from out his half-closed eyes, and then had glanced -away in obvious embarrassment. - -Well, she would soon have to see Winfrith, for on him she counted--and -she never saw the refinement of cruelty involved--to make smooth, as -regarded certain material matters, the path before her. - -Mrs. Robinson wished to begin her new life stripped, as far as might be -possible, of all that must recall to her that which had come and gone -since she was Penelope Wantley. She hoped that by giving up the great -fortune left by her husband, she might blot out the recollection, not -only of poor Melancthon Robinson, for whose memory she had ever felt a -certain impatient kindliness, but also of David Winfrith, to whom her -tie of late years had been so close, though of that she had told Downing -nothing. - -This intention of material renouncement had not been imagined in the -first instance by Penelope--the Robinson fortune had cost her so little -and had been hers so long! But Downing, during one of their first -intimate talks and discussions concerning the future, had assumed that, -on her return to England, she would at once begin arranging for its -dispersion, and she had instantly accepted the idea, and felt herself -eager to act on it. Indeed, she had said after a short pause, and it was -the first time that she had mentioned to this new friend and still -unfamiliar lover, the oldest of her friends and the most familiar of -her lovers, 'David Winfrith will help me about it all.' - -'The new Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs?' he had asked, and she had -answered quickly: 'Yes, his father is one of the trustees of the -Settlement, and he has helped me a good deal over it.' - -No more had then been said, and since her return to England Mrs. -Robinson had done nothing concerning the matter. - -But now she must bestir herself, see Winfrith, and that soon. He knew -all about her affairs, and she intended that he should help her to -hasten the inevitable formalities. As to what she was to say to him, how -to offer, to one so matter-of-fact and clear-headed, any adequate reason -for her proposed action, she trusted to her wit and to his obtuseness. -He had often found the courage to tell her that some adequate provision -should be made by her for the Melancthon Settlement, and that, as -matters stood, too much was left to her own conscience and her own -generosity. Well, she would now remind him of his unpalatable advice, -and tell him that at last she was about to follow it. - - -Penelope also found time, during the days which followed Downing's -departure, to think of her mother--to wonder, with tightened throat, how -Lady Wantley would meet the ordeal coming so swiftly to meet and -overwhelm her. - -Even with those whose thoughts, emotions, and consciences seemed -channelled in the narrowest grooves it is often difficult to foresee -with what eyes, both of the body and of the soul, they will view any -given set of circumstances. Lady Wantley had always seemed extremely -wide-minded, in some ways nebulously so; but this had been in a measure -owing, so Penelope now reminded herself, to the fact that she had lived -a life so spiritually detached from those about her. - -Since her husband's death the mother's loyalty to her only child had -been unswerving, and she seemed to have transferred to Penelope the -unquestioning trust she had felt in Penelope's father. - -Old friends, including Mr. Julius Gumberg, had ventured to remonstrate, -and very seriously, when the lovely, impulsive girl had announced her -sudden engagement, after a strangely short acquaintance, to Melancthon -Robinson; but Lady Wantley--and her daughter, looking back in after -years, had often wondered sorely, with a shuddering retrospection, that -it had been so--had seemed quite content, quite certain, that her -beloved child was being Divinely guided. - -She had accepted, with the same curious detachment, the fact of -Penelope's widowhood, and during the years which followed had encouraged -her daughter to lead the life that suited her best, looking on with -indulgent eyes while Mrs. Robinson enjoyed what she always later -recalled as the 'Perdita' stage of her existence. - -This had been the period when the girl-widow, released from the bondage -into which she had entered so lightly, returned with intense zest to the -delightful frivolous world of which she had seen but little before her -marriage. For three or four years Mrs. Robinson enjoyed all that this -delicately dissipated section of society could give her in the way of -lightly balanced emotion and fresh sensation, and her mother had been -apparently in no wise shocked or surprised that it should be so. - -Then had followed a period of travel, when the young widow had seen -something of a wider world. Finally, Penelope had settled down to the -life of which we know--still, when she was in London, seeing something -of the gay, light-hearted circle of men and women who had once -surrounded 'Perdita' with the pleasant and not insincere flattery they -are ever ready to bestow on any and every human being who for the -moment interests and amuses them. Mrs. Robinson had retained her place, -as it were her niche, among them. They still delighted in 'Perdita's' -beauty, and in her exceptional artistic gift; also--and she would have -felt indeed angered and disgusted had she known it--her reputed wealth, -which was by no means so great as was rumoured, played its part in -keeping up her prestige with a world which is apt to become at times -painfully aware of the value of money. - -On the other hand, David Winfrith was not loved among these men and -women who considered high living thoroughly compatible with--indeed, an -almost indispensable adjunct to--high thinking. Winfrith took a grim -pleasure in acting as kill-joy to certain kinds of human sport to which -they were addicted, and, worse than that, he positively bored them! And -so, when Mrs. Robinson, having drawn him once more into her innocent, -but none the less dangerous, toils, had again formed with him an -absorbing and intimate friendship, certain of her acquaintances were no -longer as eager to be with her as they had once been, and they -considered that their dear 'Perdita' was making herself slightly -ridiculous. - -Another reason why Mrs. Robinson found it impossible to divine how her -mother would regard what she was now on the eve of doing, was because -the younger woman knew well how her father would have regarded such a -union as that which she was contemplating. - -Lord Wantley had not been in the habit, as his wife had always been, of -looking at life and those about him with charitable ambiguity; and there -was no doubt as to how the great philanthropist, who had been in his -lifetime a pillar of the Low Church party, regarded the slightest -deviation from the moral law. Penelope now remembered with great -discomfort and prevision of pain that concerning actual matters of life -and conduct Lady Wantley's 'doxy' had always been, so far as she knew -it, her husband's 'doxy.' - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - 'Ah! le bon chemin que le droit chemin!' - - DEROULEDE. - - -I - -Kingpole Farm was built at a time when loneliness was not feared, as it -has come to be, by the poor and by the workers of rural England, and, if -one can trust to outward signs, when country eyes were more alive than -they are now to beauty of surroundings, and to the uplifting quality of -wide, limitless expanses of land and sky. - -Sir George Downing had now been there more than a week, a time of entire -solitude, only broken by two long calls from David Winfrith. An old -bedridden man and his widowed daughter were the only inmates of the -farmhouse, and they troubled their lodger little. Accordingly, he had -had plenty of time both to work and to think, and, during the long -solitary walks which were his only recreation, he asked himself many -searching questions compelling truthful answers. - -Seeing Mrs. Robinson in her daily life at Monk's Eype had affected -Downing with curious doubt and melancholy, and had given him his first -feeling of uneasiness concerning their joint future. Till then he had -not thought of her as the centre of a world, each member of which would -be struck to the heart when they learnt what she was about to do. It was -characteristic of the man that he gave no thought as to how the matter -would affect himself. He conceived that each human being has a right to -judge and decide for himself as to any given line of conduct, and he had -long felt absolved from any personal duty as regarded his own wife. -After their second parting he had offered her the entire freedom -afforded by an American divorce, but she had refused to avail herself of -it. - -More, after leaving London, and before going to Monk's Eype, Downing had -made a swift, secret journey to the place where he had learnt that Lady -Downing was staying with some evangelical friends. The two had met in -the parlour of a village inn, and each had been more amazed and moved -than either would have thought possible by the physical changes time had -wrought in the other. - -With perhaps an unwise abruptness, he threw himself on her mercy, -telling her the whole truth, and only concealing the name of the woman -with whom he was about to form a new tie. - -But Lady Downing had seen in his intention, in his proposed action, only -an added reason for standing firm in the matter of a public divorce. She -pointed out, in the gentle, reasonable tone which he felt was all that -now remained of the Puritan girl he had once known, that Christian -marriage is indissoluble. 'Your sin would be the same in either case,' -she said; 'but if I consented to what you now desire, I should be a -participant in your sin.' - -As he had not told Penelope of his intention of seeking out his wife, -there had been no reason to acquaint her with his failure. - -But during those lonely days at Kingpole Farm Downing regretted, with -bitter, voiceless lamentation, that he had failed in inducing his wife -to consent to what would have so straightened the way before him. For -the path which had seemed a few weeks before so clear and smooth, he now -saw to be strewn with sharp stones and obstacles, which he knew would -hurt and wound the creature he had come to love with so jealous and so -absorbing a love, and who was about to give up so much for his sake. - - -II - -On the afternoon of the tenth day of his stay at Kingpole Farm, and not -long after he had seen the widowed daughter of his landlord go off for -the afternoon to see one of her gossips at Burcombe, the little town -which formed the only link between the farm and outer civilization, Sir -George Downing, standing by the window of his sitting-room, suddenly saw -the woman who now dwelt so constantly in his thoughts walking up the -lonely road, and instinctively his eyes travelled past her, seeking the -pony-cart and Cecily Wake. - -But the rounded edges of the hill remained bare, and Downing looked at -the advancing figure with longing eyes, with throbbing heart. It seemed -an eternity since they two had been really alone together, free from -probable interruption and from Mrs. Mote's suspicious, unfriendly eyes. - -Turning quickly away, he walked with impatient steps up and down the -old-fashioned farmhouse sitting-room, stifling the wish to go out and -meet her, there, on the solitary road. But her coming had been -unheralded. This was the first time she had come to him; hitherto it was -always he who had gone to her, and he felt that even in the matter of -moments she must choose that of their meeting. - -Mrs. Robinson did not seem in any haste. Even when actually on her way -up the prim flagged path, edged with wallflower, which led to the door -of the farmhouse, she turned and looked long at the wonderful view -spread out below the narrow ledge where wound the rough road above which -she was standing. - -Suddenly she put her hand to her breast; she had walked too quickly up -the steep winding way from the hamlet where she had been compelled to -leave her pony-cart; and as she stood, looking intently, with enraptured -eyes, at the marvellous sight before her--for a great storm was -gathering over the vast plain lying unrolled below--the man who watched -her from the farmhouse windows likened her in his mind to Diana, weary -for a moment of the chase. - -Her tall figure was outlined against the lowering white and grey sky, -the short dun-coloured skirt was blown about her knees by the high, -stinging wind, while the closely buttoned jacket, reaching but just -below the waist, revealed the exquisite arching lines of her shoulders -and throat. Mercury, rather than Diana, was evoked by the winged, -casque-like headgear which remained so firmly wedded, in spite of windy -buffetings, to the broadly coiled hair. - -Like all beautiful women who are also intelligent, Penelope's outward -appearance--the very character of her beauty--changed and modified -according to her mood. There were times when body was almost wholly -subordinate to mind; days, again, when her physical loveliness had about -it a mature, alluring quality, like to that of a ripe peach. - -So perhaps had Downing envisaged her during those first days when he had -been drawn out of his austere, watchful self by a charm Circe-like and -compelling, when Mrs. Robinson had been engaged in the great feminine -game at which she was so skilful a player--that of subduing a heart -believed to be impregnable. - -But her opponent himself had only caught fire, in any deep unchanging -sense, when his Circe had suddenly revealed another and a very different -side to her nature. - -Just as an apparently trivial incident will often deflect the whole -course of a human career, so, in the more complex and subtle life of the -heart, a physical accident may quicken feeling into life, or destroy -the nascent emotion. Downing had not been long at Pol les Thermes when -he fell ill from a return of the fever which often attacks Europeans in -Persia, and Mrs. Robinson, after two long, dull days, during which she -had been bereft of the stimulating presence of her new friend--or -prey--took on herself the office, not so much of nurse as of secretary, -to the lonely man. - -It was then, when her mere presence had seemed to lift him out of a pit -of deep physical depression, that Downing had found her to be a far more -enduringly attractive woman than the brilliant, seductive figure who had -appeared before him as a ripe delicious fruit, with which he had known -well enough he must never slake his thirst. Her he could have left, and -gone on his way, sighing that such Hesperidean apples were not for him. -It was the softer, and, it must be said, the more intelligent and -companionable, woman who received, during those days when she was simply -kind, confidences concerning his present ambitions, and his schemes for -benefiting the country with which he had now so many links, as well as -that which had given him birth, and which was about to welcome him back, -him the prodigal, with high honour. - -Mrs. Robinson would have been surprised indeed had she known how much -more it cost this friend she longed to turn into a lover to tell her of -the present fame than of the far-away disgrace. When he revealed to her -something of his hopes, of his plans, of what he intended to do when in -England, it meant that she had conquered a side of Downing's nature -which had been wholly starved since the great trouble which had ruined -his youth--that which longed for human intimacy and confidence. - -As he stood to-day looking at her from his window he felt a certain -surprise. Never had he seen her look quite as she did now--so girlish, -so virginal, so young, in spite of her thirty years of life. And -truly Penelope's present outward appearance--that of embodied -chastity--reflected, to quite a singular degree, her inward, instant -mood. For, though this visit to Kingpole Farm had been the outcome of an -intense longing to see Downing, and to be once more with him, she had -yet feared that seeking him out like this might seem overbold. Still she -had a good excuse, and one she could offer even to herself, namely, that -all manner of material matters had to be settled between them, -especially concerning her renouncement of the Robinson fortune. - -And yet, had Penelope believed in omens, she would surely have turned -back, for the few miles' drive had not been free of disagreeable -incident. - -First she had met the Winfriths, father and son, and she had been forced -to allow them to believe a lie, for she could not tell them whither she -was bound. Then, when some two miles from Kingpole Farm, and, -fortunately, not far from a blacksmith's forge, had come a mishap to one -of the wheels of her pony-cart, making further driving impossible, and -so she had gone on up the steep hill on foot, feeling perhaps -unreasonably ruffled and disturbed. - - -At last Downing saw her turn and walk up to the front-door. There was a -pause, and then she came in through the open door of his room, and -somewhat stiffly offered him her hand, still encased in a stout -driving-glove. - -So scrupulously did her host respect Mrs. Robinson's obvious wish to be -treated as a stranger, that he even avoided looking into her face as -they both instinctively walked over to where it was lightest--close to -the curtainless open window. - -Penelope had brought a packet of letters from Monk's Eype. 'I thought -they might be important. Pray read them now,' she said. - -Downing, eager to obey her, did so, while she, apparently absorbed in -watching the flying storm-clouds scurrying over the broad valleys -below, was yet intensely conscious of his presence, and of how strangely -young he looked to-day--how straight, how lean, how strong, how much -more a man, in the same sense that David Winfrith was a man, than he had -appeared to be at Monk's Eype, pitted against the shadowless youth of -Cecily Wake, and even of Wantley. - -Suddenly, having slightly turned her head, thinking to see Downing -without appearing to do so, Penelope became aware that he was watching -her with a melancholy, intense look. - -Her heart began to beat unaccountably fast. She turned away hurriedly, -and again looked out over the vast panorama of land and sky lying -unrolled before them. Then she began talking quickly, and not very -coherently, of the matters about which she had come to consult him. Had -he anything to suggest, for instance, concerning the money arrangements -which must now be made about the Melancthon Settlement? - -'The Melancthon Settlement?' - -Downing concentrated his mind on the problems now confronting his -companion. He rose suddenly to look for a book of reference which he -knew contained details of the working of similar philanthropic schemes, -and which he had procured when in London. But Mrs. Robinson also sprang -to her feet, and with a nervous gesture put her hand on the back of her -chair. - -She watched his coming and going, and when he brought back the book, and -handed her a pencil and some sheets of paper, she again sat down. - -But a grim look had come over Downing's face. He came and stood by her, -for the first time that day he touched her, and she felt the weight of -his hand on her shoulder as he said quietly: 'Are you afraid of me, -Penelope?' - -She looked up quickly, furtively. How strange to hear him thus pronounce -her name! Like that Prince and Princess in the French fairy tale, who -only called each other _mon coeur_ and _ma mie_, such familiarities as -'George' and 'Penelope' had not yet been theirs. - -'Oh no!' she cried, and inconsequently added: 'I only thought that you -might consider my coming here to-day odd, uncalled for----' - -But actions speak louder than words. Downing felt cut to the heart. He -knew that he had deserved better things of her than that she should leap -to her feet in fear if he did but move. But as he turned away, perplexed -and angered, Mrs. Robinson was bent on showing her repentance. She came -near to him, and even took his hand. 'I have been so unhappy,' she said -simply, 'since you went away. Believe me, I am only content when we are -together.' - -Downing still looked at her with troubled eyes. - -Drawing his hand out of hers, he set himself to discuss the various -business arrangements connected with her renouncement of the great -fortune she was giving up for the sake of his good name and repute; and, -listening to all he had to say, Penelope was impressed by his -conscientiousness, by his feeling that she would of course feel bound to -see that no portion of the large sum in question should slip into -unworthy hands. - -'I am sure,' he said at last, 'that your friend Mr. Winfrith will advise -better than I, in my ignorance of the actual working of the Melancthon -Settlement, can hope to do.' He unfortunately added: 'Since I have seen -him, I have wondered whether he will stand our friend?' - -Mrs. Robinson looked up quickly. 'No,' she answered very deliberately, -and Downing thought her oddly indifferent. 'I do not think David -Winfrith will have the slightest sympathy with me--with us. He is -exceedingly conventional.' - - -All at once a discussion, provoked by her, seemed to make the future -intimately near, especially to the man who suddenly found himself -answering questions, some childish and very frank in their expression, -about the life led by Europeans in Persia. Penelope, for the moment, -seemed to be looking forward to their joint existence as to a series of -exciting and romantic adventures. - -'Boxes not too large to go on mules? I thought camels always carried -one's luggage!' There was a touch of disappointment in her voice, but -before he could answer with the promise that she should have camels and -to spare--in fact, anything and everything she wanted, she had added: -'Two good English saddles,' and made a pencil note. - -'Nay, I will see to that!' said Downing quickly. - -Some of her questions were difficult to answer, for the questioner -seemed to forget--and, seeing this, Downing's heart grew heavy within -him--that her position among the other women of her own kind and race -out there would be one full of ambiguity. - -Not even his great power, the fear with which he was regarded, could -save her, were she to put herself in the way of it, from miserable and -petty insult. - -Hastily he turned the talk to his own house in Teheran. He had made no -attempt, as do so many Europeans, to alter the essentially Persian -character of his dwelling, and he lingered over the description of his -beautiful garden, fragrant with roses and violets, traversed by flowing -rivulets, cooled by leaping fountains. Penelope's face darkened when a -word was said concerning Mrs. Mote, or, rather, of the native badgee, or -ayah, who would, for a while at least, take her old nurse's place. 'I am -sure,' said he, rather awkwardly, 'that in time you will want an English -maid, especially at Laar'; and then he told her, not for the first time, -of the life they would lead when summer came, in tents, Persian fashion, -far above the pleasant hill villages, always avoided by Downing, where -the British, Russian, and French colonies have their gossip-haunted -retreats near the city. - -The thought of her old nurse reminded Mrs. Robinson that it was growing -late. She explained that at Burcombe she would be able to hire some kind -of conveyance to take her back to Monk's Eype, and as she watched -Downing preparing for the two-mile walk, she said solicitously: 'I -wonder if I ought to let you come with me? The rain may keep off till we -get down there, but you may have a terribly wet walk back, and, if you -fall ill here, I cannot come and be with you as I was at Pol les -Thermes.' - -As she spoke she looked at him, and her look, even more than her words, -moved Downing as a man is wont to be moved when the woman he loves -becomes suddenly and unexpectedly tender. 'Is it likely that I should -let you go alone?' he said, rather gruffly. 'You told me once you are -afraid of thunder. Well, I think we are going to have thunder, and very -soon.' - -But now his visitor seemed in no hurry to leave the curious, rather dark -room, with its old-fashioned furnishings. 'I wonder when we shall meet -again,' she said a little plaintively. - -But Downing made no answer. Instead, he flung open the door, preceded -her down the darkened passage, and then, or so it seemed to Penelope, -almost thrust her out on to the flagged path. - -Why this great haste, this sudden hurry to be quit of the farmhouse? As -yet there was no rain, and doubtless the high wind would keep off the -storm till night. In the last hour--nay, it was not even an hour since -she had felt the weight of Downing's hand laid in reproach on her -shoulder--her mood had indeed changed. Mrs. Robinson had been reluctant -to come in, but now she was very loth to go. - -There came a time in Penelope's life when every feeling she had ever -possessed for Downing--and, looking back, she had to tell herself that -she had loved him with every kind of love a woman may give a man--became -merged in boundless and awed gratitude, and when her thoughts would -especially single out this storm-driven afternoon and evening. But now -Mrs. Robinson felt aggrieved by his reserve, surprised at his coldness, -and, standing there on the flagged path, waiting while her companion -spent what seemed to her much unnecessary time in securely fastening the -door behind them, she felt very sore, and inclined to linger unduly. - -And so, as he came quickly towards her, Downing saw a curious look on -her face that caused his own expression suddenly to change. A light -leapt into his grey eyes, but Mrs. Robinson had turned pettishly away. -'I must stop a moment,' she said; 'the laces of my shoe have come -untied.' - -The wind was rising swirling clouds of dust below, but Downing caught -her words, and understood the mingled feelings which had prompted their -utterance. Quickly passing her, he knelt on the lowest of the steps -which led from the flagged path to the road, tied her shoe-laces, and -then, after glancing up and down the deserted road, he bent over and -kissed lingeringly, first one and then the other, of the wearer's feet. - -Then he sprang up, and, for a moment, he looked at her deprecatingly, -but Penelope, mollified by what she took to be an act of unwonted -humility and homage, laughed and blushed as she let him put her hand -through his arm. - -They walked down the hill in silence. The wind was still rising, large -drops of rain began to fall at intervals, and yet, for the first time -that afternoon, Mrs. Robinson felt wholly content. There was something -in her nature which responded to wild weather, and, but for the lateness -of the hour, she would have liked so to make her way through wind and -beating rain back to Monk's Eype. - -At last they found themselves on a level, monotonous stretch of road. To -the right, rising beyond a piece of rough, untilled ground, in the -centre of which stood a grove of high trees, lay the straggling little -town of Burcombe, and Mrs. Robinson looked doubtfully at the long, -rain-flecked road before them. 'If we make our way across, and go -through the grounds of Burcombe Abbey,' she said, indicating the grove -of trees, 'we should get to the town far sooner than by going round this -way. I think the place is let this summer, but if the storm becomes -worse, we might take shelter in one of the out-buildings, and send some -one for a carriage.' - -The first flash of lightning, the first real rush of rain, hastened -their decision. Downing looked down with a feeling of exultation at his -companion; her face was bent before the wind, but her voice was full of -strength and a certain joyous cheer. Still, when the lightning lit up -for a moment the lonely expanse of brown heath and rough ground about -them, he felt her involuntary shudder, and she held closer to him. - -Soon they had passed through a broken palisade into the comparative -shelter afforded by the high trees which surrounded and embowered the -remains of what had once been a famous Cistercian monastery. It was good -to be out of the storm, under one of the arched avenues which bordered a -straight dark pool, covered with still duck-weed, stretching before -them. - -As yet the rain had not had time to penetrate the canopy of green leaves -shutting out the grey sky, but the path along which Downing was hurrying -Penelope was already strewn with branches, some of dangerous size, and, -had he not held her strongly, more than once she would have slipped and -fallen. He saw that their wisest course would be to return to the open -ground they had left, but the knowledge that some kind of shelter lay -before them, if they could only reach it safely, made him keep the -thought to himself. - -If--if indeed! For there came a sudden rending, as it were, of earth and -water, an awful blinding flash; and then--in the interval between the -lightning and the crash of thunder--one of the tall trees on the -opposite side of the now rain-swept water fell with a heavy thud right -across the pool, its green apex settling down but a few yards in front -of the wayfarers. - -With a wholly instinctive gesture Downing flung both arms round his -companion, and in the face of each the other read the unspoken, -anguished question, 'Is this, then, to be the end, the solution, of our -strange romance, of our difficult problem?' But Mrs. Robinson shook her -head, with a sudden gesture signifying no surrender, and they pushed -blindly on, treading on and over the wood and leaves carpeting the way -before them. - -The avenue ended abruptly with a flight of steps cut in the steep green -bank of what at first Downing took to be another deep pool, dark with -weeds and studded with strange rocks. So vivid was this impression that -he stayed his own and Penelope's feet, while his eyes sought for a way -round to a curious building, not unlike the remains of an old mill, -which he saw opposite, and which promised the looked-for shelter. - -But gradually, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the twilight, he saw -that what he had taken for a sheet of still water was a stretch of -grass, smooth as a bowling-green, from which rose jagged pillars, and -uncouth, green-draped ruins, portions of the foundations of the old -abbey, while to the right, bordered by gaunt trees, a bare space -surrounded by low walls showed the site of what had been a vast medieval -church. - -The two, standing there, were struck by the look of dreadful desolation -presented by the scene, the more desolate, the more God-forsaken, by -reason of the fantastic-looking house which stood the other side of the -deep depression containing the abbey ruins. Silently, no longer arm in -arm, they went down the green steps, and made their way through what had -been the cells and spacious chambers, the guest-rooms and the broad -refectory, of the great monastery. - - -III - -Mrs. Robinson and Downing had sheltered but a moment in the porch of the -old-fashioned house, which doubtless incorporated some portion of the -monastic buildings, when the heavy, nail-studded door suddenly opened, -revealing a roomy vaulted hall. - -An old man, evidently a self-respecting and respected butler, stood -peering out into the semi-darkness, and as he did so invited them rather -crossly to come in. - -Mrs. Robinson stepped back into the wind and rain, for she felt in no -mood to confront a stranger. But the man repeated with some asperity: -'You are, please, to come in. Those are my mistress's orders. Now, don't -be keeping me in this draught!' - -At last, very reluctantly, they accepted his rather tart invitation, but -when they stood side by side in the lamplight before him, the old -manservant's tone altered at once. 'I beg your pardon, sir, but we do -get such tramps about here, and my mistress, she's that kind! One of the -maids saw you and the lady just after we thought one of the ruins had -been struck by lightning----' - -'I think the storm is dying down. If we may sit here in the hall for a -few moments, I am sure we could then go on quite well.' Mrs. Robinson -spoke with a touch of impatience. She felt greatly annoyed, and looked -at Downing imploringly. Surely he must realize how unpleasant it would -be if she were suddenly brought face to face with some London -acquaintance. But Downing seemed for the moment to have no thought of -her: he stood looking fixedly at the old man, trying to remember if he -could ever have been here before. The atmosphere of the house, even the -butler's impassive face, seemed familiar; but since he had been in -England his memory had played him many queer tricks. - -He sighed heavily, and the words Penelope had uttered a few moments -before at last penetrated his brain. 'Yes,' he said, rousing himself, -'the storm is passing by, and we must go on to Burcombe without delay.' - -'But my mistress particularly wished to speak to _whoever_ it was, sir.' -The man spoke urgently. - -'This is intolerable,' muttered Penelope; then aloud: 'But we are -neither of us fit to be seen by anybody. I am sure your mistress will -excuse us.' - -'My mistress will not _see_ you, ma'am'--the old man's tone was a -rebuke--'for she is blind.' - -He did not wait to hear any more objections, but turning, suddenly -opened a door on his right. - -Penelope shrugged her shoulders. What an unsatisfactory, odious day this -had been! But even so she motioned Downing to take off his old -rain-sodden cloak, anxious that he at least should look well before this -strange woman. Ah! but she was blind! - -The door which the old man had just opened, and as he thought carefully -closed, swung back, and the two standing outside saw into a pretty room, -of which the uneven oak floor was sunk below the level of the hall. They -heard, with some discomfort, the murmur of voices, and then the words, -uttered in the clear, rather mincing intonation affected by a certain -type of old-fashioned servant: 'But I'm quite positive that it is, -ma'am. The minute the gentleman stept in with the young lady I said to -myself, "Why, surely this is our Mr. Downing!" When he went away I'd -already been some years in Mr. Delacour's service, ma'am, and of course -I knew him quite well. I don't say he's not changed----' - -But as Penelope was looking for a way of escape, if not for Downing, -then most certainly for herself, the open door of the bright, gay little -sitting-room suddenly framed a slight, almost shadowy, figure of which -even Mrs. Robinson, standing there at bay, felt the disarming, pathetic -charm. - -There is often about a blind woman, especially about one who was not -born blind, a ghost-like serenity of manner, and even of appearance. - -Mrs. Delacour's voice still had its soothing, rather anxious quality, -but she spoke with restraint and dignified simplicity to the two -strangers, concerning one of whom she had just been told such an -amazing, and to her most moving, fact. 'Will you come in and rest?' she -said; 'I fear you must have gone through a terrible experience.' - -As they were entering the room, Downing suddenly stumbled--he always so -adroit, so easy in his movements--and Penelope, herself no longer -afraid, but feeling curiously soothed and comforted in this quiet, -gentle atmosphere, saw that he was terribly moved, his face ravaged with -contending feelings to which she had no clue. She looked away quickly, -but Downing seemed unaware of her presence, incapable of speaking. - -The two women talked together. Mrs. Robinson told of the tree struck by -lightning, of their danger, and still Downing did not, could not, speak. - -'Tell me,' said Mrs. Delacour at last--and her voice, in spite of her -determination, of her prayer, that it should not be so, trembled a -little--'is it true that George Downing is here? We once had a friend, a -very dear friend, of that name, and my old servant is convinced that it -was he who came in just now out of the storm.' - -Again there was silence. Mrs. Robinson looked at him reproachfully. Why -did he keep this gentle, kindly woman in suspense? Could it be for her, -Penelope's sake? But Downing suddenly held up his hand; he did not wish -the answer to come from any lips but his own--'Yes,' he said hoarsely, -'I am George Downing, come back, as you said I should come back, Mrs. -Delacour!' - -And then, or so it appeared to Penelope, a strange desire seized the -other two to make her go away, to leave them to themselves. No word was -said revealing Mrs. Robinson's identity, but there was a question of the -long drive to Wyke Regis. Mrs. Delacour offered her carriage, Downing -went to order it, and so for a moment the other two were left alone -together. Penelope tried to speak indifferently, but failed; she felt a -wild, an unreasoning jealousy of this sightless, white-haired woman with -whom she was leaving the man she loved. - -Did Mrs. Delacour, with the strange prescience of the blind, divine -something of what was passing in the other's mind? All she said was, -'Mr. Downing--or is it not Sir George now?--was with my husband, one of -his younger colleagues, at the Foreign Office, and we saw him -constantly. I fear this meeting must recall to him many painful -circumstances.' - -A moment later, as Downing was putting her into the carriage, unmindful -of the old man standing just inside the hall, Penelope drew him with her -into the darkness: 'Say that you love me!' she whispered, and he felt -her tears on his lips; 'say that you cannot bear to let me go!' - -And then she was comforted, for 'Shall I come with you?' he asked -urgently, no lack of longing now in his low, deep voice; 'let me go back -and tell her that I cannot let you go alone!' - -But again Penelope felt suddenly afraid--of herself, perhaps, rather -than of him. 'No, no!' she said hurriedly; 'it would be wrong, unkind, -to your old friend--to Mrs. Delacour.' - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - 'But there's one happy moment when the mind - Is left unguarded, waiting to be kind, - Which the wise lover understanding right, - Steals in like day upon the wings of light.' - - -I - -The absence of Mrs. Robinson from the villa, even for only a few hours, -afforded a curious relief, a distinct lightening of the atmosphere, to -all those--if one important exception be made, that of Mrs. Mote--whom -she had left at Monk's Eype on the afternoon of her expedition to -Kingpole Farm. - -Penelope's unquietude of mind had gradually affected all her guests. -Even her mother, the person of whom she saw least, had become dimly -aware that all was not as it should be, and, while not in any way as yet -connecting her daughter with Sir George Downing, she regarded him as an -evil and alien influence. - -Lady Wantley had taken an intuitive, unreasoning dislike to the -remarkable man whose presence she realized her daughter would have -wished her to regard as an honour; and though she was quite unaware of -it, a word ventured by Mrs. Mote very early in Downing's stay at Monk's -Eype had contributed to this feeling of discomfort and suspicion. - -Like most gifts, that of intuition can be cultivated, and Lady Wantley -had done all in her power to increase and fructify that side of her -nature. The mere presence of Downing in the same room with herself made -her feel as if she was suddenly thrust amid warring elements, and her -mind became shadowed by the suspicion that this man, when a dweller in -the Eastern country famed immemorially for the potency of its magic, had -foregathered with spirits of evil. That his going had not lifted the -clouds which seemed to hang so darkly over the whole of the little -company about her, Lady Wantley regarded as a proof that her suspicions -were well founded, for to her thinking it is far easier to evoke than to -lay demoniac influences. - -These thoughts, however, she kept to herself, and no knowledge that in -her mother Downing had a watchful antagonist came to increase Mrs. -Robinson's nervous unrest. - -During those same days following Downing's departure from Monk's Eype, -Mrs. Robinson and Wantley left off sparring, and Penelope would debate -uneasily whether it was his own affairs--or hers--which had so much -altered her cousin's manner, and made him become, to herself, more -kindly and considerate than she had ever before known him. But the young -man kept his own counsel. He and old Miss Wake never referred to the -conversation they had held the day Penelope and Cecily had driven over -to Shagisham; each, however, was aware that the other had felt relieved, -perhaps unreasonably so, to see Persian Downing leave Monk's Eype. - -Sometimes Wantley was inclined to think that Miss Wake had been utterly -misled, and then, again, some trifling circumstance would make him fear -that she had been right. - -The doubt was sufficiently strong to convince him that this was no -moment to speak--upon another matter--to Cecily Wake: In London, amid -the impersonal surroundings of the Melancthon Settlement, he would -pursue and bring to a happy ending--nay, to an exquisite beginning--his -and Cecily's simple romance. But in the meanwhile he saw no reason for -denying himself the happiness of being with her every moment of the day -not given up by her to Penelope. - -Once, when they were thus together, Cecily had said a word--only a word, -and in defence of a toy fund organized by a great London -newspaper--concerning her own giftless childhood and girlhood. - -There had been no kind relatives or friends to remember the convent-bred -child. Miss Wake's Christmas present had always been something useful -and, indeed, necessary, and Cecily, remembering, pleaded for the useless -doll and the unnecessary toy. - -Wantley, while pretending to be only half convinced, was composing in -his own mind a letter to the old servant who kept for him his few family -relics, his father's books, his mother's lace and simple jewels. Even -now, or so he told himself, the girl walking by his side, talking with -the youthful energy and certainty of being right which always both -amused and moved him, was herself sufficiently a child to enjoy a gift, -especially an anonymous gift, by post. - -And this was why the young man, usually so ready to grumble at the -inscrutable ways of Providence, hailed his cousin's departure, for what -she had announced would be a long afternoon's expedition, as a piece of -amazing good fortune. - -Each day a man rode over from the villa to Wyke Regis to fetch the -contents of the second post, and to-day the letters had come, by Mrs. -Robinson's orders, rather earlier than usual. Wantley lingered about in -the hall while the bag was being opened by Penelope. There were several -letters addressed to Downing, and these he saw, with a slight pang, were -quickly put aside with Penelope's own. Two parcels, both small, both -oblong in shape, were addressed in an uneducated handwriting to 'Miss -Cecily Wake,' and, puzzled, he peered down at them curiously. - -Then Wantley watched his cousin start off on her lonely way, while she -noted, with discomfort, that he asked no questions as to her -destination. The hour that followed was spent by him in walking up and -down the terrace, in reading the day's paper, which he thought had never -been so empty of interesting news, and in wondering why Cicely did not -come downstairs. He also asked himself, with some anxiety, what there -could possibly be in the second parcel that had arrived for her that -day. He thought he knew all about the contents of the first, and it -seemed odd that on the same day there should have come two.... - - -At last a happy inspiration led him to the studio, and there he found -the girl sitting, various of her treasures--for, like a child, she was -fond of bearing about with her her favourite possessions--spread out on -Penelope's painting-table. - -Physical delicacy is too often associated in people's minds with -goodness, but, as a matter of fact, to be good in anything but a very -passive sense almost always requires the possession of health. It was -because Cecily Wake had brought from her convent school unbroken -strength of body, and a mind which had never concerned itself with any -of the more painful problems of life, that she proved so valuable a -helper to Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret. Thanks to her perfect physical -condition, she was always ready to start off, at a moment's notice, on -the most tiring and the most dispiriting expeditions. Her feet seemed -never weary, her brain never exhausted, and, though she was sometimes -disappointed when things went wrong, she was always ready to start again -with unabated vigour to try and set them right. - -To Cecily Wake heaven and hell, the world and purgatory, were all -equally real, matter of fact, and to be accepted without question. She -knew nothing of the hell which people may make for themselves, and only -now, since she had been at Monk's Eype, had she realized that it is -possible to find a very fair imitation of heaven on this earth. - -Cecily's hell was very sparsely peopled, and that entirely with -historical characters. As to those who fill the dread place, they were, -to her thinking, an ill-sorted company, and probably very few of those -about her, while believing the numbers to be much greater, would have -included those whom she believed to be there. Judas, Henry VIII., the -man who tortured the little Dauphin in the Temple, the Bishop who -condemned Joan of Arc to be burnt--they, she thought, must surely all be -there. But, as regarded the world about her, Cecily was quite convinced -that, like William of Deloraine, 'Between the saddle and the ground, -they mercy sought and mercy found.' - -This little analysis of Cecily Wake's character and point of view is -necessary to explain one of the two gifts which had come to her by the -second post--that with which Wantley had not only had nothing to do, but -which had caused him some searching of heart, for he had been afraid -that it might be the outcome of one of those misunderstandings, those -misreadings of orders, which affect and annoy men so much more than -women. - -But the girl knew quite well from whom had come the six woolwork -table-napkin rings, although the only indication of the sender had been -the words, written on a piece of common note-paper - - - 'This is from a friend - Who loves you no end.' - - -She required no signature to tell her that the sender was a certain -Charlotte Pidder, with whom, more than a year before, Cecily, for a few -days, had been thrown into the most intimate, and it might be said -affectionate, contact. - -I am writing of a time when there was but one half-penny evening paper -in London, and when original, or even unusual, contributions were -regarded askance by editors. To the office of that paper came one day a -most remarkable letter, setting forth the sad case of a Cornish girl -who, having come up to London, and having there met with what the poor, -with their apt turn for language, term a 'misfortune,' had found it -impossible thenceforward to make an honest living. The writer explained -very simply his efforts on her behalf, but added that his resources had -come to an end, and that the mere fact that he was a man much in her own -class of life made those whom he sought to interest in her case look on -him, as well as on her, with suspicion. The editor of the evening paper -sent for the writer, convinced himself of the truth of his story, and -then printed the letter. - -The effect of its publication was instantaneous and extraordinary. To -that newspaper office letters poured in from all parts of the country, -some of the writers simply offering money, others expressing themselves -as willing to adopt the girl, while many were anxious to give her work -at a reasonable wage. These last were regarded by both the editor and -the girl's workman friend as being alone worthy of consideration. - -Then came the difficult question of how a choice among these would-be -employers was to be made, and the editor bethought himself of the -Melancthon Settlement. Very soon he had laid upon Mrs. Pomfret the whole -responsibility of how and where fortunate Charlotte Pidder should find a -home. Together Philip Hammond, Cecily Wake, and Mrs. Pomfret looked over -the letters. They finally weeded out twelve for further consideration, -and the interchange of further letters brought the number down to four. - -To the one who appeared to be the most sensible of these generous folk, -Mrs. Pomfret despatched Charlotte Pidder, only to have her sent back the -next day with a curt note to the effect that the good Samaritan could -not think of taking into her service a girl whose hair was short and -curly like a man's! This experience taught wisdom to the three people on -whom Charlotte's fate depended, and so it was decided that, before the -girl was sent off to another would-be benefactor, Cecily Wake should go -and spy out, as it were, the hospitable land. - -This is no place to tell the tale of Cecily's experiences, some -grotesque and some sinister. Soon a day came when she and Mrs. Pomfret -were compelled to look over again the letters which they had at first -rejected, and finally after a long journey by train and tram to a -comparatively poor neighbourhood, Cecily found two human beings, good, -simple-hearted, tender-minded folk, with whom there seemed some hope -that Charlotte Pidder would find a peaceful haven, and work her way back -to self-respect and some measure of happiness. It was arranged that her -'days out' should be spent at the Settlement, and she formed a deep, -dumb attachment to the girl, only a year or two older than herself, whom -she had seen take so much trouble on her behalf, and who had treated her -during those anxious days with such kindly, unforced sympathy and -consideration. - -These napkin-rings, with their red and blue pattern worked in Berlin -wool, represented many hours of toil, and Cecily, knowing this, was -meditating a letter of warm thanks to the sender, when Wantley walked -into the studio and looked questioningly at the table. At once he saw -the sheet of paper with its rudely-written lines. He looked quickly at -the girl, and then remarked: 'Victor Hugo once said that every kind of -emotion could be expressed in doggerel, and now I am inclined to think -he was right. But I like the poetry better than the present.' - -Cecily covered the poor little cardboard box with a sudden protective -gesture. 'I like them very much,' she said stoutly. 'The person who made -them for me has very little spare time, and it was very good of her to -take so much trouble. But I have had another present to-day--one you -will like better.' - -Wantley's hand went up to his mouth; he even reddened slightly. But -Cecily was not looking at him. Her hands were busy with the -old-fashioned fastening of a flat red-leather case. At last the little -brass hook slipped back, she lifted the lid, and there, lying on a faded -white satin pad, lay two rows of finely matched, though not very large, -pearls. - -The sight affected the two looking down at them very differently. To -Wantley the little red case brought back a rush of memories. He saw -himself again a little boy, standing by his pretty, fair mother's -dressing-table, sometimes allowed as a great treat to fasten the quaint -diamond clasp round the slender neck. Cecily simply flushed with -pleasure, and she felt full of gratitude to the kind giver, about whose -identity she felt no doubt. - -'Only the other day,' she said, smiling, 'Penelope noticed that I had no -necklace, nothing to wear in the evening--and now you see what she has -had sent me!' - -'Penelope? Then, do you think these pearls are a gift from my cousin?' - -'Of course they are! Who else would think of giving me anything of the -kind?' - -'Cannot you imagine any other'--Wantley's voice shook a little in spite -of himself--'any other person who might wish to give you pleasure?' - -Cecily looked up puzzled. He came round and stood by the table on which -lay the two gifts received by her that day. Very deliberately he took up -one of Mrs. Robinson's soft lead-pencils, and then wrote across a torn -piece of drawing-paper, - - - 'This is from a lover - Who will love you for ever,' - - -and laid it down so that it covered the pearls. 'You see,' he said, -'this is not, as was the other gift to-day, friendship's offering. But, -still, the words I have written there are meant quite as sincerely. -These pearls belonged to my mother. They were given to her by my father -on the first anniversary of their wedding-day, and I know how happy it -would have made her--have made them both--to think that you would wear -them.' - -He spoke quickly, and yet after the first moment, with great gravity. As -Cecily made no answer, he added: 'You will not refuse to take them from -me?' - - -II - -The old nurse had watched Penelope drive off alone that afternoon with -deep misgiving and fear, for she was quite sure that her mistress was -bound for Kingpole Farm. - -Motey had soon become aware that Mrs. Robinson received no letters from -Downing, and this, to a mind sharpened by jealousy and semi-maternal -instinct, only the more indicated the closeness and the thorough -understanding between them, and showed, or so the maid believed, that -all their plans as to the future were already arranged. - -Again and again she had been on the point of attacking her mistress, of -asking Penelope to confirm or to deny her suspicions, and many a night, -while lying awake listening through the closed door to Mrs. Robinson's -restless movements, always aware when her nursling was not asleep, Mrs. -Mote would make up long homely phrases in which to formulate her appeal. -But when daylight came, when she found herself face to face with -Penelope, her courage ebbed away, and she became afraid--for herself. - -What if anything said by her provoked a sudden separation from her -mistress? More than once in the last ten years Motey and Mrs. Robinson -had come to moments of sudden warfare, when the younger woman's -affection for her old nurse had been sorely tried, and yet on those -occasions, as Mrs. Mote was only too well aware, no feeling even -approaching that which now bound Penelope to Sir George Downing had been -in question. - -Sometimes the old woman told herself that she was a fool, and that her -terrors were vain terrors, for the actual proofs of what she feared was -about to happen were few. - -Again and again, during Mrs. Robinson's brief absences from the villa, -Motey had sought to find--what? - -She hardly knew. - -Never had Penelope, careless as she had always been hitherto of such -things, left one of Downing's letters about in her room, or, forgotten, -in a pocket. In the matter of her searching, the old nurse was troubled -by no scruples. She would have smiled grimly had some accident made -known to her how some of the people about her would have regarded this -turning out of pockets, this trying of locked places with stray keys. - -Poor Motey! She felt like a mother whose child has been given a packet -of poisoned sweets, and who knows that they must be found at all costs -before evil befalls. But so far her unscrupulous seeking had yielded -little or nothing to confirm what she was fast coming to believe an -absolute certainty--namely, that Penelope was on the eve of forming with -Downing what both intended should be a lifelong tie. - -Many little incidents, deepening this conviction, crowded on her day by -day, as it grew increasingly clear that Mrs. Robinson was silently -preparing for some great change in her life. The maid marvelled at the -blindness of Penelope's mother, of Wantley, even of Cecily Wake--how -could they help noting that Penelope never now spoke of the future, that -she made no plans, as she was so fond of doing, for the coming winter? - -Then, late in the afternoon which saw Mrs. Robinson at Kingpole Farm, -Motey at last found something which provided, to her mind, undoubted -proof. This was a formal business letter from a great London firm, -celebrated for the perfection of its Eastern outfits, and it contained -answers to a number of questions evidently written by one contemplating -a long sojourn in Teheran. - -Penelope, before starting out that afternoon, had shown considerable -annoyance at having mislaid a paper she wished to take with her. She had -made no secret of the fact, and both she and Motey had searched for the -envelope all over the large room. After her mistress had left, Mrs. Mote -had continued the search, and she had at last found this letter, laid -under some gloves which Penelope had at first intended to take, but had -rejected in favour of a thicker pair. - -The maid carried off this, to her, most sinister sheet of paper into her -own room, and as the evening closed in, and Penelope did not come back, -she saw in it, or rather in her mistress's desire to take it with her -that day, an indication that perhaps Mrs. Robinson had gone, not -intending to return, and that she might be at this very moment on her -way, and not alone, to London. - - -III - -Suspense has been described as the most terrible of the many agonies the -human heart and mind are so often called upon to endure. - -Mrs. Mote, sitting in the twilight watching the gathering storm, -listening in vain for the soft rumble of the little pony-cart, felt as -if actual knowledge that what she feared had happened would be -preferable to this anxiety. - -More than once she got up and stood by one of the long narrow windows in -the broad passage which commanded a view of the winding road, cut -through the down, on which Penelope, if she ever came back, must appear. -But Mrs. Mote was in no mood to pass the time of day with the upper -housemaid, who would soon be coming to light the tall argand lamp in the -corridor, and so at last she retreated into her room, there to remain in -still wretchedness, convinced that Penelope had indeed gone, though her -ears still remained painfully alive to the slightest sound which might -give the lie to her dread. - -It was eight o'clock. Already someone, probably Wantley, had ordered -dinner to be put back half an hour, when the deep, soft-toned -dressing-bell rang in the hall. - -The maid listened dully to the comings to and fro up and down the -staircase; there was an interval of silence; and then the door of her -room suddenly opened, and Lady Wantley's tall figure was outlined for a -moment against the dim patch of light afforded by the corridor window -opposite. - -'Surely your mistress did not intend to stay out so late to-night?' The -voice was full of misgiving and agitation. - -The old servant stood up; a curious instinct of loyalty to Mrs. Robinson -seemed to impel her to say no word of her great fear. And yet she felt -it not fair that Lady Wantley should be left in complete ignorance of -what, if she, the old nurse, were right, would soon be known to the -whole household. - -'Perhaps my mistress is not coming back to-night; perhaps she intended -to go on to London from Kingpole Farm,' she said in a curious, -hesitating tone. - -'From Kingpole Farm?' Lady Wantley advanced into the room. She turned -and closed the door into the passage, and then seemed to tower above the -stout little woman who stood before her in the twilight. - -Mrs. Mote had taken up a corner of the black apron she always wore, and -she was twisting it up and down in her fingers, remaining silent the -while. - -'Motey, what do you mean?' Lady Wantley spoke with a touch of haughty -decision in her voice. - -'What led you to suppose for a moment that my daughter has gone to -Kingpole Farm? That, surely, is where Sir George Downing is staying!' - -Then Mrs. Mote lost her head. She was spent with trouble, sick with -suspense, and exasperated by Lady Wantley's clearly-conveyed rebuke. -After all, Penelope was as dear--ay, perhaps dearer--to herself, the -nurse, as to the mother who had had so little of the real trouble -entailed by the rearing of her child. Was it likely that she, Motey, -would say anything reflecting on the creature whom she loved so well, -for whose honour she had often shown herself far more jealous than Lady -Wantley had seemed to be, and whom she had saved, or so she firmly -believed, from so many pitfalls? - -'What made me think of it?' she repeated violently. 'Why, I _know_ she's -there! She wasn't likely to keep away any longer! Oh, my lady, how is it -you've not seen, that you haven't come to understand, how it is with -her? I should have thought that anyone who cared for her, and who isn't -blind, must surely know, know that----' - -Mrs. Mote's voice fell almost to a whisper as she added, throwing out -her hands: 'She _do_ like him; it's no good my saying anything else! Why -didn't his lordship let her have Master David? He was the one for her; -she's never liked anyone so well till just now.' - -Then the speaker turned and nervously struck a match, lighting one of -two tall candles standing on the chest of drawers behind her. - -Lady Wantley's face looked very grey and drawn in the yellow light, but -it was set in stern lines. 'Hush!' she said: 'you forget yourself, -Motey,' and you are making a great mistake. If you refer to Sir George -Downing'--she brought out the name with a certain effort--'you cannot be -aware of what is known quite well to your mistress, for she herself told -me that he is married. His wife, who is an American lady, once came to -see your master.' - -There was a long silence. Lady Wantley was waiting for the other to make -some sign of submission, but the old servant only gave the woman who had -been for so many years her own mistress a quick, furtive look, full of -mingled pity and contempt, of fierce personal distress and impatience. - -'Were they together then?' she said at last, and with apparent -inconsequence she added; 'Does your ladyship remember Mrs. Winfrith, and -what happened to her?' - -Lady Wantley deigned no answer to Motey's questions. 'I know that you -love my daughter,' she said slowly, almost reluctantly; but the servant, -with a quick movement, shrank back, and her look, her gesture, forbade -the other--the more fortunate woman who had borne the child Motey loved -so well--to intrude on the nurse's relation to that child. - -'Love her!' Motey was repeating to herself, though no words passed her -lips, 'why, I'd give my body and soul for her, which is more than you -would do!' But Mrs. Mote mis-estimated the mother-instinct in the woman -who was now standing opposite to her. - -Then, quickly, vehemently, the old nurse told of what she knew and what -she feared with so great a dread, and the story which Lady Wantley -heard, still standing, in dead silence, though it might have seemed -very unconvincing to a lawyer, brought absolute conviction to Penelope's -mother. - -She was told in Motey's rough, expressive words of that first meeting in -the great Paris station, when Mrs. Robinson, as if hypnotized by this -singular-looking man, then a complete stranger, had accepted from him a -real service, thus opening the door to an acquaintance which, with -scarce any interval, had ripened into an absorbing passion. The maid -recalled her own dawning suspicions, her powerlessness to stay the -feeling which had seemed suddenly to overpower her mistress, her vain -attempts to persuade Penelope to leave Pol les Thermes. Then the silent -listener heard of the journey back, with Downing in close attendance, of -Mrs. Mote's hope that this was the end of the affair, finally of the -nurse's dismay when she discovered that he was actually coming to Monk's -Eype. - -The story the more impressed Lady Wantley because it was the first time -she had received such confidences. She did not know, and Mrs. Mote saw -no reason to enlighten her, that Penelope had always been fond of -passing adventure, and she would have been astonished indeed had she -known that, just at first, her daughter's vigilant companion had -troubled but little about her mistress and Sir George Downing. Mrs. Mote -had so often seen Penelope come forth, apparently unscathed, from -romantic encounters, from long sentimental duels, in which the woman had -always been an easy victor. - -At last the nurse had said all there was to say. She had even shown Lady -Wantley the letter which she regarded as such absolute evidence of what -she feared, when again the door suddenly opened, and the two within the -room started, or so it seemed to themselves, guiltily apart, as Mrs. -Robinson, travel-stained and weary, and yet scarcely dishevelled, and -with a bright colour in her cheeks, stood before them. - -'I had an accident,' she said, rather breathlessly. 'The left wheel came -off the pony-cart. That made me late, the more so that I was caught in -the great storm which you do not seem to have had here.' - -As she spoke she was glancing sharply from her mother to her maid. 'Were -you afraid? I fear you have both been very anxious.' She added, 'I -should have wired from Burcombe, but as I drove through I saw that the -post-office was shut.' Again, as she spoke, she looked from the one to -the other, and said rather coldly, 'But it's not so very late, after -all.' Then she passed through into her own room, and Motey silently -followed her. - - -That same night Wantley was sitting up, fully an hour after every one -else had gone up to bed, smoking and reading, when Lady Wantley came -into the room, which, as far as he knew, had never been entered by her -since it had been set apart for his own use. - -The young man rose, and tried to keep the surprise he felt out of his -face. For a moment--a very disagreeable moment--he wondered if she had -come to speak to him about Cecily Wake. - -The great Lord Wantley had had a strong prejudice against Roman -Catholics, and it was, of course, quite possible that his widow might -consider herself bound to protest against the idea of a marriage between -his successor and a Catholic girl. But he soon felt reassured on this -point. - -In a few moments he learnt that Lady Wantley had sought him out for a -very different reason. 'I have to see Mr. Gumberg on urgent private -business,' she said, 'and I have come to ask you if you will accompany -me to London to-morrow morning. It is all-important that we should go -quite early.' - -'Certainly,' he said quickly; 'I will arrange everything.' - -'Everything is arranged,' observed Lady Wantley very quietly. 'I have -ordered the carriage for seven, and I have written a note to Penelope -explaining my absence, but I have not mentioned the name of the person I -am going to see. To do so was not necessary, and I beg that you also -will keep it secret.' - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - 'When Man and Woman are agreed, what can the Kazi do?' - - _Indian Proverb._ - - -I - -Lady Wantley, as she journeyed up to town, tended very kindly by her -companion, who possessed the power the normal man often lacks of making -any woman in his charge feel comfortable and at ease, thought intensely -of her coming interview with Mr. Julius Gumberg. She had a sincere -belief in his worldly wisdom, and a vague conviction--not the less real -in that she could not have given any reason for her feeling--that the -power of his guile, combined with that of her prayers, would succeed -where either alone might fail. Thus had she persuaded herself in the -long watches of the night, while debating whether she should go to town -and entreat her old friend's help. - -In spite of what the censorious may say and believe, there is no chasm, -among the many which yawn round our poor humanity, on the brink of which -there is so much hesitation, and drawing back at the last moment, as on -that where the leap involves a loss of moral reputation. - -Even in the course of what had been a very sheltered life, Lady Wantley -had become aware of many such averted tragedies, of more than one -arrested flight, of more than one successful conflict against tremendous -odds--tremendous because the victory had remained with one whose own -heart had been traitor to the cause. - -But her intuitive knowledge of her daughter's character warred with any -hope that Penelope, having once made up her mind, would draw back. The -mother was dimly aware that the barrier must be raised from the outside, -and that the appeal must be made in this case to the man, and not to the -woman. - -So little like her father in most things, Mrs. Robinson had inherited -from him a quality which his critics had called 'obstinacy,' and his -admirers 'exceptional steadfastness of character.' Opposition had always -strengthened Lord Wantley's power of performance, and, as his wife -remembered only too clearly, in Penelope's early love affair it had been -David Winfrith, and not the impulsive, headstrong girl, who had given -way before the father's stern and inexorable command. - -Lady Wantley was one of those fortunate people--more often to be found -in a former generation than in our own--to whom their human possessions -appear to be well-nigh perfect. In her eyes Mrs. Robinson was the most -beautiful, the most gifted, the most generous-hearted, of God's -creatures; and though she reluctantly admitted to herself that her -daughter lacked spiritual perfection, the mother believed that in time -this also would be added to her beloved child. Even now it did not occur -to Lady Wantley that Penelope might be, in this matter, herself to -blame. Instead, she reserved the whole strength of her condemnation for -Sir George Downing, and she was on the way to persuade herself--as, -indeed, she did in time come to do--that, in order to accomplish his -fell purpose, this strange man had used unholy Eastern arts to snare -Penelope, the fair guerdon for whom such a fighter as Persian Downing -might well be willing to risk body and soul. - -Wantley, as he lay back in the railway-carriage, his eyes half closed, -holding a French novel open in his left hand, looked at the figure -sitting opposite to him with a good deal of sympathy and curiosity. He -knew a little, and guessed much more, concerning that which had brought -about this hurried journey. But he wondered how Lady Wantley's eyes had -been opened to a state of things none seemed to have suspected save Miss -Wake. Indeed, as regarded himself, his cousin's odd, altered manner had -been so far the only confirmation of Theresa Wake's suspicion. - -Perhaps, after all, Lady Wantley had reason to fear something tangible, -definite. If so, if Penelope was contemplating any act of open folly, -then, so said Wantley to himself, her mother was well advised to seek -the help of such a man as was Mr. Julius Gumberg. - -This curious journey, taken at such short notice and so secretly, -reminded Wantley of other and very different journeys taken by him as a -boy and youth in Lady Wantley's company--Progresses (he recalled with a -smile his mother's satirical word) during which Lord and Lady Wantley -had headed a retinue consisting, not only of courier, secretary, maids, -valets, and nurses, but also of humble friends in need of rest and -change, while he, Ludovic Wantley, had been the only 'odd man out' of -the party. - -Those days had not been happy days, but his heart involuntarily softened -as he looked at his companion and saw the worn face, the sunken eyes. -They made him realize how greatly Lady Wantley had aged and altered -during her years of widowhood. - -In her husband's lifetime she had been a singularly lovely and gracious -figure, of curiously still demeanour and abstracted manner, treated with -an almost idolatrous devotion by those about her. In those far-away days -his aunt--for so he had been taught to call her--had always worn, even -when on long, dusty Continental journeys, pale lavenders, soft greys, -and ivory whites, each of her garments being fashioned in a way which, -while scrupulously simple, yet heightened the quality of her physical -beauty, and set her apart as on a pinnacle of exquisite and spotless -womanliness. - -Wantley remembered the kind of sensation which the great English milord -and his lady naturally created in the little-frequented French and -German towns selected by them for sometimes prolonged halts. - -To-day, as he sat opposite to her, there came over him with -extraordinary vividness the recollection of one such sojourn in a -Bavarian village overhung by an historic castle, the owner of which had -invited Lord Wantley and his whole party to spend a day there. The young -man recalled with whimsical clearness each incident of what had been an -enchanting episode--the hours spent in the green alleys of a park of -which the still canals, stone terraces, and formal statuary recalled, as -they were meant to do, Versailles, for the place had been designed in -those far-off days when France and the French ideal of life still ruled -the German imagination. - -He remembered the fair-haired German girl whose gentle presence had for -him dominated the scene, her shy kindliness, the contrast between her -good English and his own and his cousin's indifferent German; and then -the feeling with which he had heard some passing words--a brief question -and a briefer answer--exchanged between the hospitable Prince and the -noble philanthropist: 'A charming lad--doubtless your eldest son?' And -the quick answer, 'No, no! quite a distant kinsman.' The words had -rankled, and over years. - - -Lady Wantley had never been to London in August, and so she had thought -to find a town deserted, save for the consoling oasis of St. James's -Place. - -She looked through the windows of the four-wheeled cab, also an utterly -unfamiliar form of conveyance, with a feeling of alarm and discomfort. -'How many people there seem to be left in London!' she said at last, -rather nervously. - -'You need not fear that you will see any one that you know,' Wantley -answered dryly. 'Still Mr. Gumberg is not the only Londoner who stays in -London through the summer. The difference between himself and his -fellow-townsmen is that he chooses to remain, and that they must do so.' - -No other word was said during the long, slow drive, spent by Wantley in -wondering whether he would find his club open, and how, if not, he -should dispose of himself during Lady Wantley's interview with Mr. -Gumberg. But for the parting for a whole day from Cecily Wake, he would -have enjoyed rather than otherwise this strange expedition, for he had -been flattered and touched by the confidence reposed in him. - -As the cab finally turned down St. James's Street, he took the hand, -still soft and of perfect shape, which lay nearest to his on Lady -Wantley's knee. 'We are nearly there,' he said. 'I will see you into the -hall, and then go off for an hour.' - - -II - -Mr. Gumberg was one of those who early school themselves to wait on -life. Sitting in the pretty, gay morning-room, which opened upon a -stately little garden--designed in the days when Italy was to the -cultivated Englishman what the England of to-day is to the travelled -American--he was rarely disappointed, even in August, as to what the day -would bring forth. - -Few afternoons went by but some acquaintance journeyed westward from the -City to ask his advice concerning matters of business moment. In the -hottest summer weather foreigners of distinction would find their way to -St. James's Place, bearing letters of courteous introduction, couched -in well-turned phrases, of which the diction, even in France and -Austria, will soon be a lost art. And then, again, friends passing -through town would remember the old man, and hasten to spend with him an -idle hour, bearing with them a budget of the news he loved to hear. - -But it was the day bringing forth the utterly unexpected that renewed -Mr. Julius Gumberg's grip on life. It was then that he felt he was still -taking part in the world's affairs, for the unexpected, in his case, -almost always meant an appeal connected with one of those byways of -human life in which he still took so vivid and so practical an interest. - -To the old worldling a call from Lady Wantley had always been something -of an event, and this over fifty years of their two lives. He respected -her reserve, he admired her reticence, and, while himself so deeply -interested in those about him, he yet delighted in the company of the -one woman of his acquaintance whom he knew to have ever regarded the -soul and the future life as of such infinitely more moment than the body -and the pleasant world about her. - -She was herself quite unaware of the peculiar feeling with which her old -friend regarded her, and ignorant that on the rare occasions of her -visits to St. James's Place no other visitor was welcome, or, indeed, -tolerated. Still, at this painful, anguished moment of her life some -subtle instinct caused her to turn to one with whom, in many ways, she -had so little in common. She felt secure of his sympathy, and had -implicit trust in his discretion; indeed, her belief in him extended to -the hope that he would suggest a way by which Penelope should surely be -saved from what the mother, full of pain and shrinking terror, could not -but regard as a most awful fate. - -The interview began badly. The gay little garden room, which still kept -something of the insouciant, roguish charm of the famous -eighteenth-century beauty from whose executors Mr. Julius Gumberg had -originally purchased the house, formed an incongruous background to the -shrunken figure, the parchment-coloured face, the hairless head, always, -however, covered with a skull-cap, of Lady Wantley's old friend. - -Gilt-rimmed, tarnished mirrors destroyed the sense of solitude, and -seemed to Mr. Gumberg's visitor to reflect shadowy witnesses and mocking -eavesdroppers of her shame and distress. - -So strong was this impression that Lady Wantley doubted whether she had -been well advised in coming. She felt inclined to get up and go away; -and something of what was passing in her mind was divined by her host. - -When the first long pause between them became oppressive, the old man, -lifting himself somewhat painfully from his chair, rang the bell which -always stood at his elbow. 'We shall be more at ease, and less likely to -be disturbed upstairs,' he said briefly. - -He was extremely curious to know what had brought Lady Wantley to town, -what could be the matter concerning which she had evidently come to -consult him; but he was too experienced a confessor to hasten -confidences by a word. - -The comfort of no human being, save that of his present visitor, could -have made Mr. Julius Gumberg show himself, as he was about to do, and -for no tangible reason, at a disadvantage--that is, so weighted with -physical infirmity as to be compelled, when walking upstairs, to seek -the assistance of his manservant's arm and guiding hand. His acute, -well-trained intellect had remained so keen, and his powers of -transacting business had diminished so little, that he felt, with a -bitterness none the less intense because so gallantly concealed, the -humiliations attendant on advancing age. - -Accordingly, when quiet, careful Jackson came in answer to his master's -summons, her host impatiently motioned Lady Wantley to precede him up -the narrow stairs which connected the garden room with the octagon -library, where Mr. Gumberg always received his friends in winter and in -spring, and which appeared better suited to the receiving of confidences -and the giving of advice than did the room below. - -Once there--once, as it were, settled against his own familiar -background, leaning back in his leather armchair, his man dismissed, his -visitor seated opposite him in the pretty, comfortable chair always -drawn forward when the old man was honoured by the visit of a fair -friend--Mr. Gumberg felt rewarded for the late stripping of himself of -personal dignity, for he perceived, by certain infallible signs, that -now she would tell him all that was in her mind. - -With scarce any preamble, Lady Wantley plunged into the middle of her -story. In disconnected, but clearly worded, phrases, she told of her -more than suspicion, of her certainty, of the coming peril. But, whereas -she spoke of Downing by name, describing his action with a Biblical -plainness of language which startled her old friend, she concealed the -name of the woman in the case, beseeching Mr. Gumberg's intervention and -advice on behalf 'of one known to you, but whose name I beg you not to -inquire or try to discover.' - -It was with eager, painful interest and growing excitement that the old -man, his hand held shell-like to his ear, heard in silence the story she -had come to tell. She had not spoken many words, and had used but little -of the innocent craft to which she was so unaccustomed, before Mr. -Julius Gumberg knew only too well the name of the woman for whom Lady -Wantley was entreating his advice and help. - -At last, when she had said all there was to say, she looked at her old -friend dumbly, appealingly; and it was rather in answer to that look -than to any word uttered by her that he said: - -'Were you anyone else, I would respect your wish to conceal this lady's -name. Nay, more: were she other than who she is, you should leave me -to-day believing that you had been successful in hiding from me the name -of your friend. But, Lady Wantley, I care for you.' He paused, then -feelingly added: 'I have cared for you all, too well, during nearly the -whole of my life, to tolerate this fiction. What you have come to tell -me is indeed news, and painful news, to me, but Sir George Downing -himself told me, during the few days he was here, that he was acquainted -with Penelope, and that he had met her abroad this spring.' - -And having thus cleared the decks for action, he remained silent for a -few moments, his domed head sunk on his breast, thinking deeply. - -George Downing and Penelope Wantley? Amazing, incredible, and most -sinister conjunction! Why, the affair must have been going on--nay, the -coming catastrophe, this mad scheme of going away together to form a -permanent alliance, 'offensive and defensive' (the old man would have -chuckled but for the poignant wretchedness of the face now hidden in -Lady Wantley's hands) must have been hatching--when Downing was with him -here, in St. James's Place! - -He cast his mind back; he tried to remember a conversation held in this -very room only two or three weeks ago. But Mr. Gumberg had come to a -time of life when it is more easy to recall conversations of half a -century old than words uttered yesterday. - -He had indeed been blind, 'amazing blind, and stoopid, stoopid, -stoopid!' so he exclaimed to himself, vexed that no suspicion of the -truth should have crossed his mind while Downing had been asking him -those eager, insistent questions concerning Mrs. Robinson and the -Wantley family. - -And now? Well, now that the house was well alight they came and asked -him, Mr. Gumberg, how to extinguish the flames. This was not the first -time--no, not by many--that the old man had been required to lend his -aid in such a case, and, as a rule, he always advised that the fire be -left to burn itself out. The counsellor's long experience had taught him -that such flames always did burn out if left severely alone--if no fuel, -in the shape of lamentations and good advice, were added by the -incautious. - -But this matter of Downing and Mrs. Robinson was more complicated than -most. Pursuing his favourite metaphor, the old man said to himself that -here was no flimsy thatch of straw which, when the embers were cold, -could be restored, patched up again, on the old walls. Rather was -Penelope like to one of those old-world frigates, proudly riding the -sea, all afire and aglow, a wonderful sight to those safe on shore, but -of whose splendour there would remain nothing but a shapeless, -indescribable hulk, when all she bore had been burnt to the water's -edge. - -Sitting there, turning about in his still agile mind the story, as just -told him in bare outline, he reminded himself that Mrs. Robinson, though -a powerful, wilful creature, was not the stuff out of which have been -fashioned the great, steadfast lovers of the world. - -'Why, if all were well--if she became the man's wife ten times over--she -would never be content to spend her whole life in Teheran!' he muttered; -and then more loudly: 'No, no; we must find a way out!' - -One question he longed to ask of Lady Wantley, for he felt that on the -true answer much depended that would modify his judgment, and guide his -opinion, as to what the immediate future must bring. But Mr. Gumberg was -old-fashioned; his code as to what could, or rather what could not, be -said to a lady was strict and meagre. Accordingly, he felt it -impossible to put to this revered and trustful friend the question he -longed to utter. Still, there might be a way round. He asked abruptly: -'How much of the six months--I don't think it was more--did Penelope -actually spend at the Settlement? I mean, of course, between her -wedding-day and poor young Robinson's death?' - -Lady Wantley hesitated. She cast her mind back, then answered -reluctantly: 'She was often away during the four months--it was only -four months. But, then, that was utterly different.' A faint colour came -into the mother's pale cheeks. 'Penelope did not care for poor -Melancthon as she seems to care, now----' - -'I know! I know!' The four words were snarled out rather than spoken. -'Nun and monk, that was the notion! No doubt you're right: there was -nothing to keep her there, after all!' - -He was so concerned with the problem filling both their minds for the -moment he forgot his usual punctiliousness of speech, but to Lady -Wantley there came a certain fierce comfort from his amazing frankness. -She felt that he knew, that he understood, the unusual difficulty of the -case, and in answer to his next words, 'I had actually forgotten all -that for the moment, but of course it complicates matters devilishly!' -she nodded her head twice in assent. - -'You see them together,' he went on abruptly. 'Does she seem'--sought -for a word, weighed one or two, rejected them, and finally chose -'bewitched?' - -And then--but this time so much to himself that his listener heard no -word of it--he added: 'Lucky George! Eh? Lucky George!' - -Lady Wantley bent forward. Her grey eyes shone with excitement and -anger. 'Yes, bewitched--that's the right word! Sir George Downing has -bewitched my poor unhappy child. One who was there, our old nurse--you -remember Mrs. Mote?--declares that she altered completely from the -moment they first met. Why, she hasn't known him three months, and yet -he's persuaded her to contemplate this thing--this going with him----' - -She stopped speaking abruptly, choked with the horror of the thought, -and then slowly added: 'I know--at least, I think I know--that you do -not believe, as I believe, in the active, all-devouring power of the -Evil One.' Her voice sank, but Mr. Gumberg caught the muttered words, -'Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring -lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.' - -Mr. Gumberg smiled a queer little enigmatical smile. 'The old nurse was -there, you say? She never left her mistress, eh?' He waited, and looked -hard at Lady Wantley. But no gleam of comprehension of his meaning came -into her worn eyes. 'What does she think? what does the old nurse say to -it all?' - -Again Lady Wantley covered her face with her hands. 'She's known it all -longer than I have. She's in agony--agony, for she feels surer every day -that the child means to go away with him--soon--at once--if we cannot -devise some means of stopping them.' - -'I take it that you have said nothing to your daughter--to Penelope--as -yet?' - -Lady Wantley raised her head, and he saw for a moment her convulsed, -disfigured features. 'No, I have said nothing. I cannot speak to her on -such a matter as this. Besides, she would not tolerate it. But you, dear -friend----' - -She suddenly rose from her chair, a tall, imposing figure, then moved -closer to him, and looked imploringly down into the wrinkled, impassive -face. 'I have thought that you, perhaps, would consent to speak to Sir -George Downing? I know it is asking much of your old friendship for us.' - -Mr. Gumberg coughed. He moved uneasily in his chair. 'In such a -matter,' he began, 'one man can scarcely interfere with another man's -business. Supposing I do as you wish, can we expect Downing to draw back -now, if she--Penelope--has made up her mind to go on? Would you have him -put on her so mortal an affront?' - -Lady Wantley only looked at him bewildered. Such sophistry was not for -her. - -'But from the point of view of Sir George Downing's own life and -career,' she said falteringly, 'I understand--indeed, Penelope herself -has told me--that the one object of his life for many years past has -been to rehabilitate himself. Could you not point out to him how greatly -this would injure him with those whose good opinion he wishes to retain? -Think of what all my husband's old friends and colleagues will feel;' -and he saw that her hands were trembling. - -Mr. Gumberg looked at Lady Wantley consideringly. He was surprised that -she had brought herself to think over the matter from so practical a -point of view. She had again sat down, and was gazing at him in a -collected, earnest manner. - -'He has weighed all that, depend upon it,' he said shortly. 'No, no! -with such a man as George Downing one must appeal to something higher -than self-interest. We must realize--it's no use blinking the fact--that -we are now dealing, or attempting to deal, with a feeling none the less -strong because you and I happen to have no sympathy with it--or perhaps -I should say, as regards myself, have outlived it.' - -He waited a moment, then concluded deliberately: - -'In your place, Lady Wantley, I should make a personal appeal to -Downing. Choose a time when Penelope is out of the way, and tell him the -truth--that he does not know her as you know her, and that, even putting -aside other and more obvious reasons which should make him pause, you -are sure that she would not be happy in the life he has to offer her. -Lastly, and most urgently, appeal to him for time. Time,' repeated the -old man, with a certain solemnity--'time smooths out many crooked -things. But why should I try and prompt you? You will know what to say -better than I could tell you. And Downing, take my word for it, is not -the man to seize an unfair advantage. Ask him to go away, alone, to give -her more time for consideration. Such a serious business as they -apparently both regard it--and most creditable it is to both of them -that they should do so,' he added in a half-aside--'should not be -settled in a hurry. Why, a few weeks ago each didn't know the other -lived, and now nothing short will content them but the spending of their -whole lives together! Though I have but little belief in its being of -any use, I will comply with your request that I should write to him. As -to what I say when I do write, you must leave that to me; but be sure -that I will do my best.' - -'You will write to him? Oh, how can I thank you adequately, my -friend--my good friend!' - -Lady Wantley's eyes filled with grateful tears, and a stifling weight -seemed lifted from her heart. She felt that she had accomplished that -which she had come to do, and she paid no heed to the admonition, 'Don't -count too much on my influence with Downing.' - -They both stood up, Mr. Gumberg leaning his left hand on his stick, -while the other clasped hers in kindly, mute farewell. - -'Do you remember,' she asked, rather shyly, 'your first visit to -Oglethorpe, when I was a little girl? My mother, my dear, dear mother, -was so interested in you. I remember she said you were such a -well-behaved and intelligent youth. Of course, I know you came again -when we were both older, but when I see you I always think of our first -meeting. I saw no young folk at all in those years.' - -'No,' said Mr. Gumberg, a little stiffly, 'I have forgotten nothing. -Your parents, both then and later, were very kind to me, and I have -always felt grateful for my reception at Oglethorpe.' He hesitated a -moment, and then added, with an odd little old-fashioned bow over the -hand he still held: 'And also for that in later days, at Monk's Eype and -at Marston Lydiate.' - -'Ah yes,' she said, 'I know how sincere a friendship my husband felt for -you. But, as I said just now, I myself prefer to associate you in my own -mind with my own home--with my dear father and mother.' - - -When Lady Wantley had left him, and after the house had settled down -again into its usual summer stillness and silence, Mr. Gumberg, acting -on a sudden impulse, did that which he lived to regret--though only, it -must be admitted, when in a cynical mood--to the end of his life. Slowly -he made his way to the mahogany cupboard where he kept some of his -choicest treasures, including the rarer of his unframed prints. From -there he extracted a small portfolio, and returning to his armchair, he -propped it up on the sloping desk at his elbow. For a few moments his -fingers fumbled with the green silk strings, and he turned over the -contents with eager hands. - -'The Lady and her Pack.' Mr. Gumberg peered musingly at the curious -rudely-coloured design. He wondered half suspiciously whether it was -only his fancy that detected a certain similarity between the -horsewoman, sitting so squarely and so gallantly on her huge roan, and -the lady who had just left him. Both figures--that of Rosina Bellamont -and that of Lady Wantley--had about them a certain dauntlessness, a look -of high courage. - -Mr. Gumberg hastily turned the little print about. He took up a -magnifying-glass, and carefully read through the notes with which the -reverse side was covered, and which, in addition to names and dates, -gave a number of more intimate particulars concerning the various -human-faced hounds composing the pack. - -Then, with a certain deliberateness, he lighted the little red taper -with the help of which he always sealed his letters, and, holding what -had been the most valued of his minor treasures over the flame, Mr. -Gumberg watched it vanish into the flickering air above the taper. But -during the rest of that afternoon and evening his eyes often turned -towards the little tear-bottle, brought to him by a friend from Rome, -where he had carefully placed the pinch of brown ash which was all that -now remained of 'The Lady and her Pack.' - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - 'Ah, dear, but come them back to me! - Whatever change the days have wrought, - I find not yet one lonely thought - That cries against my wish for thee.' - - -I - -There are moments in the life of almost every human being when the sands -seem to be running out, when even the most careless, the least -scrupulous, feels a pang at the thought of all that has been left -undone, and, even more, of all that must be left unfinished and -incomplete. If the knowledge comes in the shape of a positive warning -that death is at hand, and will have to be faced in three months, in six -months, in a year, then the wise man sets his house in order as best he -can, and leaves the rest to God, or to that ordered chance in which so -many now believe as a substitute for Divine Providence. But when, as -perhaps more often happens in this strange, complicated world, a human -being has deliberately so set the hour-glass of his life that the sands -run out far more quickly than they were ever meant to do, and when the -last grain will bring, not death, but some astounding change in life, -dividing the what has been from the what will be more painfully than -would death itself; then the sense of responsibility, maybe the simple -fear of what may befall, is apt to make even the strongest nature quake. - -Penelope had come to such a moment. She had so set her hour-glass that -now the sands were running out with what appeared to be relentless -haste, while the time left to her was beginning to seem so short, and -the things to be done in that same short time so many. She did not -waver, or rather she was not aware that, had it been possible, she would -perhaps have wavered. Instead, she was only conscious of a desire to -hasten on--to see everything cleared out of her way. One matter which -had never before troubled her now gave her much anxious thought--she -longed to retain, as far as might be possible, the good opinion of the -few people who really loved her. - -And so it was with a mind deeply troubled that she stood waiting for -Winfrith, not in the studio, where every time she entered it everything -reminded her more and more of the life she was leaving, but in the high, -narrow room which corresponded on the ground-floor to Mrs. Mote's -bedroom above, and where still remained traces of the time when it had -been the study of Penelope's father--in a very real sense a workroom, -for there a great worker had spent many solitary hours. - -On the ugly, substantial writing-table, so placed that the writer -commanded the whole of the wonderful view of the terraced gardens, the -irregular cliff-line, and the broad seas spread out below, Mrs. Robinson -had placed a number of documents tied up with red tape, also two small -black despatch-boxes, each stamped with the initials M. W. R. These -preparations for what she intended should be a short business interview -gave her courage. As she waited, nervously conscious that Winfrith was -now, what he so rarely was, a few minutes late, she turned and walked up -and down the narrow room, longing for the door to open and let him in, -longing even more for the moment when it should open and let him out. - - -At last the man she waited for came in smiling. One of those instincts -which tell only a half-truth made him aware that the news he brought -would greatly gratify her. 'Sir George Downing has won all along the -line,' he said boyishly, while shaking hands. 'We are going to send him -the man he wants. He ought to be very much obliged to you.' He added, -with the touch of condescension which--from him to her--always teased -and yet always touched Penelope, 'The great man owes you far more than -he knows. How odd that he should have met you, and so have come across -me! He is even more worth meeting than I had expected,' he concluded -hesitatingly. 'I wonder why there is still so strong a prejudice against -him.' - -'Give a dog a bad name,' she said indifferently, and then turned the key -in the lock of the door. Penelope had inherited from her methodical -father an impatience of interruption. 'Sit down here at the table,' she -commanded, 'and now let us put aside Sir George Downing and his affairs, -for just now I am more interested in my own. Do you remember the exact -terms of the deed--I know you have seen it--in which were arranged all -the money matters connected with the Settlement?' - -'Yes,' he answered at once, 'I remember the terms quite well. The -buildings are left in trust, and my father is one of the trustees; but -the income remains entirely in your hands. You could withdraw all -supplies to-morrow, or, to put it in another way, you could spend all -your income, and so have to pay the claims of the Settlement out of -capital. I always thought it a very bad arrangement.' He spoke with a -certain sharpness, as if the discussion were distasteful to him. - -Penelope looked up with some anger, and 'My husband trusted me -absolutely,' she said rather proudly. - -The man sitting opposite to her reddened darkly. He always disliked to -hear Penelope mention Melancthon Robinson; the slightest allusion to the -founder of the Settlement, when made by her, roused a violent primeval -instinct, which insisted on recognition of his own original claim to the -beautiful, elusive creature with whom his relations had now been for so -long lacking in sincerity. 'That's nonsense,' he said harshly. 'He had -no right to do such a thing with a girl of two-and-twenty.' - -'One-and-twenty,' she corrected quickly. - -He went on, avoiding her eyes, but his voice lowering, losing its -harshness, in spite of himself. 'It was a most unfair responsibility to -put upon you. However intelligent and businesslike,' he added, 'however -trusted and worthy of trust----' - -It was Penelope's turn to redden. 'I do not say I was, or am, worthy of -such a trust,' she said rather coldly. 'You know, or perhaps you have -forgotten, that I thought my cousin would help me. He refused, and it -was because you, David, were so good to me then'--Penelope leant -forward; she put her hand, her slender, ringless left hand, on his -sleeve for a moment, and the blue eyes which met his in quick appeal -seemed darker, softer than usual--'because you have always been good to -me, that I now ask your advice. It is for the last time----' - -Winfrith suddenly focussed his mind into close attention. Very slowly, -hardly conscious of what he was doing, he moved the chair on which he -was sitting further away from hers, and set a guard on his face. - -There had been a time, shortly after the renewal of their intimacy, when -David Winfrith had schooled himself, with what he thought was easy -philosophy, to hear the announcement of Penelope's remarriage. But -curiously soon, and Mrs. Robinson had watched with mischievous interest -the different workings of his mind, the young man had seen reason to -assure himself that his new-found friend would do wisely to remain free -as himself from all sentimental entanglements, while yet always able to -benefit by his superior masculine sense and knowledge, both of the world -and of affairs. - -Soon also he had come to fear for her, and this quite honestly, the -fortune-hunters with whom he felt rather than knew her to be, in those -early days, encompassed. A word denying any intention of remarriage--and -it was a word which Penelope, at that time of her life and even for long -after, could have uttered with all sincerity--would have made Winfrith -easy in his mind; but the word was never uttered. Mrs. Robinson had had -no desire to let the nearest, in a sense the dearest, and in any case -the most faithful and trustworthy of her mentors, feel too great a sense -of security. - -And so their strange relationship had remained, and that over years, a -source of pleasant confidence and sentimental amusement to the woman, of -subtle charm and ever-recurring interest to the man. - -When he turned restive, as sometimes though rarely happened, Penelope -dealt out the rope with no niggard hand, or, better still, provoked -something tantamount to a quarrel, followed in due course by the -inevitable healing reconciliation. - -But not even his interest in Mrs. Robinson's affairs--for so he -described, even to himself, the feeling which dominated him--had ever -caused Winfrith to neglect his own work, or the public business with -which he was concerned; and this divided allegiance, as he sometimes -suspected, caused her more real annoyance than his frequent and frank -criticisms of her actions, and his tacit refusal to join in the pretty -flatteries of her other friends. As Penelope had learnt with anger, -there were times and seasons when even the most imperious note, the most -urgent appeal, could not bring him to her side. But while this state of -things had irked her greatly, especially in the early days of the -renewal of their friendship, she had always been aware that any ordinary -pleasure or personal concern was always flung aside, counted as nothing -to the delight of being with her and of acting as her confidential -adviser and friend. - -To-day, while looking into his plain face, aware of the sternness of the -strong jaw, the ugly peculiarity of an exceptionally long upper lip, -Penelope's heart contracted with sudden tenderness as she evoked the -memory of the long years during which they had known one another with so -deep, so wordless, an intimacy. - -For a moment there was silence between them. Then he said, rather -sharply: 'Well, what is it you want me to do? Of course I will give you -the best advice in my power, and not, I hope, for the last time.' - -As he spoke he stood up and placed himself with his back to the window, -and for a moment Penelope saw the heavy, broad-shouldered figure -outlined against the sea and sky, his face--and this vaguely relieved -her--being in complete shadow. But she turned away, looked straight -before her as she said quickly, her voice full of defiant decision: -'Yes, I want to ask your advice, and more, to beg you to help me about a -certain matter.' She paused, and added: 'I have made some notes on a -piece of paper. I think I laid it down before you came in.' - -Winfrith wheeled round, and looked at the table against which he had -been leaning. On coming into the room he had paid no attention to -Penelope's preparations for their interview, but now, as he became aware -of the odd little bundles of lawyer's letters, each tied together with -tape, and of the despatch-boxes, inscribed with the initials M. W. R., -he felt amused, and even a little touched. 'These look quite old -papers,' he said kindly. 'Perhaps you forgot to bring your notes in here -with you, or--wait a moment--what is that you are holding in your hand?' - -She frowned with annoyance. 'How stupid I am!' But the little episode -relieved the tension between them; and, as a child might have done to a -play-fellow, she suddenly put out her hand, and, taking his, pulled him -down beside her on the long, low, leather-covered couch. 'I want to -speak to you about a really serious business, and I know--at least, I am -afraid--that you will disapprove of what I want to do, and that you may -try and make me alter my mind.' - -She spoke nervously, with a new, a gentler, note in her voice. A blessed -peace stole into Winfrith's heart; he chased the dread which had for the -moment possessed him, and it was in his usual tone, with his usual -half-bantering manner, that he asked the reproachful question, 'Why did -you say that--I mean, as to this being the last time? Surely I have not -deserved that you should say such things to me!' - -'No, indeed--indeed you have not!' And the hurried humility with which -she spoke might well have re-awakened his premonition of coming pain and -parting. 'But you will soon understand what I meant, when I have -explained everything.' - -Again there was silence between them; but Winfrith, her last words -sounding in his ears, feeling her dear nearness, though he had moved -somewhat away from where she had placed him, was in no haste to hear her -confidences. Secretly he pledged himself not to scold her--indeed, to -listen patiently, and to help her, however unpractical and foolish the -scheme for which she sought his help. - -At last Penelope, paler than her wont, her voice tremulous, lacking its -usual hard, bell-like quality of tone, spoke, and to some purpose: 'I -have made up my mind to do what you have always wished--that is, to -endow the Settlement. Though what you said just now about my husband and -his arrangements made me angry, I know it was true. He ought not to have -left me such power.' - -Winfrith felt relieved but bewildered, and straightway he blundered. -'Certainly something of the kind ought to have been done long ago, but -you always opposed it. You----' - -'I suppose I have the right to change my mind, to be guided by -circumstances? Besides, I am tired, utterly tired, of the responsibility -as well as of the Settlement.' She looked at him fixedly for a moment. -'I know what you would like to say; that I have had nothing to do with -it, in a real sense, for many years past. But that is false; no day goes -by without my receiving some tiresome letter or letters. Whenever any of -the "Settlers"'--Winfrith had never before heard her use the -contemptuous term--'fall out, and they are always falling out----' - -'That at least is untrue,' he interrupted. - -'Yes, they do--they do! And when they do, then they write to me to patch -up the quarrel!' - -She paused, then went on in a more measured voice: 'And there are other -things! How would you like it if, when acting the part of a traitor to -your party, you were always being praised for your loyalty? _I_ am a -traitor to all that the Settlement represents. I hate--no, I do not -hate, I despise--the wretched human beings to whom poor Melancthon gave -up his life. I don't think they are worth the trouble expended on them. -When I come into personal contact with them, of course I am sorry, so I -am for the ants when Brown Bess puts her foot on an ant-hill! And to -you, David, I have never pretended otherwise. Of course I recognise that -in so feeling I am almost alone. Some of the people I have most cared -for, my father'--she hesitated and added more gently--'you yourself, -feel quite otherwise.' - -Then breaking off short, she glanced down at the paper she held in her -hand, and Winfrith saw with some surprise that it was covered with -neatly pencilled notes. 'But, after all, I own no apology for what I -feel to any human being, and so now let us consider the practical side -of the matter. Apart from the question of the endowment, I wish -arrangements to be made by which Cecily Wake can carry out her -experiment--I mean her co-operative cheap food idea.' - -Winfrith bit his lip. This, then, was the new scheme? He had never liked -Cecily Wake; perhaps--but of this, of course, he was totally unaware--he -was irritated by the girl's enthusiastic affection for Penelope, so much -more unobtrusive and sincere than that of some of those whom he also -unconsciously regarded as his rivals. Then, again, Cecily, like himself, -had the power, in spite of her youth, in spite even of a certain -childishness of which the bloom had not been rubbed off in the two years -spent by her in working at the Settlement, of obtaining her own way, and -of imposing her own point of view on others. Finally, he had the average -Englishman's distrust of Roman Catholicism, and naturally suspected the -motives of a convent-bred girl. - -As to the proposed scheme, it was in some ways childish, in others -revolutionary. In her dreams Cecily Wake had seen the squalid -neighbourhoods about the Settlement each rejoicing in its own huge cheap -and pure food emporium. To Winfrith the idea was little less than -absurd, and to be, from every point of view, deprecated and discouraged; -so he now nerved himself, without any great difficulty, to opposition. - -'Miss Wake's scheme, from what I can make of it,' he said coldly, 'would -not only require the outlay of a considerable amount of capital, but, -what is more serious, could not but disorganize local trade.' - -Penelope frowned. 'I know, I know! You've said all that to me before. As -to the money required, of course there will be plenty of money. You have -never liked Cecily; but still, even you must admit that she has done -very well, and, after all, both Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret agree -that something of the kind she suggests is badly needed. I remember that -I myself, in old days, always considered that we thought far too much of -our proteges' minds and morals, and far too little of their bodies; and -I know I heartily sympathized with the poor wretches who, when they -discovered that there were to be no more doles, broke all the windows of -good Mr. B.' - -Winfrith vehemently disagreed, but it was an old quarrel between them, -and he refused to be drawn. - -'To return to the main question,' he said quietly, 'it seems to me to be -entirely one of money. If you endow the Settlement, as I understand you -mean to do--that is, adequately--your own income will be greatly -lowered, and even so large, so immense a fortune as that left you by -your husband'--he brought out the word with a gulp--'will be seriously -affected. You know sometimes, as it is, you have not found matters very -easy.' - -He hesitated, for here he felt on delicate ground. The way in which -this, to him, dearest of women, dowered with apparently such simple -personal tastes, so over-spent her large income as to find it difficult -sometimes to meet the claims of the Settlement, had been to him for -years a matter of profound astonishment. - -'Well, I shall have to manage better in future.' She sighed a little -wearily. 'As you said just now the money was really left to me in -trust;' and, when Winfrith made a gesture of negation, she said, 'Well, -most of it was.' And then, with complete change of tone, she said -slowly, 'And now I intend to be shut of it all.' - -As he looked at her, perplexed, she added: 'You don't know the -expression? Ah well, if you had ever lived at the Settlement, even for a -short time, you would be quite familiar with it, for there women are -always longing to be "shut" of things--principally, of course, of their -husbands and babies. But seriously, David, what I want you to tell me -and to help me to do concerns the practical side of this great -renouncement.' - -There had come again into her voice, during the last few moments, the -satirical ring he dreaded and disliked. 'We will take all your -remonstrances and reproaches as said'--she softened the discourtesy of -her words by the touch for a moment of her hand on his arm. 'And I want -it all done at once--within the next few weeks.' - -Winfrith smiled, not unkindly. 'So I should suppose,' he said quietly; -'but of course that will be quite impossible.' - -'But you have often helped me to get things done quickly,' she cried -urgently, 'and it really is most important that these changes and new -arrangements should be made now, as soon as possible.' - -Winfrith laughed outright. He wondered for a moment, with a certain -complacency, whether any man, however foolish and lacking in knowledge -of business, could be found to propose so absurd a thing as this clever, -and sometimes so shrewd, woman had done. - -'Why all this haste?' he asked good-humouredly. 'I'll tell you what we -had better do; I will draft a letter, for you to copy, to your lawyers. -In this letter we will explain that you wish the arrangements -concerning the Settlement, embodied, I believe, in your will, to be -carried out now, in your lifetime; further, you will tell them prettily, -in your own words, that you wish the whole thing settled as soon as -possible. They will then go into the whole matter, and let you know what -can be done, and how long it will take to do it.' - -He waited a moment, then continued: 'Now about Miss Wake's scheme. I -should suggest its being tried at first on a small scale. I understand -she has reduced her demands'--he could not keep his prejudice against -Penelope's young friend out of his voice--'to what she calls "a pure -milk depot." Some time ago I did consult a doctor I know on that point, -and I admit he thought it a good idea. This portion of her scheme need -not cost a great deal of money, and though, of course, it will put all -the milkmen against you, as you personally won't be there when their -boys come and break the windows of the Settlement, I don't know that -that much matters!' - -He waited for her answer. These discussions, which had at intervals -taken place for many years past between Mrs. Robinson and himself always -amused him and bored her, the more so that, after a spirited struggle on -her part, he generally got his own way. - -But to-day Penelope was not in fighting trim. 'You don't understand,' -she said at length, and in a voice so low that he had to bend forward to -hear her words. 'This is only a part of what I want you to do for me. -You referred just now to my will. Supposing that I died suddenly--that I -was killed out riding, for instance; you, as my executor, would have to -see to almost everything, to undertake almost all the arrangements I -want you to get done for me now, during the next few weeks.' - -Winfrith turned and looked at her keenly. She met his gaze -unflinchingly; but the colour had gone from her face, the proud mouth, -which he had once kissed so often, and which he had once refused to -kiss (did Penelope ever remember, too? he wondered; he never forgot) was -trembling, and her eyes met his in questioning, shrinking distress at -the pain she felt herself about to inflict. - -And then suddenly he realized, with a feeling of sharp revolt and -anguish, that that which he had sometimes thought of as being possible, -but which during recent years had gone into the background of his -mind--for he was a much-occupied as well as an unimaginative man--had -come upon him. He saw that he was going to lose her, that their old -relationship was even now severed, and that this was in very truth her -last and supreme call on him for help. - -But there was no perceptible change in his voice, as he said very -quietly: 'Please read me your notes: then I shall understand more -clearly what you want done; and once I understand, I will do all in my -power to see that your wishes are carried out.' - -She bowed her head, and Winfrith listened with dismay and increasing -astonishment as Mrs. Robinson explained the scheme, evidently well and -carefully thought out, by which she proposed to renounce and distribute -the whole of the immense fortune which had been left to her by -Melancthon Robinson. - -As she spoke, as she read on from her notes, her voice regained -something of its sureness of accent; and glancing frequently at the -paper she held in her hand, she elaborated the various points, showing -more real knowledge of the problems which confront the modern -philanthropist than Winfrith would have thought possible. - -Then came the sudden, the agonizing, conviction that in this matter -Penelope had been helped by some other and more practical mind than her -own; and, as this fact became clear, he set his teeth, and forced -himself to remember that the man, whoever he might be, who had inspired -this great renunciation could be no fortune-hunter. - -'Of course, you can guess,' she said at last--for his silence made her -uneasy--'why I am doing all this. I have as yet told nobody; but my life -henceforth will be spent abroad, and'--again she hesitated -painfully--'the person whose wishes I am now bound to consult absolutely -agrees with me, and approves of what I am going to do about Melancthon's -money.' - -He brushed aside her last words, and brought himself to consider her -material interests, and so, 'You realize what all this means?' he said -at length. 'If these arrangements are carried out, your income, in the -sense you now understand the word, will be wholly absorbed--gone.' - -'I am retaining everything my father left to me, with the exception of -this place,' she said quickly. - -'With the exception of this place?' he repeated with dismay. 'Do you, -then, mean to sell Monk's Eype?' - -'No, no! how could you think of such a thing?' A tone of profound -dejection crept into her voice. 'What I mean is that, before going away, -I intend to hand Monk's Eype over to Ludovic. He was not fairly treated -by my father; but, even as it is with him, he could afford to keep up -the villa and the gardens as they should be kept up, and I am sure he -will always make my mother welcome, should she care to come here from -time to time.' - -The accent of pain in her voice again stung Winfrith into protest. 'Are -you sure that you are acting wisely? Of course, I know that it is none -of my business.' And as she made a quick dissenting gesture: 'If it -is--if you will allow it to be my business, then let me say that in this -matter of your fortune you are about to take a great risk, and one which -you might bitterly regret later on,' he added deliberately, 'and for -which you might in time be reproached.' - -But as he uttered these last words a sudden change came over Penelope's -face. Winfrith had evoked another, a more intimate--ay, and a more -eloquent--presence, and as she answered, 'Ah no! I need never be afraid -of that,' a strange radiance came over her face, softening the severity -of the lines, veiling the brightness of her blue eyes. - -Winfrith rose quickly from where he was sitting; he felt an impulse to -wound, to strike, and then to flee. 'Men alter,' he said--'men and -women, too. You and I----' Then he drove out the jealous devil which had -possessed him for a moment, and asked: 'Well, I suppose that is all you -wanted to see me about for the present? If you will give me your notes I -will go into the matter; and if, as I understand, your marriage is to -take place very soon abroad'--he waited for a moment, but there came no -word of assent--'that will, of course, be a sufficient reason for -pushing on everything as quickly as possible.' - -He added, with an air of studied indifference: 'May I ask how long you -wish your engagement to be kept secret? Do you, for instance, object to -my father being told?' - -Then he looked down at her, and what he saw roused every generous -instinct, banished unworthy jealousy, and even dulled his bitterness. -When had he last seen Penelope weeping? Years and years before, on the -day of their parting, when they were still boy and girl lovers. But then -her tears had come freely, like those of a child distressed; now no -sound came from the bowed figure save long, shuddering sobs. Again he -sat down by her. 'My dear,' he said, deeply troubled, 'what is it? What -can I do for you?' - -'You were so unkind,' she whispered, and he saw that she was trembling, -'you were going away--so coldly.' Then, almost inaudibly, she added: 'I -did not think you would care so much.' - -She unclasped the hands in which her face had been hidden, and held them -out to him. For a moment he took them in his, crushed the fingers wet -with tears, and then let them go. 'Of course I care,' he said at length. -'You would not have me not care. We have been friends so long, you and -I.' He stopped abruptly; the memory of many meetings, of many partings, -became vivid and intolerable. - -They both stood up, and again he made an effort over himself. Once more -he took her hands in his, and held them tightly, as he said: 'But you -must not distress yourself about me; men have worse things to bear. -Think of what happened to my father.' And his voice shook for the first -time. Never before, not even as a boy, had Penelope heard him allude to -his parents' tragic story. And now this word, meant to comfort her, and -perhaps himself, cut her to the heart. Soon he would learn, only too -surely, the ironic parity which was to lie between his own and his -father's fate. - -For a moment she shrank back, then moved swiftly nearer to him; and it -was with her arms about his neck, her face looking up into his, that he -heard the eager tremulous words: 'David, before you go I want to say -something--to tell you, so that you may remember afterwards when I am -gone, that till now there has never been anyone else--never, -never--anyone but you!' Her head sank on his breast as she added slowly, -almost reluctantly: 'Things were not as you, perhaps, think they were -between poor Melancthon and myself. We agreed before our marriage that -it was only to be a partnership.' As she felt his arms tighten round -her, she again lifted her face, and asked: 'Are you shocked? Do you -think it was wrong? Motey (no one else ever guessed) thought it very -wicked.' - -'Then you were--you have always been mine!' he cried; and, as she shrank -back, he holding her fast to him, 'Tell me,' he asked, 'should I have -had a chance, another chance, during all those years?' He added, perhaps -guided by some subtle instinct of which he was ashamed, for as he spoke -Penelope felt him relaxing the strong grip of the arms which had held -her so closely, 'Is there any chance--now?' - -She shook her head. Through a blistering veil she saw the set grey face -of the man who had loved her so well and long, and for whom she also had -cared, if less well, quite as long. 'You had your chance, such as it -was, at first,' she said, 'when we were both so young, when I was -foolish and you were so wise.' His face contracted at the sad irony in -her voice. 'I know now, I even knew then, that my father forced you to -act as you did; but I was angered, disappointed, with you and in you. I -had thought--I think even Motey expected--that you would have wanted to -run away with me. Gretna Green seemed a very real place in those days.' -She smiled dolorously. 'If you had been a little stronger or a little -weaker, perhaps even a little less reasonable, I should have run away -with you, for at that time--ah, David, I was in love with Love, and you -were Love.' - -'Then I only once forfeited my chance?' he again asked urgently. 'During -all these past years it never came again?' - -For a moment Penelope hesitated; then, as she lied, she again pressed -closer to him, and again the tears ran down her cheeks. 'It never came -again,' she repeated. 'But you know, you will always remember when I am -gone, that you were the only one, the only one.' - -'Is that quite true?' he asked slowly. - -'Absolutely true.' She spoke eagerly, defending the truth as she had not -been called upon to defend the lie. 'We have had our happy years, -David--your years, my dear. You always seemed quite content----' - -'Did I?' he said bitterly. 'Ah well, now comes the turn of the other -man!' - -Penelope started back, wounded and ashamed. She put her hand over her -eyes. For a moment they both felt an intangible, but none the less -reproachful, presence between them. - -'I beg your pardon,' he said hurriedly. 'I should not have said that. -Forgive me.' - -'It was my fault,' she answered coldly. 'I brought it on myself--I know -you had great provocation.' - -There was a painful moment of silence. 'I think I must leave you now,' -she said at length, 'I will write to you to-morrow. I do not think our -meeting again would be of any use. We should both say'--her voice -quivered--'and perhaps do, things we should regret later.' She held out -her hand, her head still averted, wishing her anger, her disappointment, -with Winfrith to endure. - -But suddenly he drew her again, this time resisting, into his arms. 'We -can't part like this,' he whispered urgently. 'Forgive the brutish thing -I said! I promise I will never so offend again--I swear I will respect -him--the man you love, I mean.' To keep her another moment in his arms -he abased himself yet further. 'You must not be afraid that I shall -quarrel with your choice. Surely we can remain friends--he shall have no -reason to be jealous of me.' - -But punishment came swift and sure. Again he felt her shrink from him, -again he felt another presence between them, and the jealous devil, so -lately laid, once more took possession of his soul. - -He thrust her away. 'I had better go now,' he said hoarsely. 'It's no -use. You were right: we had better not meet again.' - -And as Penelope, swept with infinite distress, compelled, mastered, by -impulses the source of which was wholly hidden from herself, came once -more near to him, again took his hand in hers, looked up mutely into -his face, he said roughly, 'No, no! keep your kisses for the other man; -I will not rob him any more!' and, fumbling for a moment with the key in -the lock, was gone. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - 'For a pinte of honey thou shalt here likely find a gallon of gaul, - for a dram of pleasure a pound of pain, for an inch of mirth an ell - of mone: as Ivie doth an oke, these miseries encompass our life.' - - -I - -After her return from Kingpole Farm that night of stress and storm, -Penelope felt strangely, terribly forlorn. Those about her seemed -changed. She gradually became aware that she was being watched, -considered anxiously, by her mother, by Wantley, even by Miss Wake. -Cecily alone among them seemed as she had always been, but even she, or -so Mrs. Robinson suspected, had gone through some experience which she -was keeping secret from the woman who knew herself so well and loyally -loved by her. - -As the time grew near when Miss Wake and her niece were to go back to -town, leaving Penelope alone with her mother and with her cousin, there -came over Mrs. Robinson an overmastering desire to recall Downing to -Monk's Eype; she longed for the protection which would be afforded her -by his presence. She also wished him to confirm her in the conviction -that the time had come when Lady Wantley should be told of what they -were about to do. - -For the first time the gravity, the irrevocable nature, of the step she -was taking came home to Penelope's mind, to her heart--especially after -her agonizing interview with Winfrith--and even to her conscience, for -she acknowledged a duty to her mother. - -During these days of suspense Mrs. Robinson became 'gey ill to live -with,' and the two who suffered most from her moods were Mrs. Mote and -Cecily Wake. Penelope half suspected her old nurse of treachery, and -sometimes she would give her a peculiar, and Motey felt it to be also a -terrible, look. The old servant was a brave woman, but during that time -of silent, fearful waiting her spirit often quailed, and she sometimes -bitterly regretted having spoken to Lady Wantley. - -To Cecily her friend's capricious moods were a source of pained -bewilderment. Penelope no longer drew, no longer painted, no longer, -indeed, did anything but walk and drive. She seemed to have a fear of -solitude, and yet the girl was the only companion whom she tolerated. - -Sometimes the two would drive in the broad, low pony-cart for hours, -with scarce a word said on either side. At other times Mrs. Robinson -would talk with her wonted impetuosity and sharp decision of many things -and people of moment to Cecily. She would refer to her brief married -life at the Settlement, even to her childhood and David Winfrith. Then -would come bitter, slighting words concerning those whom the speaker -knew to be dear to her listener, sarcastic references to enthusiastic -Philip Hammond and large-minded, kindly Mrs. Pomfret; even--then Cecily -Wake's heart would whisper that this was surely cruel--her cousin -Wantley would be ruthlessly dissected, and his foibles held up to scorn. - -There would come moments when Penelope again was kind, when she would -say a word implying that Cecily Wake was her best, her most intimate, -friend; but this was now often followed by a sentence which seemed to -tell of an approaching break in their friendship, of coming separation. - - -Soon the two, the woman and the girl, were at utter variance the one -with the other, and Cecily suffered almost as keenly as did Penelope. It -seemed to her only too clear that Mrs. Robinson grudged her, and -disapproved of, Wantley's love. What else could mean her strange, -obliquely stabbing phrases? - -Cecily's mind often reverted to that most moving, sacred hour when -Wantley had given her his mother's pearls, when he had told her, dryly -and yet tenderly, of how truly he loved her. He had said--she remembered -the words, and, so remembering, often let her eyes fall before those of -her friend--'Unless you particularly wish to do so, I should prefer that -you say nothing--just now, at once--to Penelope. Wait till I have spoken -to your aunt, till we are both in London, till we are ready to tell all -the world.' And, of course, she had assented, while yet feeling sure of -Mrs. Robinson's real sympathy. - -But now Cecily felt sure no longer, and over her heart there came -something very like despair. How could she, Cecily Wake, who owed so -much--nay, her very acquaintance with Wantley--to Penelope, go against -her in so serious a matter? Cecily had retained the clear conscience, -free of all casuistry, of a child. She knew that she loved Wantley with -all her heart, that her feeling for him was no longer under her own -control; but she also knew that she could never marry him in direct -opposition to the wishes of the one human being to whom she regarded -herself as indebted for all which made life worth living. - -And so her happiness became quite overshadowed with misgivings and -hesitations, of which she said nothing to her lover. - -This reticence was made easy by Wantley's own conduct. With a -punctiliousness which did him honour, he scorned to take any advantage -of their hidden understanding. For many reasons he had preferred that -their formal engagement should take place, and be publicly announced, -in London. Meanwhile, he felt infinitely content, and in no haste to -provoke the elder Miss Wake's tremulous, incredulous satisfaction, or to -receive his cousin's ironical congratulations. - -There are moments in almost every life when a man feels himself lifted -far above his usual plane of thought and feeling, when he knows he is -happily adrift from familiar moorings. - -Such a moment had now come to Wantley. He would ask himself, with a -certain exultation of heart, whether it were possible that a time could -come when he would feel any nearer, ever more intimately linked, to his -beloved, to this young and still mysterious creature, the tips of whose -fingers he had not even kissed, and who, as he well knew, and was glad -to know, lived in a spiritual sense in a world so far removed from that -in which he had always dwelt. - -He trembled at his own good fortune, and would fain have propitiated -that sportive Fate which lies in wait for those to whom Providence has -been too kind. So feeling, he told himself that he should not grudge -Penelope the present companionship of Cecily. He divined something of -his cousin's unhappiness and unrest, though far from suspecting their -intensity, and so the gradual shadowing of Cecily's face was attributed -by him to her hourly contact with one who was obviously ill at ease and -sick at heart. - - -On the last day of Theresa Wake's stay at Monk's Eype, Mrs. Robinson -quite unexpectedly and most capriciously, or so it seemed to the older -lady, expressed a sudden wish that the aunt and niece should stay on for -another two or three days. - -So eager was Penelope to compass the matter that she actually sought out -Miss Wake in the early morning before she was up and dressed. 'Pray, -Cousin Theresa, stay on a little longer! Do not go to-morrow. This is -the sixth--stay on till the ninth. We are all leaving on Saturday.' She -added, after a scarcely perceptible pause: 'Sir George Downing is coming -back to-day.' - -But Miss Wake's answer was very decided, and not very gracious in -expression. Was it fancy that made Mrs. Robinson feel that the few words -were uttered very coldly? 'No; we cannot alter our plans at this late -hour, Mrs. Pomfret is expecting Cecily back to-morrow evening. We must -certainly leave in the morning, and you will be able to spare us very -well.' - - -II - -There came a time when Wantley often debated painfully as to why he had -lent himself to the bringing back of Downing to Monk's Eype, and when he -was glad to remember that he had said a word of protest to his cousin. -Penelope had chosen him to be her messenger; his had been the task of -taking her invitation to Kingpole Farm. - -Mrs. Robinson had tried to treat the matter with Wantley as of no -moment. He had listened in silence, and then reluctantly had said: 'I -will go if you really wish it, but I think you are not acting wisely;' -only to be disarmed by the look of suffering, almost of despair, which -had met his measured words. - -And so he had taken the letter which had summoned Downing to her side. -'I beg you to come back for two or three days,' she wrote. 'Things have -not been going well with me. I need your help. I feel that before -leaving here I ought to inform my mother of my--of our--intentions.' - -In later life Wantley sometimes recalled that last visit to Kingpole -Farm. - -During the long solitary drive he had wondered uneasily if he was -expected--if this little episode had been arranged between Mrs. -Robinson and the man with whom he was beginning to believe his cousin -was indeed more closely connected than he liked to think possible. But -at once he had seen that Downing knew nothing--that he, Wantley, had not -been expected, indeed, was not welcome. Downing struck him as aged, -sombre, perhaps even defiant, as he held out his lean brown hand for -Penelope's note. While reading it he had turned away, treating his -visitor with scant ceremony, then had said briefly, 'I understand I am -to come back with you--now--to-day?' And Wantley had as shortly -assented. - -Perforce--this also he later remembered time and again--Wantley was -present at the meeting of Penelope and Downing. - -The two men found her standing by the open door, her tall figure -outlined against the hall, the sunny terrace, the belt of blue sea -beyond. She was looking out landward, shading her eyes--sunken, -grey-lidded with much sleeplessness, perhaps with tears--from the bright -light. - -Without waiting for the high phaeton to stop, Downing had sprung out, -and striding forward had taken her two hands in his. For a moment they -seemed unaware of Wantley's presence; they exchanged no conventional -word of greeting. Then, slowly, and with a deep sigh, Penelope withdrew -her hands from the other's grasp, and observed, quite collectedly, that -the Beach Room had been arranged, as before, to serve as study for her -guest. - -A moment later she had turned and gone, out through the hall, on to the -terrace, leaving her cousin to play once more the part of host--but this -time of reluctant host--to Persian Downing. - - -It was night. Wantley's light alone burnt brightly on the lower floor of -the villa. The group of five people--for Lady Wantley had not come down -to dinner--had broken up curiously early, Downing retreating to the -Beach Room, Miss Wake upstairs, while Penelope, Cecily, and Wantley -himself, after a short walk through the dark pine-wood, had also -separated. - -For awhile he tried to read and smoke, but soon he put down his book, -and lay back in the large, deep chair, and thought of what he should do -if---- - -Wantley had a great dislike to interfering in other people's -business--in fact, he prided himself on never offering unasked advice, -on never spoiling a game in which he was not taking a hand. - -Well, what he was now doing savoured of interference. Still, it was his -business, and his only, if he chose to outstay from bed his -fellow-guests. After all, he had a perfect right to sit up on this, the -last night of Cecily Wake's stay at Monk's Eype--the young man's face -softened; on this, the first night of Downing's return--his face grew -stern, his eyes alert. - -If Downing, coming up from the Beach Room at one or two in the morning, -met Penelope--well, scarcely by appointment, but by accident--in the -studio, would it not be better for them both to be aware that he, -Wantley, was there sitting up, almost next door? To make them aware of -it might be a certain difficulty, but that could be managed if he now -got up and left the door of the smoking-room ajar. He did so, treading -softly across the matted floor. - -A sudden sound made him start, but it was only a shutter, not, as he had -thought, a door opening and closing. - -Again he took up his book--a much annotated French edition of the -Confessions of Saint Augustine--and he lighted another cigarette. It was -now only eleven. There were hours to be got through, and if--as he -believed had sometimes occurred before--Sir George Downing elected to -stay in the Beach Room all night, then he, poor Wantley, must yet keep -his bargain with himself, and sit doggedly on. - -There was always one most disagreeable possibility--that which, to tell -the truth, he really feared--namely, that Penelope might be seized with -the idea of going down to the Beach Room, of seeking out Downing there. -If he heard her coming down the silent house; if he heard her opening -the door which led from the hall on to the terrace, then certainly he -would, and must, break his cherished rule of non-interference. But the -thought that this ordeal perhaps lay before him did not add to the -pleasure of his vigil. - - -III - -At half-past eleven Wantley heard that which he had feared to hear, the -sound of steps coming down the marble staircase. He got up from his -chair, very slowly, very reluctantly. There came the murmur of low -voices, and the listener's ear caught Cecily's low, even tones answering -Penelope's eager, whispering voice. - -'What a relief,' the voice was saying--'what a relief to get away from -upstairs--from Motey next door! Here we shall be quite alone----' Then, -with surprise, but no annoyance: 'Why, there's a light in Ludovic's -smoking-room! But he's very discreet. He would never intrude on a -dressing-gown conference.' - -And the voices swept on, past the door ajar, on into the short passage -which led to the studio. - -Wantley sat down again with a very altered feeling. He was ashamed of -his former fears, and at that moment begged his cousin's pardon for -suspicions which he trusted she would never know he had entertained. - -Cecily asleep, dreaming sad dreams, had suddenly wakened to see -Penelope standing by the side of her bed. - -The tall, ghostlike figure, clad in a long pale-grey dressing-gown, held -a small lamp in her hand; and, as the girl opened her eyes, bent down -and whispered, 'I could not sleep, and so I thought we might have one -last talk. Not here--for we might wake Cousin Theresa; not in my -room--for there Motey can hear every word--but downstairs in the studio, -if you are not afraid of the cold.' - -And so they had made their way through the unlighted house, Cecily's -smaller figure wrapped in pale blue and white, her fair hair spread over -her shoulders, looking, so her companion in tender mood assured her, -like one of Fra Angelico's heavenly visitants. - -When in the studio, Penelope put the lamp down on her painting-table and -drew the girl over to the broad couch where Cecily had sat down and -waited for her, just a month ago, on the afternoon of her first day at -Monk's Eype. The knowledge of how happy she had then been, of how -beautiful she had thought this room, now full of dim, mysterious -sadness, came back to the girl with a pang of pain. She looked round -with troubled eyes, but Mrs. Robinson, an elbow on her knee, her chin -resting in her left hand, caught nothing of this look, for she was -staring out through the dark uncurtained window, absorbed in her own -thoughts. - -At last she slowly turned her head. - -'Cecily,' she said, and her voice sounded curiously strained, 'you must -have thought me odd of late, and even sometimes not kind. And yet, my -dear, I love you very well.' - -'I know,' said Cecily, speaking with difficulty; 'I have understood.' - -'You have understood?' Mrs. Robinson looked at her with quick suspicion, -and her face hardened. 'Do you mean that my affairs have been -discussed? What have you heard? What have you understood?' - -'Your feeling as to Lord Wantley--and myself.' Cecily's voice sank, but -she spoke very steadily, a little coldly. Surely Penelope might have -spared her this utterance. - -But the other had heard the slow, reluctant words with a feeling of -remorse and relief. - -'Why, Cecily!' she cried, and as she spoke she put her arm round the -girl's shoulders, 'did you think--did you believe, that I could feel -anything but glad? Why, when I first saw how things were going, I could -hardly believe in Ludovic's good fortune.' She added, half to herself, -'in his good taste! You are a thousand times too good for him; but he -knows that well enough. Of course, I knew he had spoken to you; but as -you did not tell me----' There was a note of reproach in Penelope's -voice. 'How strange, how amazing, that you should have understood me so -little! For the last few days,' she sighed a sharp, short sigh, 'my only -really happy, comfortable moments have been spent in thinking of you and -of Ludovic.' - -She stopped speaking abruptly, but kept her arm round the girl's -shoulder. Cecily had time to wonder why she herself felt so far from -content; surely the kind words just uttered should have filled her with -joy and peace? - -'Tell me,' she said, and as she spoke she fixed her eyes imploringly on -her companion's face, taking unconscious note of Penelope's rigid mouth -and stern, contracted brows--'do tell me why you are so unhappy! I would -not ask you if I did not care for you so much.' - -'Am I unhappy? Do I seem unhappy?' Mrs. Robinson looked fixedly at the -questioner as if really seeking an answer. She got up suddenly, walked -to the end of the long room and back, then came and stood before Cecily. - - -'Well, Cecily, I will tell you, for you deserve to know the truth. I am -unhappy, if indeed I am so, because I am about to do a thing of which -almost everyone who knows me--in fact, I might say everyone who knows -me--will disapprove. Also, it is a thing which will separate me from all -those I love and esteem, both in a material sense--for I am going very -far away--and in a spiritual sense.' - -Penelope sank down on her knees, and placed her hands so that they -clasped and covered those of Cecily Wake. 'In your heaven, my dear, -there may be found a place for me--after a long stay, I imagine, in -purgatory; but there will be no room in mamma's heaven, especially not -in that where she believes my father to be. David Winfrith also will -consign me to outer darkness, and that of a very horrible kind. Still I -would give up willingly all hope of future heaven, Cecily, if only I -could conciliate them here--if only they would sympathize with what I am -about to do.' - -Cecily looked down on the lovely face turned up to hers with a feeling -of pity and terror. 'What do you mean?' she said. 'I am sure you would -never do anything which would make your mother love you less.' - -'I believe there are people'--Penelope was speaking quietly, as if to -herself--'to whom what I am going to do would appear to be perfectly -right, and, indeed, commendable. But then, you see, I do not know those -people, so the thought of them brings no comfort.' - -She waited a moment, rose from her knees, and again sat down on the -couch. She felt ashamed of her emotion, and forced herself into -calmness, her voice into measured tones: 'I am going away with Sir -George Downing, back with him to Persia, to Teheran. We hope to be -always together, never apart till death takes one of us. I have even -promised him that I will not return to England, excepting, of course, -with him.' - -'But I thought, I understood----' Cecily looked anxiously at her friend. - -'You think rightly, you have understood the truth. Sir George Downing -has a wife. They have been married many years, and separated almost as -many.' - -'But if he is married,' said Cecily slowly, 'how can you go away with -him like that?' - -Mrs. Robinson thought Cecily strangely dull of understanding. 'Surely -you have heard of such occurrences?' she said impatiently. - -'Oh, yes,' answered the girl, and her eyes filled with tears, which ran -down her cheeks unheeded. 'You mean St. Mary Magdalen, Penelope? And -others, later----' - -Mrs. Robinson again got up. 'Surely,' she cried, 'you can understand how -it is with me? You love Ludovic--supposing that you suddenly heard, now, -that he was married--what would you do?--how would you feel?' - -But Cecily, looking at her in dumb, agonized distress, made no answer. - -'You are too kind to say so, but I know quite well what you would do. -You would go away, and never see him again. It might kill you, but you -would never do what you believed to be wrong.' - -'Wrong for him, too,' the girl said, with difficulty. - -'Well, I am not good, like you. If I had hesitated--and Cecily, believe -me, I never did so, not for a moment--it would have been owing to mean, -worldly considerations----' - -'Do you, then, love him so very much?' - -'Ah, my dear! Listen, Cecily, and I will tell you of our first meeting. -It was in the Gare de Lyon, when we--Motey and I--were on our way to Pol -les Thermes. I lost my purse, and he came forward, offered to lend me -what I needed. Should I'--Penelope's voice altered, became curiously -introspective, questioning--'should I have taken money from a stranger?' -And then as Cecily looked at her, amazed, 'I tell you that from the -moment our eyes met we _knew_ one another in a more real sense than many -lovers do after years of communion. My unhappiness the last few days has -come from his absence, from the knowledge, too, that we are both to be -tormented, as I am now being tormented--by you.' And, as Cecily made a -gesture of protest, 'Yes, my dear, by you! Why, he has also been -attacked by old Mr. Gumberg, of all people in the world!' - -Penelope laughed nervously. She took the girl by the arm, and silently -they retraced their footsteps through the quiet house--the silence -broken at intervals by Cecily's long sighing sobs. - - -Some moments later, Wantley, going up to bed with uneasy mind, for he -had heard the sound of Cecily's distress, met his cousin face to face. A -white cloak concealed her figure, and a black silk hood her resplendent -hair. - -They looked at one another for a moment. Then very deliberately he -spread out his arms, barring the way. 'You cannot, shall not go down to -the Beach Room!' he whispered. - -'I must, and shall!' she said. 'You do not understand, I must see -him--you can come and wait for me if you like.' - -But Wantley was merciless. He looked at her till her eyes fell before -his--till she turned and slowly went up before him, back into her room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - 'O mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps, levons l'ancre. - Le pays nous ennuie, O mort, apparaillons.' - - BAUDELAIRE. - - 'J'ai vecu: c'est a dire j'ai travaille, j'ai aime, j'ai souffert.' - - _Old French Epitaph._ - - -I - -The next morning Cecily Wake and her aunt left Monk's Eype. Strange, -unhappy morning! during which Mrs. Robinson alone preserved her usual -indifferent, haughty serenity of manner, though she also, when her face -was in repose, looked weary and sad. - -Wantley had found Penelope and her two guests, all three cloaked and -hatted, sitting at the pretty breakfast-table laden with early September -fruit and flowers. His half-suggestion that he should drive the -travellers to the distant junction where they were to catch the fast -train to town was at once negatived by Penelope. 'I am going with them,' -she said shortly, 'and I shall have business at Burcombe which will keep -me till the afternoon.' - -Wantley bit his lip. What sort of day would he, Lady Wantley, and -Downing, spend together? He felt angry with his cousin for having -exposed them to such an ordeal. Then the elder Miss Wake asked him some -insignificant question concerning the journey which lay before her, and -he began speaking, going on, as it seemed to himself, aimlessly and -endlessly, hardly waiting for the old lady's vague, nervous answers, -while intensely, agonizingly, conscious of Cecily's quiet figure -opposite, of her pale face and stricken eyes. - -At last the meal which had seemed to him so interminably long came to -an end, and they all went into the hall, where Lady Wantley was walking -slowly up and down, waiting to bid farewell to her kinswomen, and -looking, as the young man saw with a certain resentment, quite -unconscious of the storms which had passed over the little company of -people now gathered about her. - -As Mrs. Robinson placed herself in the carriage, by the side of her old -cousin, she turned to Wantley, and said deliberately, as if giving -challenge: 'Sir George Downing will lunch in the Beach Room. He leaves -to-night, and of course I shall be back before he starts.' - -Wantley made no answer. He was engaged in drawing the rug across -Cecily's knees; as he did so he felt her hand quiver a moment under his, -and there came over him an eager impulse to go with her, to comfort -her--above all, to shut himself off with her from all this tragic -business, which apparently neither he nor she could affect or modify. - -Penelope again spoke. 'You, Ludovic, will of course lunch with mamma?' -He answered: 'Yes, of course, of course!' Looking straight at his -cousin, he could not help adding: 'No one shall disturb Sir George -Downing till your return.' And then--not till then--a wave of colour -reddened Penelope's oval face from brow to chin. - - -II - -And so they had gone, and Wantley, turning away, back into the hall, -felt a great depression--a feeling of utter weariness--come upon him. It -was with an unreasonable and unreasoning irritation that he saw Lady -Wantley walking slowly, with her peculiar leisurely grace of movement, -into the great Picture Room, there to take up her accustomed position by -the ivory inlaid table on which lay her books and blotting-pad. - -'People when they reach that age,' he said to himself, 'have their -emotions, their feelings of love and pride, mercifully deadened.' But, -all the same, fearing what she might say to him, he did not follow her, -but instead, slipping his hands into his pockets, and pushing his straw -hat down over his eyes, made his way out of doors. - -But there, in the clear September sunshine, cooled by the keen sea-wind, -he felt, if anything, even more ill at ease. Every flagstone of the -terrace, every bend of the path leading down to the pine-wood and to the -ilex-grove, reminded him of delicious moments spent with Cecily. He felt -a pang of sharp self-pity, blaming Penelope, even more blaming -Providence, for the spoiling of his idyl. 'After last night,' he said to -himself, 'Cecily will never again be quite the same, bless her!' And so, -walking very slowly, his eyes bent on the ground, he gave himself up -actively to dislike and condemnation of his cousin. - -Wantley was an intensely proud man. Perhaps because he had nothing -personally to be proud of, he took the more intense, if not very -justifiable, pride in his unsullied name, in his respectable lineage, -even in the fine traditions left by his predecessor. From boyhood he had -acted according to the theory, 'If I do nothing good or worthy, I will -yet avoid what is evil and unworthy.' And to this not very exalted ideal -of conduct he had remained faithful. - -True, Penelope, whatever his griefs against her, would give him and the -world no right to despise her. Condemn her wrong-headedness, her -selfishness, he was free to do; but he knew well enough how far heavier -would have been his condemnation had he discovered that his cousin had -become in secret Downing's mistress. But the knowledge that this would -never have been possible, brought to-day but scant consolation; indeed, -Wantley found it in his heart to wish that Penelope had been more akin -to some of the women whom he and she had known, and to whose frailties -she had always extended a haughty tolerance. - -Yet he told himself that he understood her point of view. After all, she -was her own mistress, in the matter of herself owing none but that same -self a duty. But this was not so--ah no, indeed!--in the matter of her -name and of her good repute: those belonged not only to her own self, -but also to others, some dead, some living, and some--so Wantley now -reminded himself--to come. - -In happier, more careless days, when he had been so discontented and -dissatisfied with the way his life had shaped itself, the young man had -lamented his small circle of friends and acquaintances, and he had -envied his contemporaries their school and college friends; but now, -to-day, it seemed to him that he knew and was known to all the -world--that is, to the world whose good opinion he naturally valued. - -He looked into the future, and realized with shame and anger what would -be said by the kind and by the unkind, by the evil-mind and by the -prudish, in the boudoirs and in the smoking-rooms, when it became known -that Mrs. Robinson, Penelope Wantley--the Perdita of a younger, idler -hour--had 'gone off' with Persian Downing! - -Then he thought, with bitter amusement, of how this same news would be -received by the good people--and, on the whole, he had to admit that -they were good people--who had circled round his uncle and aunt in the -days when he himself was a moody, neglected youth, and Penelope a lovely -and engaging, if wayward, child. - -The motley crowd of pietists, some few eccentric, the majority intensely -commonplace, who had attended year after year the religious conferences -which had made the name of Marston Lydiate known to the whole religious -world, would doubtless think it their duty to address letters of -sympathy and of condolence to Penelope's mother, even--hateful -thought!--to himself. - -Then his mind turned once more to his cousin. What sort of life would be -Penelope's after she had cut herself adrift from her own world? How -would this proud, spoilt woman, who had always kept herself singularly -apart from all that was unsavoury, endure the slights which would -inevitably be put on one who, however much the fact might be cloaked and -disguised, could never be the wife of her companion? - -Penelope was not a child, to adapt herself to new conditions. Would -strange, self-centred Persian Downing compensate her for all she was -about to lose? Would this maker of great schemes, this seer of visions, -forget himself, in order to be everything to her? For a few moments -Wantley, leaning on the low wall which separated the ilex-grove from the -cliff overhanging the sea, thought only of Penelope, and of what her -life would be if this tragic affair shaped itself in the way that he -believed to be now inevitable. - -The day he had accompanied her to town, during the long railway journey -back to Dorset, Lady Wantley had spoken to him mysteriously as to advice -proffered by Mr. Gumberg. She had seemed to think that if all else -failed he, Wantley, should speak to Sir George Downing, but to this he -had in no way assented. - - -He turned, and slowly made his way through the pine-trees. The day--nay, -even the morning--had to be lived through, and his thoughts were -intolerable company--so much so, indeed, that he felt he would prefer to -go and find Lady Wantley, and stay with her a while, although he was -aware that she would in all probability urge him to interfere. The -knowledge that he would have to tell her he could not and would not do -so smote him painfully. - -Downing and Penelope were not children whose wayward steps could be -stayed, with whom at last force could replace argument. A braver than he -might well hesitate to face the contemptuous indignation of the -eccentric, powerful man, for whom Wantley even now felt kindliness and -respect, reserving, unjustly enough, his greatest blame for the woman. - -No, no! If Lady Wantley besought his intervention, he must tell her that -in this matter he could not hope to succeed where Mr. Gumberg had -apparently failed. - - -III - -As Wantley walked along the terrace in front of the villa, past the -opened windows of the Picture Room, he saw Lady Wantley sitting in her -usual place. But there was about her figure, especially about her hands, -which clasped and unclasped themselves across her knee, an unusual look -of tension and emotion. - -Wantley turned, and drew nearer to the window which seemed to frame the -still graceful figure. But she remained quite unconscious that she was -being watched. He saw that her lips were moving; he heard her speaking, -as she so often did, to herself; and there came to him the conviction -that she had been down to the Beach Room, that she had seen Downing, -that she had made to him an appeal foredoomed to failure. - -A keen desire to know whether he guessed truly, and, if so, to know what -had actually taken place, warred for a moment with the young man's -horror of a scene, and especially of a scene with Lady Wantley in one of -her strange moods. - -Suddenly she raised her voice, and he heard clearly the words, uttered -in low, intense tones, and as if in answer to an invisible questioner: -'But if a man come presumptuously upon his neighbour to slay him with -guile, thou shalt take him from My altar, that he may die.' - -'It must have been horribly painful,' said the listener to himself. He -began to pity Downing. - -Familiarity had bred in Wantley, not contempt, but a certain indulgent -pity not far removed from contempt, for what he and Mrs. Robinson, -seeing eye to eye in this one matter, regarded as Lady Wantley's -peculiar and slightly absurd religious vagaries. Dimly aware of this -attitude, of this lack of respect for what were to herself vital truths, -Lady Wantley, when in their presence, exercised greater self-control -than either of them ever guessed. - -But now, for the moment, she was in no condition to restrain herself; -and though, as he opened the door of the Picture Room, she looked round -for a moment, she still continued talking aloud in apparently eager -argument with some unseen presence. 'Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath -triumphed gloriously. The horse and his rider hath He thrown into the -sea.' - -She spoke with increasing excitement, and with what seemed to the hearer -a strange exultation. - -He stopped short, and, retracing his footsteps, closed the door. It had -always been tacitly agreed between himself and his cousin that -Penelope's household should hear as little as was possible of Lady -Wantley in these, her wilder moods. - -Again he went towards her. As he did so, she stood up and advanced to -meet him. Her pale face was on a level with his own; her grey eyes were -dilated. Something had stirred her far more deeply than she was wont to -be stirred by material things. She looked, Wantley thought, inspired, -exhilarated, as one might look on emerging triumphantly from some awful -ordeal. - -As he gazed at her there came to him the hope, the almost incredulous -hope, that she--the mother--had prevailed; that her words, even if -winged with what seemed madness, had been so eloquent as to convince -Downing that what he was about to do was an evil thing, one out of -which no good could come to the woman he loved. - -'Then you have seen him?' he asked in a low voice, and, as he spoke, he -took Lady Wantley's hand in his own. - -She made a scarcely perceptible movement of assent. 'Thy right hand, O -Lord, has become righteous in power. Thy right hand, O Lord, has dashed -in pieces the enemy.' - -Her voice faltered, and her tall figure swayed forward. - -'Sit down,' he said quickly, 'and tell me what happened. Were you able -to make any impression on his mind?' - -But as she sank back into her chair she answered vaguely, and her head -fell forward on her breast. 'You ask me what happened?' She waited a -moment, and then added, with what seemed a cry: 'He said, "The woman -tempts me, and I shall eat!"' - -'I do not think that he can have said that to you,' said Wantley gently. -'Think again. Try and remember exactly what he did say.' - -'It was tantamount to that,' she answered, lifting her head and looking -at him fixedly. 'He--he admitted I spoke the truth, yet declared he owed -himself to her.' She hesitated, then whispered: 'I warned him of his -way, he took no heed, he died in his iniquity, and his blood will not be -required of mine hand.' - -Even before she had uttered these last words an awful suspicion, a sick -dread, had forced itself on Wantley's mind. He passed his hand over his -face, afraid lest she should see written there his fear--indeed, his all -but knowledge--of what she had done. - -There was but a moment to make up his mind what he should say and what -he should do. On his present action much might depend. In any case, he -must soothe her, restore her to calmness. And so, 'We must now think,' -he said authoritatively, 'of Penelope.' He waited a moment, and then -repeated again the one word, 'Penelope.' - -Lady Wantley's mouth quivered for the first time, and her eyes -contracted with a look of suffering. - -But he did not give her time to speak. 'No one knows--no one must know, -for the sake of Penelope.' - -Slowly she bent her head in assent, and he went on, in a low, warning -voice. 'If you say a word--I mean of what has just taken place--the -truth concerning Penelope and Sir George Downing will become known to -all men.' Half unconsciously Wantley adapted the phraseology likely to -reach most bindingly the over-excited, distraught brain of the woman -over whose figure he was bending, into whose face he was gazing so -searchingly. - -He felt every moment to be precious, to be big with hideous -possibilities, but he feared to leave her--feared to go before he felt -quite sure he had made her understand that her daughter's reputation was -bound to suffer, if she--Lady Wantley--in any way imperilled or -incriminated herself. - -'You will wait here, will you not, till I come to you?' he said -anxiously. 'And if you see anyone, you will not speak? you will remain -absolutely silent, for the sake of your daughter, of poor Penelope?' - -He waited until she had again bent her head in assent, and then turned -and left her, passing through the window on to the terrace, and so -swiftly on, down through the wood, to the rough track leading to the -shore. - - -As he jumped down on to the beach, both feet sinking deeply through the -soft dry sand above the water-line, he paused a moment, and, looking -round him, felt suddenly reassured, ashamed of the unreasoning dread -which had come over him when listening to Lady Wantley's strange, -wildly-uttered words. - -The tide was only just beginning to turn, and the sea, in gentle mood, -came and went to within a few feet of the Beach Room, of which the blank -wall jutted out on to his right. - -The absolute peace and quietude which lay about him soothed Wantley's -nerves, and he walked round, below the wide-open window, of which the -sill was just on a level with his head, with steady feet. - -Then, taking up a stone, he knocked on the heavy wooden door, half -expecting, wholly hoping, to hear in immediate response a deep-toned -'Come in.' But there came no such answer, and once more he knocked more -loudly; he waited a few moments while vague fear again assailed him, and -then, turning the handle, he walked into the Beach Room. - -At first he only saw that the chair, set before the broad table covered -with papers, was without an occupant. But gradually, and not quite at -once--or so it seemed to him looking back--he became aware that in the -shadow of the table, stretched angularly across the floor, lay Sir -George Downing, dead. - -Standing there, with the horror of what he saw growing on him, Wantley -had not a moment of real doubt, of wild hope that this might not be -death. Still, as he knelt down and brought himself to touch, to move, -that which lay there, he suddenly became aware of a fact which would -have laid any such doubt, for above Downing's right ear was a wound---- - -With a quick sigh Wantley, trembling, rose from his knees. In spite of -himself, his mind vividly reconstituted the scene which must have taken -place. First, the sudden appearance of the unexpected, unwelcome -visitor; then the vision of Downing, with his old-fashioned courtesy, -giving up the more comfortable chair, while he himself took that in -which he, Wantley, had sat a short week ago; finally--the corner of the -wide table only separating the two adversaries--after the exchange of a -very few words, slow, decisive, on either side--the fatal shot. - -The revolver which Wantley remembered having seen pinning the map of -Persia to the table, now lay as it had doubtless fallen from the -delicate, steady hand which had believed itself divinely guided to -accomplish its work of death. - -Even now he found time to realize with poignant pain, and yet with a -certain relief, that such a man as had once been he now lying stretched -out at his feet could certainly, had he cared to do so, have stayed, or -at least deviated, the course of the weapon, and later on this knowledge -brought Wantley comfort. - -But he had no leisure now to give to such reasoning and, slipping the -bolt in the door, he again stooped over the dead man. - -What he was about to do was intolerably repugnant to him, and as, after -a moment's pause, he thrust his hand into the old-fashioned pockets, -turned back the coat, sought eagerly for what it was so essential he -should find, he felt the sweat break out all over his body. But, to his -dismay, there seemed to be no keys, either loose in the various pockets, -or attached to the heavy gold chain, which terminated with a bunch of -old seals and a repeater watch. - -Wantley was turning away, half relieved to be spared the task he had set -himself, when something strange and enigmatical struck him in the ashen, -lined face, the wide-open, sightless eyes, from which he had till now -averted his glance. - -During the performance of what had been to him a hateful task, and after -having so turned the head as to conceal the wound above the right ear, -he had been at some pains to leave the body exactly as it had fallen. -But in the course of his search he had been compelled to shift the -position of the dead man's arms, and he now saw that Downing's right -hand, lying across his breast, seemed to be pointing--to what was it -pointing? Again the seeker stooped--nay, this time he knelt down; and at -once he found what he had sought for so fruitlessly, for under the palm -of the dead hand, in an inner waistcoat pocket, which had before escaped -him, lay a small key. - -For the first time Wantley bared his head, and a curious impulse came -over him. 'You will forgive me,' he said, not loudly, but in a whisper, -'you will pardon, for her sake, for your poor Penelope's sake, what I -have been compelled to do?' - -And then heavy-hearted, full of fear and foreboding, he made his way -back, up the rough track, so through the pine-wood, to the villa, -mercifully spared on the way the ordeal of meeting, and having perchance -to speak with, another human being. - -Quickly he passed by the window where Lady Wantley was still sitting, up -the shallow staircase leading from the hall to the upper stories of -Monk's Eype, and so on to the room, close to his own, where, with -pleasant anticipation of an agreeable friendship with his cousin's -famous guest, he had ushered Downing the first night of his stay, just a -month ago. - -It was, as he now reminded himself, a month to a day, for that first -meeting had been on the seventh of August, the eve of his, Wantley's own -birthday, and this now was the seventh of September. - -Wantley singled out at once a large red despatch-box as probably -containing what he sought. The key he held in his hand clicked in the -lock, and he saw, almost filling up the top compartment, a plain, -old-fashioned leather jewel-case which contained more than he expected -to find of moment to himself. There, smiling up at him, lay the baby -face of Penelope, a miniature which he recognized as one that had been -painted to be a surprise gift from Lady Wantley to her husband on their -child's second birthday, and which had always stood on Lord Wantley's -table. 'She should not have given him that!' was the young man's -involuntary thought. - -Instinctively he averted his eyes from the slender bundle of letters on -which the miniature had lain. But, as he lifted them out, together with -his cousin's portrait, he saw that they had served to conceal a sheet of -note-paper--a piece of old-fashioned, highly-glazed note-paper, deeply -edged with black--lying open across the bottom of the jewel-case. As he -glanced at the first few words, 'The Queen commands me to request that -you----' ah, poor Downing! For a moment Wantley hesitated; he had meant -only to withdraw what concerned Penelope, but finally he laid -everything--the summons to Balmoral, the letters written in the bold, -pointed handwriting Wantley knew so well, the little miniature--back in -the jewel-case, which he then locked away in his own room next door. - - -IV - -The hours that followed he remembered in later life as a man may do a -period of delirium, or as a bad dream which he has dreamed innumerable -times. - -He became horribly familiar with the tale he had to tell. - -Each person interested had to be informed of how he had gone down into -the hall, whence, finding two letters for Sir George Downing, he had -made his way across the terrace, down the steps leading to the shore, -noticing as he went a little pleasure boat which had drifted fast out of -sight. - -Then had to follow the recital of his fruitless knocking at the Beach -Room door, followed by his dreadful discovery--the sight of one who had -been his honoured guest lying dead, the death-wound above the right ear -having been obviously caused by a revolver which had been left on the -table, close to where the body had fallen. - -Wantley also had to describe his return to the villa, the breaking of -the awful news to Lady Wantley, the sending for the doctor and for the -police from Wyke Regis, followed by a time of long waiting--for, of -course, he had allowed no one to touch the body--first for the police -(his letter remained for a while unopened at the station), and then for -his cousin, Mrs. Robinson, who was fortunately away when the first awful -discovery was made. - -Such had been the story Wantley had to tell innumerable times--first, to -the various people who had a right to know all that could be known; -secondly, to the numerous folk, whose interest, if idle, was eager and -real, and whom he felt a nervous desire to conciliate, and to make -believe his version of an affair which became more than a nine days' -wonder. - - -After the bearing of the great mental strain, especially after the -accomplishment of a prolonged mental task, the mind--ay, and even the -body--refuse to be stilled, and call imperatively for something else to -do, to go on doing. When at last the doctor had come and gone, when the -first discussion with the local police had come to an end--in a word, -when Wantley had repeated some five or six times the grim, simple facts -to all those whom it concerned--there came to him the most painful -ordeal of all, the hours spent by him in waiting for Penelope's return. - -After he had taken Lady Wantley up to her room, and left her there in -what he trusted would remain a strange state of bewildered coma, he had -come down to wander restlessly through the large rooms on the -ground-floor of the villa. - -His mind was clouded with grotesque and sinister images, and he welcomed -such interruptions as were caused by the futile, scared questions of -those among the upper servants who from time to time summoned up courage -to come and speak to him. - -While trying to occupy himself by writing letters, which he almost -invariably at once destroyed after he had written them, Wantley was ever -asking himself with sick anxiety, if he had done all that was in his -power to protect and safeguard the two women to whom he had never felt -so closely linked as now. He was haunted by the fear that he himself -might unwittingly reveal what he believed to be the truth, but he would -have been comforted indeed had he known how his mere outward appearance, -his imperturbable face, his sleepy eyes, even his well-trimmed beard, -now served his purpose. Outwardly Wantley appeared to be that day the -calmest man at Monk's Eype, only so far discreetly perturbed as would -naturally be any kindly and good-hearted host, whose guest had met, -while under his roof, with so awful and mysterious a fate. - -A curious interlude in his long waiting was the sudden irruption of -Penelope's old nurse. Motey found him sitting at the writing-table of -what had been his predecessor's study, attempting, for the tenth time, -to compose the letter which he knew must be written that night to Mr. -Julius Gumberg. - -As the old woman came in, carefully closing the door behind her, he -looked up and saw that the streaky apple-red had faded from the firm -round cheeks, and yet--and yet her look was one of only half-concealed -triumph, not of distress or fear. For a moment they gazed at one another -fixedly, then 'Is it true,' she asked briefly; 'is it really true, Mr. -Ludovic? I was minded to go down and see for myself, but I'm told -there's the police people down there, and I thought maybe I'd better not -meddle.' - -'Yes,' he said rather sternly, 'it is quite true. An awful thing, Motey, -to have happened here, in your mistress's house!' He felt impelled to -add these words, revolted by the look of relief, almost of joy, in the -woman's pale face. - -Then into his mind there shot a sudden gleam of light, of escape. 'I -suppose,' he said, 'that you don't feel _you_ could tell her, Motey?' A -note of appeal, almost of anguish, thrilled in the young man's voice. - -'No,' she answered decidedly. 'The telling of such things is men's work. -I couldn't bring myself to do it; you don't care for her as I do, and -she'll forgive you a sight quicker than she would me. I'll have to do -the best I can for her afterwards.' - -The furtive joy died out of Mrs. Mote's old face, and, as she turned and -left the room, her dull eyes filled with reluctant tears. - - -V - -At last the sound of wheels for which he had been listening so long fell -on his ear, and hurriedly he went to fetch that which he felt should be -given to his cousin without loss of time. He hoped, with a cowardly -hope, that bad news, which ever travels quickly, had already met Mrs. -Robinson on her way home. - -Having given a brief order that they were not to be disturbed, Wantley -made his way to the studio with the jewel-case in his hand. For a moment -he waited just inside the door. Penelope was standing at the further end -of the long room, leaning over the marble top of the high mantelpiece, -writing out a telegram. She still wore a large straw hat, of which the -sides, flattened down over her ears by broad black ribbons tied under -the chin, framed her face, and gave a softened, old-fashioned grace to -her tall, rounded figure. - -As Wantley finally advanced towards her, she looked up, and her glance, -her suspended writing--above all, her blue eyes full of questioning -anger at the intrusion of his presence--showed him that she knew -nothing, that the task he had so greatly dreaded lay before him. - -Taking his stand by the other side of the mantelpiece, he put down the -case containing her letters, and pushed it towards her. Twice he opened -his lips but closed them again without speaking. - -'Well,' she said shortly, as her eyes rested indifferently on the little -jewel-box, 'I suppose this is something else left by Theresa Wake. It -can be sent on to-morrow with the other thing, but I'll mention it in -the telegram.' And she paused, as if expecting him to leave her. Indeed, -her eyes, her mouth, set in stern lines, seemed to say: 'Cannot you go -away, and leave me in peace? Your very presence here, unasked, in my own -room, is an outrage after the way you behaved to me last night.' But she -remained silent, content to wait, pencil in hand, for him to be gone, -before concluding her slight task. - -'Penelope,' he said at last, stung into courage by her manner and by her -contemptuous glance, 'this box was not left by Miss Wake--it once -belonged to Sir George Downing, and its contents are, I believe, yours.' - -Again he touched the case, pushed it away from himself towards her. It -slid across the polished surface of the marble to within an inch of her -elbow; but, though he became aware that she stiffened into close -attention, his cousin still said no word. - -Her silence became to him unbearable. He walked round, and, standing -close beside her, deliberately pressed the spring, and revealed what lay -within. - -As if she had been physically struck, Penelope suddenly drew back. 'Ah!' -she said, and that was all. But in a moment her hand had closed on the -little case, and she held it clasped to her, shutting out the smiling -childish face which lay above the packet of her letters to Downing. So -quietly, so quickly had she done this that he wondered for a moment if -she had really seen and realized all that was lying there. 'She knows -the truth,' he said to himself. 'Thank God I was mistaken--someone else -has told her!' - -He waited for a question, even for a cry. But none such came from the -rigid figure. - -'Penelope,' he said at last, and there was a note of tenderness in -Wantley's voice she had never before heard in it, 'forgive me the pain I -have to inflict on you. I thought that--that these things ought to be -given you now, at once. I am sure you will destroy them immediately.' - -At last, roughly interrupting him, she turned on him and spoke, while he -listened silently, filled with increasing amazement and distress. - -'Listen!' she cried, and there was no horror, no anguish, only infinite -scorn and anger, in her voice. 'You ask me to forgive you. But -understand that I will never forgive you! You have done an utterly -unwarrantable thing. Is it possible that you really believed that any -interference or effort on your part could separate two such people as -Sir George Downing and myself? How little you know me! how little you -can understand what the effect of such conduct as yours must be! -Listen!' - -She feared he was about to speak, and held up her hand. He was looking -fixedly at her, still full of concern and pity, but feeling more -collected and cooler before her growing excitement. - -'No, listen! I am quite calm, quite reasonable; but I want you to -realize what you have done--what your interference will bring about.' -She paused, then continued, speaking in low, quick tones: 'I confess -there was a moment last night when I wavered, when I wondered whether, -after all, I was justified in only considering myself and--and--him. But -now? Shall I tell you what I have made up my mind to do during the last -few minutes? No--don't speak to me yet--I will listen with what -patience I can after you have heard what I have to say. I mean to go to -town to-night with Sir George Downing--I know he has not left; I know -you have not yet driven him away. If necessary, I shall thrust my -company upon him! Do you suppose it will be hard for me to undo with him -any evil you have done?' - -Again she paused, again she held up her hand to stay his words. 'If he -is going to Mr. Gumberg I shall ask the old man to allow me to come -there, in the character of George's'--her voice dropped, but she did not -spare Wantley the word--'mistress.' - -She added, with a bitter smile: 'Mr. Gumberg is a bachelor; the -situation will amuse him, and give him plenty to talk about all the -winter! I had meant to leave England as secretly, as quietly, as -possible, out of consideration for mamma, and even for you; though I am -not ashamed of what I am doing. But now, after this, I shall write and -tell certain people of my intention, or, rather, of what I shall have -done by the time I write; you will be sorry, you will repent then of -what you have done to-day!' - -He saw that she was trembling violently, and a look that crossed his -face stung her afresh. 'Pray do not feel any concern for me. You will -need all your pity for mamma, even a little for yourself, after to-day. -But, oh!'--as her hand again closed convulsively over the case which -contained her letters, her portrait--'he should not have entrusted these -to you! But doubtless he could not help it--how do I know what you said -to him?' - -'Penelope,' he said desperately, 'you must, and you shall, listen to me! -You wrong Sir George Downing, and most cruelly. How could you believe -that he, alive, would have let your letters to him go out of his -possession? Surely you knew him better than that!' - -'I don't understand,' she said, bewildered. But even as she spoke he -saw the mortal fear, the beginning of knowledge, coming into her face. -He held out his hand, and she took it, groping her way close to him, as -a blind woman might have done. 'Tell me what you mean,' she said, 'tell -me quickly what you mean.' - -But before he could answer there came he sound of tramping feet, of -subdued voices. 'Don't look!' he cried hoarsely. 'Penelope, I beg you -not to look!' But she pushed him aside, and, holding her head high, with -swift, steady feet, passed out through the window to meet the little -procession which was advancing slowly, painfully, across the terrace. - -The burden which had just been carried up the steep steps leading from -the shore was almost beyond the bearers' strength, for the broad door of -the Beach Room had been taken off its hinges, and large stones from the -shore held down the sheet which covered that which lay on it. - -An elderly man, well known both to Penelope and to Wantley as John -Purcell, the head constable of Wyke Regis, came forward to meet Mrs. -Robinson. 'A terrible affair, my lady,' he observed, subdued but eager, -for such an event, so interesting from his professional point of view, -had never before come his way. 'I wouldn't have anything moved till I'd -telegraphed for instructions; but, of course, I didn't stop thinking, -and we've sent word all down the coast about that boatload his lordship -saw. It's a valuable clue, I should say.' - -He addressed his words to Penelope, and both he and Wantley believed her -to be listening attentively to what was being said. But, after the first -moment of recognition of the old constable, she no longer saw him at -all, and not to save the life she then held so cheap could she have -repeated what he had just said; for she was saying to herself again and -again, so possessed by the misery of the thought that it left room for -nothing else: 'Why did I go away to-day and leave him? If I had been -here, if I had stayed within call of him, he would not have done this -thing--he would now have been with me!' - -But when Purcell dropped his voice she began to hear what he was saying. -'Is there any place downstairs where your lordship could arrange for us -to put the body? We had a hard job over those steps, and up to the poor -gentleman's room I've a notion they're much worse. I've had to be there -two or three times, sealing up everything.' He said it in almost a -whisper, but for the first time Mrs. Robinson, hearing, spoke: - -'You may take him to the Picture Room,' she said brusquely, 'and then -you will not have to go through the hall, for the windows are very -wide.' - -When the signal was given for the men to move on, she first made as if -she would have followed them; then, at a touch on her arm from her -cousin's hand, she turned away slowly, walking past the studio windows -into the garden paths beyond. Wantley followed her, amazed, relieved, -bewildered by her self-command, fearing the explanation which must now -follow, and yet nervously anxious to get it behind him, while, above -all, conscious of a great physical lassitude which made him long to go -away and forget everything in sleep. - -At last, when they were some way from the villa, close to the open down, -Penelope turned to him. 'Now tell me,' she said, 'tell me as quickly as -you can, what I must know.' And she waited, oppressed, while Wantley -once more told the tale he had taught himself to tell, and which had -been made perfect by such frequent, such frightful repetition. - -For a moment she remained silent. Then, slowly and searchingly, she -asked what the other felt to be a singular question: 'Would it be better -for him--I mean as to what people will say of him in the future--for it -to be thought, as that foolish old man evidently thinks, that he was -murdered, or for the truth to be known?' - -'The truth?' said Wantley, looking at her, 'and what is the truth? Do -you know it?' - -'Yes; you and I know the truth.' Penelope's cheeks were burning; she -spoke impatiently, as if angered by his dulness. 'When all that trouble -came to him thirty years ago, he nearly did it; and later, another time, -he thought it the only way out.' - -Then Wantley understood her meaning, and the knowledge that she believed -this simple, obvious explanation brought the one touch of comfort, of -relief, which he had felt for many hours. - -'I think,' he said at length, 'that such a thing as suicide always goes -against a man's memory. Personally, I hope it will be put down to an -accident. In any case, you must remember that there were many people -interested in bringing about his death. I myself can testify that only -recently he told me that he knew himself to be in perpetual danger.' - -But Penelope was not listening. 'Now that you have told me what I wanted -to know, I must ask you to do something for me.' And as he looked at -her, startled, she added: 'Nothing of any great consequence. All I ask -is, that you to-day, before I go back to the house, will tell Motey and -my mother that I cannot, and that I will not, see them for a while. -Mamma will not mind--she will understand. I know well enough that Motey -betrayed me to her--I knew it the day it happened, and I felt very -angry. But now nothing matters. You are to tell Motey from me that if -she forces herself on me now it will be the end--I will never have her -about me again!' - -Penelope spoke angrily, excitedly. As she spoke she clutched her -cousin's arm as if to emphasise her words. And Wantley, marvelling, -turned to carry out her wish. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - CHRISTIAN. But what have you seen? - - MEN. Seen! Why, the Valley itself, which is as dark as pitch; we - also saw there the Hobgoblins, Satyrs and Dragons of the Pit; we - heard also in that Valley a continuous Howling and Yelling, as of a - people under unutterable misery, who sat there bound in Affliction - and Irons; and over that Valley hung the discouraging clouds of - Confusion; Death also doth always spread his wings over it; in a - word, it is in every whit dreadful, being utterly without - Order.--BUNYAN. - - -I - -The last occasion on which Wantley had come to Marston Lydiate had been -in order that he might be present at a great audit dinner, and he had -felt acutely the unreality, the solemn absurdity, of it all. Those -present, his tenants, all knew, and knew that he knew also, that he -could never hope to come and live among them. - -Lady Wantley, keeping up full state at the Hall, was still, as she had -long been, their real overlord and Providence, and the young man had -felt that it was to her that should have been addressed the heavy -expressions of good will to which he had had to listen, and then to make -a suitable reply. - -But now, on Christmas Eve, more than a year after the death of Sir -George Downing, as Wantley drove in the winter sunshine along lanes cut -through land which after all belonged to him, and which must in time -belong to those, yet unborn, whom he left after him, he felt something -of the pride of possession stir within him, and he bethought himself -that he was a link in a long human chain of worthy Wantleys, past and to -come. - -Sitting silent by his young wife's side, he felt well pleased with -life, awed into thankfulness at the thought of how much better things -had turned out with him than he had ever thought possible. Then a -whimsical notion presented itself to his mind: - -'Why are you smiling? Do tell me!' Cecily turned to him, rubbed her soft -cheek against the pointed beard she had once--it seemed so long -ago--despised as the appanage of age. - -To her to-day was a great day, one to be remembered very tenderly the -whole of her life through. She had read everything that could be read -about this place, and, indeed, she knew far more of the history of the -house to which they were going than did Wantley himself. Here also, in -the substantial ivy-draped rectory, which her husband had pointed out as -they had driven quickly through the village, he had been born, and spent -his childhood. Oh yes, this was indeed to Cecily a day of days, and she -felt pleased and moved to think that their first Christmas together -should be spent at Marston Lydiate. - -'Why was I smiling? Well, when I was a child, my nurse used to say to -me, "If 'ifs' were horses, beggars would ride!" and I was thinking just -then that _if_ we have a son, and _if_ our son marries an American -heiress, and _if_ he and she care to do so, they will be able to come -and live here, a thing you and I, my darling, can never do!' - -The brougham swung in through the lodge gates, each flanked by a curious -and, Cecily feared, a most uncomfortable little house, suggestive of a -miniature Greek temple; and a turn in the wide park road, lined with -snow-laden evergreen bushes, brought suddenly into view the great -plateau along which stretched the long regular frontage of the huge -mansion for which they were bound. - -The size of the building amazed and rather excited her. 'It must be an -immense place,' she said. 'I had no idea that it was like this!' - -'Yes, the young lady will require to have a great many dollars--eh, my -dear?' - -'You never told me it was such a--a----' - -'Magnificent pile?' he suggested dryly. 'That is what some of my uncle's -guests used to call it. My mother's name for it was the "White -Elephant." Even Uncle Wantley could hardly have lived here if his wife -had not been a very wealthy woman. Of course, to Penelope the essential -ugliness of the place has always been very distasteful; and this perhaps -is fortunate, as Marston Lydiate was the only thing my uncle possessed -which he could not leave to her away from me.' - -Still, he felt a thrill of pleasurable excitement when the carriage -stopped beneath the large Corinthian portico; and he was touched as well -as amused by the rather pompous welcome tendered by the crowd of -servants, the majority of whom he had known all his life, either in -their present situations or as his own village contemporaries. He was -moved by the heartiness with which they greeted him and his young wife, -and pleased at the discretion with which they finally vanished, leaving -him and Cecily alone with the housekeeper, Mrs. Moss. - -We are often assured that a servant's life is cast in pleasant places, -and each member of such a household as that of Marston Lydiate doubtless -enjoys a sense of security denied to many a free man and free woman. But -human nature craves for the unusual, and what can exceed the utter -dulness of life below stairs when the master or mistress of such an -establishment becomes old or broken in health? - -Cecily would have been amused had she known of the long discussions -which had taken place between Mrs. Moss, the housekeeper, and Mr. -Jenkins, the butler, as to whether she or he should have the supreme -pleasure and excitement of leading the couple, who were still regarded, -in that house at least, as a bridal pair, through the ornate -state-rooms to that which had been set apart and prepared for their use -as the most 'cosy' of them all. - -The privilege had been finally conceded to Mrs. Moss, it being admitted -that, with regard to a new Lady Wantley, such was her undoubted right; -and the worthy woman would have been shocked indeed had she realized -that Cecily, while being conducted through the splendid rooms, each -lighted up with a huge fire--the English servant's ideal of welcome--was -feeling very glad that fate had not made her mistress of Marston -Lydiate. - -'Mr. Jenkins thought your ladyship would like tea in the Cedar -Drawing-room.' - -Their long progress had come to an end, and Wantley was pleased that the -room chosen had always been his own favourite apartment, among many -which, though not lacking in the curious pompous charm of the grand -period when Marston Lydiate had been built and furnished, were yet, to -his fastidious taste, overdecorated and overladen with silk and gilding. - -In old days he had often wondered that Lord and Lady Wantley, themselves -with so fine and austere a taste, had been content to leave, at any -rate, the state-rooms of Marston Lydiate exactly as they had found them. -But now, during the last few months, the young man had come face to face -with facts; above all, he had been compelled to see and witness much -which had made him at last understand why his predecessor had chosen -other uses for his wealth than that of putting a more costly simplicity -in the place of the splendour which he had inherited. - -After she had ushered them with much circumstance into the pretty -circular room, even now full of the distinct faint fragrance thrown out -by the cedar panelling from which it took its name, Mrs. Moss still -lingered. - -'Your lordship will find her ladyship very poorly,' she said nervously.' -I know you've heard from Dr. Knox; he said he was writing to you. I do -wish our young lady would come home. She writes to her mamma very -regularly, that I will say; but it's my belief that her ladyship's just -pining to death for her.' - -'You've been having trouble with the nurses?' Wantley spoke with a -certain effort. He had not shown his wife the country doctor's letter to -himself. - -Mrs. Moss tossed her head. 'That we have indeed! They don't like chronic -cases. That's what they all say. I don't know what young women are -coming to! Wait till they're chronic cases themselves! The night nurse -left this morning. I don't know, I'm sure, what we shall do about -to-night.' - -Wantley checked the torrent of words. 'We will arrange about that, you -and I, later. Do you think my aunt would like to see me now, at once?' - -Mrs. Moss shook her head. 'One time's the same to her as another,' she -said, sighing, and left the room. - - -II - -During the last year, crowded as it had been to himself with events of -great moment, Wantley had yet thought much of Penelope's mother. The -knowledge of what she had done, though hidden away in the most secret -recess of his mind and memory had yet inspired him, as time went on, -with an increasing feeling of fear and repulsion. - -His recollection of all that had happened at Monk's Eype remained so -vivid that sometimes he would seem to go again through some of the worst -moments of the dreadful day, which, as he remembered it, had begun with -his strange interview with Lady Wantley. - -For many weeks--ay, and even months--he had lived in acute apprehension -of what each hour might bring forth; and even when the passage of time -had gradually brought a sense of security, when great happiness and, -for the first time in his life, daily work of a real and strenuous -nature had come together to fill his thoughts and chase forth morbid -terror of an untoward revelation, he had heard with actual relief that -Lady Wantley was very ill, and likely to die. - -Very unwillingly he had brought Cecily with him to Marston Lydiate. But -he had found it impossible to give any adequate reason why she should be -left to spend a lonely Christmas in London; further, she had expressed, -with more strength than was usual with her, a desire to accompany him, -and he had been surprised at the warm affection with which she had -spoken of Penelope's mother. - -He was quite determined that his own first meeting with Lady Wantley -should take place alone; and so at last, when he felt the moment he -dreaded could no longer be postponed, Cecily had to submit to being -placed on a sofa, and left, wondering, perplexed, even a little hurt, -while Wantley, guided by Mrs. Moss, went to face an ordeal which his -wife actually envied him. - - -So little really intimate had been the Hall with the Rectory in the days -of Wantley's childhood and boyhood, that there were many rooms of the -vast eighteenth-century mansion which now belonged to him into which he -had never been led as child and boy. And it was with a certain surprise -that he became aware, when standing on its threshold, that Lady -Wantley's bedroom was situated over the round Cedar Drawing-room, and so -was of exactly the same proportions, though the general impression -produced by the colouring and furnishing was amazingly other. - -Long before they became the fashion, Lady Wantley had realized the -beauty and the value of white backgrounds, and no touch of colour, save -that provided by the fine old furniture, marred the delicate purity and -severity of an apartment where, even as a young woman, she had spent -much of her time when at Marston Lydiate. - -In this moment of profound emotion and of fear, Wantley's mind and eyes -yet took delight in the restful whiteness which from the very threshold -seemed to envelop him. - -The small bed, shrouded tent-wise with white curtains, concealed from -him, but only for an instant, the sole occupant of the circular room; -for suddenly he saw, sitting in a large armchair placed close to the -fire, a strange shrunken figure, wrapped and swathed in black from head -to foot. Even the white coif which had always formed part of Lady -Wantley's costume since her widowhood had been put aside for a scarf of -black silk, so arranged as to hide the upper part of the broad forehead, -while accentuating the attenuation of the hollow cheeks, the sunken -eyes, and the still delicately modelled nose and chin. - -As he gazed, horror-struck, at the sinister-looking figure, by whose -side, heaped up in confusion on a small table, lay numberless packets of -letters, some yellow with the passage of time, others evidently written -very lately, Wantley's repugnance became merged in great concern and -pity. - -'If your lordship will excuse me, I don't think I'll go up close to -her,' Mrs. Moss whispered. 'Her ladyship don't seem to care to see me -ever now,' and she slipped away, shutting the door softly behind her, -and so leaving him alone with this strange and, it seemed to him, almost -unreal presence. - -Slowly he went up and stood before her, and as he murmured words of -greeting, and regret that he found her so ailing, he took hold of the -thin, fleshless right hand, to feel startled surprise at the strength of -its burning grasp. - -Looking down into the wan face, meeting the still penetrating grey eyes, -Wantley saw with relief that, at this moment at any rate, she had full -possession of her mind; for the despair he saw there was a sane despair, -and one that told of sentient endurance. - -'I see you have come alone,' she said at last in a low, clear, collected -tone. 'You have not brought your wife? But I could not have expected you -to do otherwise, knowing what you know.' - -'Cecily is here. Of course she came with me,' he answered quickly. 'She -is now lying down, the long journey tired her, and I felt sure you would -like her to rest before seeing you.' - -'Does she _know_?' asked Lady Wantley slowly, searchingly. - -'Oh no!' he said, in almost a whisper, and glancing apprehensively round -the room as he did so, but only to be made aware that they were indeed -alone. - -Then, very deliberately, the young man drew up a chair close to hers. -'Has not the time now come when you should try and forget? Surely you -should try and put the past out of your mind, if only for Penelope's -sake?' - -'Ah,' she said very plaintively, 'but I cannot forget! I am not allowed -to do so. When I lie down I say, "When shall I arise and the night be -gone?" And I am full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of the -day.' - -'Yet you felt justified in your action--above all, you did save -Penelope,' he urged in a low tone. - -But Lady Wantley turned on him a look of anguish and perplexity. - -'Surely,' he added earnestly, 'surely you do not allow yourself to doubt -that Penelope was saved--and saved, I am convinced, from what would have -been a frightful fate, by your action?' - -'I do not know,' she said feebly. 'Part of my punishment has been the -doubt, the awful doubt, as to whether we were justified in our fears. If -I gave my soul for hers, I am more than content to be marked with the -mark of the Beast. For, Ludovic, they that dwell in mine house and my -maids count me for a stranger; I am an alien in their sight.' - -Her words, their hopelessness, moved him to great pity. 'Why did you not -ask us to come before?' he asked. 'We would have done so willingly, and -then you would not have felt so sadly lonely.' - -Lady Wantley looked at him fixedly. 'If they, my father and my husband, -have forsaken me,' she said slowly,'I am not fit for other company. In -my great distress, in my extreme abasement, only my mother has remained -faithful; she alone has had the courage to descend with me into the Pit. -My kinsfolk have failed and my familiar friends have forgotten me. You -know--you remember, Ludovic, that he--my husband, I mean--never left me. -For nearly fifty years we were together, inseparable--forty years in the -flesh, ten years in the spirit; where he went I followed; where I chose -to go he accompanied me, and guarded me from trouble. But now,' she -said--and, oh! so woefully--'I have not felt his presence, or heard his -voice, for upwards of a year.' - -Wantley got up: he turned away, and, walking to the great bay-window, -looked out on the darkening, snow-bound landscape. - -This stretching out, this appeal of her soul, as it were, to his, moved -him as might have done the intolerable sight of some poor creature -enduring the extremity of physical torment. - -Again he came to her, again took her thin, burning hand in his, and -then, murmuring something of his wife, abruptly left her. - - -III - -Cecily was still lying on the sofa where he had placed her. The fire -alone lighted up the fine old luxurious room, softening the bright green -of the damask curtains, bathing the low gilt couch and the figure lying -on it in rosy light. - -With a gesture most unusual with him, Wantley flung himself on his knees -by his wife: he gathered her head and shoulders in his arms, pressed the -soft hair off her forehead, and kissed her with an almost painful -emotion. 'You will find her very altered,' he said hoarsely; 'I wonder -if I ought to let you see her. I'm afraid you will be distressed, and I -cannot let you be distressed just now!' - -'Has she been too much left alone? Oh, Ludovic, I wish we had come -before! Perhaps the nurse--the woman who has just left--was not kind to -her.' - -Cecily was starting up, but he held her back, exceedingly perplexed as -to what to do and what to say. 'No,' he said at last; and then, -carefully choosing his words, 'She did not speak of the nurse, and I do -not suppose that any one has been outwardly disrespectful or unkind to -her. But, dearest, before you go up to her, I think you should be -prepared to find her in a very pitiful state. I dare say you've -forgotten once speaking to me at Monk's Eype concerning her belief that -she was in close communication with the dead whom she loved? Well, now -she unhappily believes that her husband has forsaken her, that his -spirit no longer holds communication with hers.' Wantley's voice broke. -'To hear her talk of it, of her agony and loneliness, is horribly sad; -and although I do not actually believe that my uncle was, as she says, -always with her, I could not help thinking of ourselves--of how I should -feel, my darling, if you were to turn from me.' - -'But,' said Cecily, clinging to him, 'I could never, never turn from -you!' - -'Ah! but so Uncle Wantley would once have said to her. You never saw -him; you do not know, as I do, in what an atmosphere of devotion--it -might almost be said of adoration--he always surrounded her. I don't -wonder,' he added, 'that she felt it endure even after his death.' - -'But why does she think he has turned from her?' asked Cecily, -perplexed. - -Wantley hesitated. 'She believes,' he answered reluctantly, 'that she -has done something which has utterly alienated him. But we must try and -keep her from the whole subject, and perhaps--indeed, I hope--she will -not speak to you as freely as she did to me.' - -Hand in hand they went through the great ground-floor rooms, up the -broad staircase, and down vast corridors. - -At the door of Lady Wantley's room he turned to Cecily. 'Promise me,' he -said rather sternly, 'that if I make you a sign--if I say "Go"--you will -leave us. It is not right that you should be made ill, or that you -should be overdistressed.' And as he spoke there was in his voice a note -new to her--a tone which said very clearly that he meant to be obeyed. - -Wantley hung back as Cecily, treading softly, walked forward into the -room of which the white dimness had been accentuated by two candles -which had been lighted close to where Lady Wantley was sitting. - -Suddenly, as the older woman stood up, uttering a curious, yearning cry -of welcome which thrilled through the passive spectator, the younger -woman ran forward, and took the shrunken, shrouded figure in her -arms--soft arms, which were at once so maternal and so childish in -contour. - -Then the one standing aside felt a curious feeling come over him. -Sometimes it seemed as if he shared his wife with the whole of the -suffering half of the world. - -Silently he watched Cecily place Lady Wantley back in her chair, and -then, kneeling down by her, first kiss, and then take between her warm -young palms, the other's trembling hands. He heard his wife's words: -'We are ashamed of not having come before, of having left you to be -lonely here; but now we will stay as long as you will have us, and I am -sure you will be better, perhaps quite well again, by the time Penelope -comes home!' - -'Is Ludovic here?' Lady Wantley asked suddenly. And as he came forward, -'Are there not candles,' she asked him--'candles which should be lit?' - -'Yes,' he answered, looking round with some surprise. 'There are a great -number of candles about your room--all unlit, of course.' - -'Unlit?' she repeated; 'unlit as yet, for till now I feared the light. -When I said "My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint," -then I was scared by dreams and terrified through visions.' - -'But now,' whispered Cecily earnestly, 'you will no longer be so sadly -lonely; we will see that you are not left alone.' - -'I am no longer lonely or alone,' said Lady Wantley mysteriously. 'That -is why,' she added, looking at the young man standing before her--'that -is why I must ask you, Ludovic, to go round my room and give light; for -the bridegroom cometh, and must not find me in the dark.' - -Wondering at her words, he obeyed, and a few moments later they left -her, the centre of a circle of glimmering lights. - - -IV - -It was night. In the dimly-lighted corridor Wantley stood holding a -short colloquy with the maid who tended Lady Wantley throughout the day. -'There's nothing to do but sit by quietly,' the woman spoke wearily. -'Her ladyship never speaks all night; but she won't be left alone a -minute.' - -Entering the room, he hoped to find her asleep, for he still felt -strangely unfamiliar with the thin, worn face and strange, -distraught-looking eyes. There had always been something ample about -Lady Wantley's presence, especially a great dignity of demeanour; but -the long months of mental agony had betrayed her, and he wondered that -those about her had not divined her fear, and asked themselves of what -she was afraid. - -Wantley had been terribly moved by the tragic melancholy of their first -meeting, infinitely touched by her cry of welcome to his young wife; but -he felt oppressed at the thought of his lonely vigil, and as he sat down -by the fire with a book, he hoped most fervently that she would sleep, -or remain, as he was told she always had done with the nurse whose place -he was now filling, mutinously silent. - -But he had scarcely read the first words of the story to whose familiar -charm he trusted to make him for the moment forget, when Lady Wantley's -voice came clearly across the room. 'Cecily,' he said to himself, 'has -indeed worked wonders;' for the words were uttered naturally, almost as -the speaker might have spoken them in the old days when all was well -with her. - -'I want to know'--and the words seemed to float towards him--'about you -and Cecily. I cannot tell you, Ludovic, how happy it makes me to think -that this dear child shares my name with me! I learnt to love her during -those days--before----' Her voice faltered. - -Wantley quickly laid down 'Persuasion.' He rose and went over to the -bed, drew up a chair, and very tenderly and quietly took one of the thin -hands lying across the counterpane in his. 'Yes, let me tell you all -about ourselves,' he said quickly, forcing a light note into his voice. -'After our marriage--such a queer, quiet wedding----' - -'Was Penelope there? I can't remember.' - -'No, no! Penelope had already started on her travels. Just then I think -she was in Japan.' He went on, speaking quickly, hardly knowing what he -was saying. 'Well, Cecily had had a hard time at the Settlement--in -fact, she was really quite tired out--so, to the great horror of Miss -Wake, who had never heard of such a thing being done before, I took her -the day we were married down to Brighton, although several people, -including a brother of Miss Theresa's, offered us country-houses. In a -sense we spent our honeymoon at Cecily's old convent, for we went out -there almost every day. I got on splendidly with the nuns, especially -with the one whom I suppose one would call the Mother Abbess. Such a -woman, such a type! One of Napoleon's field-marshals in -petticoats--knowing exactly what she wanted, and making the people round -her do it.' - -Wantley paused a moment, then went on: 'After three weeks of Brighton, -this determined old lady made me take my wife to France, to Versailles. -"La vous l'aimerez bien, et vous la distrairez beaucoup!" she commanded; -and of course I obeyed.' - -There was a pause. 'And then you went on to Monk's Eype?' Lady Wantley -raised herself on her pillows; she looked at him searchingly, but he -avoided meeting her eyes. 'I felt surprised to hear of your going -there,' she said, and the hand he was still holding trembled in his -grasp. - -'I was surprised to find myself going there'--Wantley spoke very slowly, -very reluctantly--'but Cecily loves the place, and you would not have -had me sell it, just after Penelope had so very generously given it over -to us?' - -'Oh no!' she said. And then again, 'Oh no! I did not mean that, -Ludovic.' - -'I have had the Beach Room taken away,' he said, almost in a whisper. -'It is entirely obliterated'; and then, trying again to speak more -naturally: 'We had Philip Hammond with us part of the time; and also -others of Cecily's Stratford friends, including one poor fellow who had -never had more than two days' holiday in his life since he first began -working! And then I want to tell you'--he was eager to get away from -Monk's Eype--'about our life in town, and the sort of existence we had -made for ourselves.' - -Lady Wantley, for the first time, smiled. 'I know,' she said; -'people--acquaintances, and old fellow-workers of your uncle--have -written to me full of joy.' - -Wantley made a slight grimace. 'Well,' he observed rather shamefacedly, -'I have had to take to it all, if only in self-defence; otherwise I -should never see anything of my own wife. Even as it is, I have offended -a good many people, especially lately, by my determination that she -shall not join any more committees or undertake any new work. Cecily is -quite bewildered to find what a number of admirable folk there are in -the world!' - -Lady Wantley again smiled. 'But I do not suppose,' she said, 'that -Cecily finds among them many like herself. I have sometimes thought of -how well your uncle would have liked her.' - -'Pope and all?' Wantley smiled. For the first time he allowed his eyes -frankly to meet hers. - -'Yes, yes!' she cried with something of her old eagerness; 'he always -knew and recognized goodness when he saw it. And, Ludovic, you know what -I told you to-day--of my awful loneliness, of my desolation of body and -spirit?' Wantley looked at her uneasily. 'Even as I spoke to you,' she -said, 'my punishment was being remitted, my solitude blessedly -invaded--for he, the husband of my youth, my companion and helper, was -returning, to help me across the passage.' - -A feeling, not so much of astonishment, as of awe and fear came over -Wantley. His eyes sought the dim grey shadows, out of which he half -expected to see force itself the figure of the man he had never wholly -liked, or even wholly respected, but whom he had always greatly feared. - -'He came back with Cecily,' Lady Wantley added, after a long pause. 'Her -purity has blotted out my iniquity.' - -'And do you actually see him now? Are you aware of his presence?' - -Wantley in a sense felt that on her answer would depend what he himself -would see, and as he waited he felt increasingly afraid; but, 'To know -that he is there is all I ask,' she said slowly; 'to be able to tell him -everything is the sum of my desire, and this I can now do;' and, lying -back on her high pillows, she sank into silence and sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - 'On childing women that are forlorn, - And men that sweat in nothing but scorn-- - That is, on all that ever were born-- - Miserere, Domine.' - - H. B. - - -I - -The next morning poor Cecily felt strangely forlorn. Somehow, this did -not seem like Christmas Day. Wantley, haggard, but smiling, after his -long night's vigil, had declared that the state of the roads made it out -of the question that they should drive the six miles to the nearest -Catholic church, and she had submitted without a word, only insisting -that he should have some hours of sleep. - -And then, after having knelt down by the fire in the spacious room which -had been prepared for her, when she had read the service of the Mass and -said her rosary, she sent a message to Lady Wantley asking if she could -come to her. - -The mistress of Marston Lydiate was still in bed, and in the wintry -morning light Cecily saw with a pang how aged and how ailing her old -friend had become, but the look of intolerable distress and terror had -gone from the pale, delicate face. - -'Do you know, my dear, what day this is--I mean, what day this is to -me?' - -'Yes,' said Cecily, smiling: 'I know that it is Penelope's birthday, as -well as Christmas Day.' - -Lady Wantley raised herself in bed. She put her arms round the younger -woman and kissed her. 'I know how it is with you,' she whispered, 'and, -oh, I am so glad! Do you know how long I myself had to wait?' And then, -receiving no answer, she added: 'Nineteen years! That was the only -shadow on my singularly happy, blessed life; but it was a shadow which -sometimes darkened everything. I only once spoke to him--to my husband, -I mean--on the matter, for in those days we women seldom spoke of our -feelings. I had been ill, some trifling ailment, and he came and sat by -me in this room, just where you are sitting now, and suddenly I told him -of my longing for a child. I was foolish and repining, alas! for you -must know, my dear, that I grieved for his sake as well as for my own. I -have often thought, this last year, lying here, of what he answered. He -looked at me so kindly. "Am I not more to thee than ten sons?" he asked; -and I felt infinitely comforted. - -'And then'--Cecily spoke softly--'Penelope was born?' - -'Ah no, not then!' said Lady Wantley, with the literalness which -sometimes suddenly came to her. 'Many years had to go by first. But when -she came it was on Christmas morning.' She shaded her eyes with her left -hand. 'Not a day like this,' she whispered. 'It was a warm, sunny, -green Christmas that year; I remember it all so well. Ludovic's mother -came up to see me after church. You know we were never really intimate; -I fear she did not like me. But she was very kind that day. All women -feel in sympathy with one another on such days, and Mrs. Wantley's love -for her own son made her know what my daughter would be to me.' Lady -Wantley hesitated, and then, as if speaking to herself, added: 'How -often I have looked at my beloved child--my beautiful gifted -Penelope--and prayed God to comfort childless women.' Then suddenly the -speaker's face contracted, and she looked at Cecily as if wishing to -compel her to speak truly. 'Is it well with my child?' she asked. 'Tell -me what you think, what you know of her? I know you love her dearly.' - -'I know nothing, and cannot tell what to think.' The answer was slow, -reluctant, and truthful. - -Lady Wantley turned and searched under her pillow. Silently she handed -Cecily a letter, wistfully watched her read it. 'Doubtless she writes -more fully to you, her friend, than to me, her mother,' she said at -last; but Cecily remained silent while glancing perplexed, over the -short, dry, though not unaffectionate note. 'There is a postscript on -the other side of the sheet. Perhaps you knew already that David -Winfrith was with her?' - -On the last sheet of foreign note-paper were written in Mrs. Robinson's -clear, pointed handwriting the words: 'David Winfrith is in Bombay. He -is coming up to see me in a few days.' - -'We acted very wrongly,' said Lady Wantley, in a low tone. 'He--my -husband--now knows that we were not rightly guided in the matter. We -were swayed by considerations of no real moment. She loved David then; -she was very steadfast. It was he who gave way. Lord Wantley sent for -him and made him withdraw his offer. Do you think that now---- Ah, -Cecily, if I could only hope to leave Penelope in so safe a haven!' - -Cecily's lips quivered. Not even to comfort her old friend could she, or -would she, say what she believed to be false. To her simple heart such -love as that once avowed to herself by Penelope for Downing could not -change or die away. It might be thrust back out of sight at the call of -conscience, but the void could never be filled by another man. - -David Winfrith? Why, Penelope had often laughed at him in the old happy -days when she, Cecily, was first at the Settlement. Oh no! David -Winfrith might follow Mrs. Robinson all over the world, but Penelope -would ever keep outside the haven offered by him, if, indeed--and again -a flash of remembrance crossed her mind--such haven was still open to -her. - -She could say nothing comfortable, and so kept silent, but her troubled -look answered for her. Lady Wantley drew a long, sharp breath. 'I cannot -hope,' she muttered, 'to be wholly forgiven.' - - -II - -There are certain days and festivals when every association of the heart -confirms the truth of the old saying that any company is better than -none. So felt Wantley and Cecily sitting down to their lonely Christmas -dinner--or lunch, as Mr. Jenkins more genteelly put it--in the vast -dining-room, where, as the same authority assured Cecily, 'fifty could -sit down easy.' - -Had these two not been at Marston Lydiate, they would now have been at -the Settlement, Wantley doubtless grumbling, man-like, to himself -because he was not spending Christmas Day alone, by his own fireside, -with his own wife. But to-day even he felt the silence of the great -house oppressive, and early in the afternoon he assented with eagerness -to Cecily's proposal that they should walk down to the village and see -the church where, as she reminded him, he had been baptized. - -Mrs. Moss, the housekeeper, and Mr. Jenkins, the butler, standing -together by the window in the butler's pantry--which was from their -point of view most agreeably situated, for it commanded the entrance to -the house--watched the young couple set off from under the portico. - -They were talking together rather eagerly, Cecily flushed and smiling. -'It's easy to see they have not long been married,' said the housekeeper -with a soft sigh. 'Still plenty to say, I expect.' - -But young Lady Wantley was shaking her head, and as she and her husband -passed on their way, within but a few feet of the window behind which -stood the couple who were looking at them with such affectionate -interest, she exclaimed rather loudly: 'Oh, Ludovic, how can you say -such a thing! I don't agree with you at all!' - -'Ho, ho, a tiff!' whispered Mr. Jenkins with gloomy satisfaction; but -Mrs. Moss turned on him very sharply. - -'Stuff and nonsense!' she said; 'that's only to show she's not his -slave. Why, that girl Charlotte Pidder--her ladyship's lady's-maid I -suppose she fancies herself to be, though, from what I can make out, she -can't neither do hairdressing nor dressmaking--was telling me this -morning that they fairly dote on one another. There now, look at them! -There's a pretty sight for you!' - -The walkers had come to a standstill, and Wantley taking his wife's -hand, was trying to put it through his arm. 'I will not touch your -sacred idol!' the eavesdroppers heard him say, 'In future I will always -keep my real thoughts to myself.' - -'Well, of all things! If the old lord could only hear them!' whispered -Mrs. Moss, now really scandalized. 'It do seem a pity that such a nice -young lady should be a Papist, and should try and make him a worshipper -of idols, too.' And she turned away, for the two outside had quickened -their steps, and were no longer within earshot. - -Cecily was still indignant. 'I only wish,' she said, her voice trembling -a little, 'that you were right and I wrong. If only Penelope would marry -Mr. Winfrith, and live happy ever after----' - -'I did not promise you that,' said Wantley mildly, 'though, mind you, I -think she would have a better chance with him than with anyone else.' - -'But why should she marry at all?' cried Cecily. 'I quite understand why -her mother would like her to do so, but surely, after all that -happened----' - -Wantley shot a keen glance at his companion. 'Wonderful,' he murmured, -'the effect of even one night's good country air! You look much better, -and even prettier, that you did yesterday.' - -Cecily smiled. Praise from him always sounded very sweetly in her ear, -but, 'No, no!' she said, 'I won't let you off! Tell me why Penelope is -not to remain as she is if she wishes to do so?' - -'There are a hundred reasons, with most of which I certainly shall not -trouble you; but the best of them all is that, however much she wishes -it, she will not be able to do so.' - -'And pray, why not?' asked Cecily. - -'If Winfrith doesn't succeed in carrying her off, someone infinitely -less worthy certainly will, and then all our troubles will begin again. -Don't you see--or is it, as I sometimes suspect, that you won't -see?'--his voice suddenly grew grave--'that Penelope is never content, -never even approximately happy, unless she is'--he hesitated, then went -on, avoiding as he spoke the candid eyes lifted up to his in such eager, -perplexed inquiry--'well, unless she has some man, or, better still, -several men, in play? Now, that sort of game--oh! but I mean it: with -her it has always been a game, and a game only becomes absorbing and -exciting when there is present the element of danger--generally ends in -disaster.' - -Cecily walked on in silence. 'I admit there is some truth in what you -say,' she said at last; 'but I am sure, _sure_, Ludovic, that you are -wrong about Mr. Winfrith.' - -Wantley looked at her thoughtfully. 'A bet, a little bet, my dearest, is -a very good way of proving the faith that is in you. Here and now I -propose that, if I prove right and you prove wrong after, let us say, -two years----' - -'Please--please,' she said, 'do not make a joke of this matter; it hurts -me.' - -'Forgive me,' he cried repentantly. 'I am rather light-headed to-day, -and you know I always feel rather jealous of Penelope. After all that's -come and gone, it's rather hard that she should take also my wife from -me!' - - -III - -Of the many ill things done in the name of beauty during the last -hundred years, none, surely, can compare in sheer wantonness with the -restorations of our old village churches. In this matter pious -iconoclasts have wrought more mischief than Cromwell and his Ironsides -ever succeeded in doing, and the lover of rural England, in the course -of his pilgrimage, has perpetually thrust on his notice the loveliness -without, wedded to the plaintive ugliness within, of buildings raised to -the glory of God in a more creative as well as in a holier age than -ours. - -Here and there, becoming, however, pitifully few as time goes on, the -seeker may even now find a village church to the interior of which no -desecration has as yet been offered. But such survivals owe their -temporary lease of life either to the happy indifference of a wise -neighbourhood, or to the determined eccentricity and obstinate -conservatism of an incumbent happening to be on intimate terms of -friendship--or enmity will serve as well--with the patron of the living. - -Such had been the fortunate case of the parish church of Marston -Lydiate, and Wantley felt a thrill of pleasure when he saw how -completely untouched everything had been left since the distant days of -his childhood. - -Together he and his wife made their way among the square old-fashioned -pews, first to one and then to another of the holly-decked tombs and -monuments of long-dead Wantleys. At last the young man led Cecily up to -the most ancient, as also to the most ornate, of these, one taking up -the greater part of one aisle. - -The monument represented Sir George Wantley, of Marston Lydiate, Knight, -who in the year 1609 had rebuilt the church. His effigy in armour, -bare-headed and kneeling, was under a pillared canopy, and at some -little distance was the statue of his wife under a similar canopy. The -inscription set forth that their married life, if brief, had been -unclouded by dissension, and that 'His lady, left alone, lived alone,' -till, having attained her eightieth year, 'she was again joined unto her -husband in this place.' - -'So,' said Wantley, very soberly, 'would you wish our poor Penelope to -be. She has been left alone, and now you would condemn her to live -alone.' - -But Cecily made no answer. She only looked very kindly at the stiff -figure of the steadfast dame whose name she now herself bore, and whose -conduct she so thoroughly understood and approved. - -As they walked through the church gate, a boy came running up -breathless. He held a telegram in his hand, and began, in the native -dialect, an involved explanation as to why it had not been delivered -before. - -'Oh, it's addressed to you,' said Wantley, handing it to his wife. - -Cecily opened it. 'I don't understand,' she began, but he saw her cheeks -turn bright pink. 'I don't think it can be meant for me at all.' - -Wantley looked over her shoulder. 'It certainly is not meant for you,' -he said dryly. - -The message, which had been sent from Simla, consisted in the words: - - 'Penelope and I were married to-day by Archdeacon of Lahore. Please - have proper announcement put in _Times_.--Your affectionate son, - DAVID WINFRITH.' - -Wantley and Cecily looked at one another in silence. Then, fumbling -about in his pocket, the young man finally handed the astonished and -gratified boy half a sovereign. 'It's fair that someone should win the -bet,' he said, with a queer whimsical smile, and then, after the -recipient of his bounty had gone off, he added: 'Well, Cecily?' - -'You are always right, and I am always wrong,' she cried, half laughing, -and yet her eyes filling with tears. 'But, oh! do let us hurry back and -give this to Lady Wantley. I shall have to explain to her how stupid it -was of me to open it.' - -They walked along in almost complete silence, till suddenly Wantley said -musingly: 'I wonder how much David Winfrith knows--I wonder if she has -told him----' - -But Cecily looked up at him very reproachfully, and as if she herself -were being accused--of what? 'There was very little to know,' she said -vehemently, 'and very, very little to tell.' - -'If you make half as good a wife as you are friend,' exclaimed Wantley, -'I shall be more than content.' - - -THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF PENELOPE*** - - -******* This file should be named 52055.txt or 52055.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/2/0/5/52055 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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