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THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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Harvard College Library
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The Heart of Penelope


hew 68. Aovels
THE PRODIGAL SON
By Hall Caine
PAM
By BARONESS VON HUTTEN
BACCARAT
By FRANK DANBY
ON ETNA
By Norma LORIMER
CAPTAIN AMYAS
By Dolf WYLLARDE
JENA' OR 'SEDAN
By FRANZ ADAM BEYERLEIN
THE wise WOODS
By Mrs. HENRY DUDENEY
THE MERRY-GO-ROUND
By W. S. MAUGHAM
THE GREY WORLD
By Evelyn UNDERHILL
AMANDA OF THE MILL
By Marie Van Vorst
A LADDER OF SWORDS
By GILBERT PARKER
THE EAGLE'S SHADOW
By J. B. CABELL
OLIVE LATHAM
By E. L. VOYNICH
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.


The
Heart of Penelope
By
Mrs. Belloc Lowndes
It is worth the labour to consider well of Love, whether it be a god,
or a devil, or a passion of the mind, or partly god, partly devil, partly
passion.'
PLOTINUS
London
William Heinemann
1904


RVARU ALLE
nos (13.2.36
JUN 28 1917
LIBRARY
ly exchange
This Edition enjoys Copyright in
all countries signatory to the Berne
Treaty, and is not to be imported
into the United States of America


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.
SIR GEORGE DOWNING was back in London after an
absence of twenty years from England. The circum-
stances 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, with-
out 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 pro-
duced 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 the liking, and


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 grati-
tude, 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 contem-
plated by the men who, though backed by the power
and prestige of the Foreign Office, are also tied by its


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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
I- 2


4
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 states-
man 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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
5
Attracted by a prim modesty of demeanour and appa-
rent 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 civiliza-
tion. 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 ex-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
pected, 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 incom-
prehensible. 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 re-
ceived 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 fore-
bears, 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 unfinchingly : '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 experi-
enced the one passionate episode of her life.
Twice he came back-the first time with the honest


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 hesi-
tated, 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 offer-
ing 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 con-
tributed by her husband.
Years wore themselves away, communications be-
tween 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 pre-
ferred to remain away from his own country.
Still, the day came when 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 re-
appearance 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,'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
9
to the few to whom he owed a real apology for thus
disappointing them. To the larger number of busi-
ness 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.
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 introduc-
tions 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.


Ιο
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 the 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 him-
self 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
II
II
on the rugged secretive face, to which had come, in-
deed, 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.
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 twink-
ling lights of Piccadilly, and where he had been


12
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
answering briefly the pile of letters he had found wait-
ing 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 incon-
venience, gentlemen,' he plunged into the multiple com-
plex 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
13
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 bootmaker, 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 recogni-
tion in her placid face, and, in answer to the request
that he might see the rooms where he had once lived


14
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
'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 good
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.'
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 some-
thing 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
15
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 des-
tined 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 overcivil-
ized world. The second wife of a permanent Govern-
ment 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 inno-
cent 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 him-
self absorbed in a more ardent, a more responsive
friendship, and when his feet learnt to shun the quiet


16
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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,


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
17
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 anyone 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
gray 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.
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 in-
variably 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
18


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
19
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 ad-
mitted 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 com-
paratively 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
2-2


20
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 them-
selves: 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
21
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 extra-
ordinary, 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 dis-
cretion of his friends, and even of his acquaintances.
They on their side were always ready to urge in excul-
pation 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 ad-
mitted 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 who-
ever 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 neces-
sarily 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


22
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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
recognised that some of his old stories were better worth
hearing than those which they in their turn came to tell.
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


24
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 Robin-
son—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 mis-
chief, but he will act as special constable on occa-
sion, and when everything else fails he's always there,
ready to put his arm round the dear erring creature's


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
25
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 horse-
woman 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


26
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 fore-
most 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 en-
graved in faded gilt letters the words 'The Lady and
her Pack.'
'Avaluable and very rare family portrait,' said
Mr. Gumberg grimly. “The lady is Penelope's grand-
mother, 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 under-
stand, 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 collec-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
27
tions. 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 extra-
ordinary 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 Down-
ing, 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 read-
ing 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.


28
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
Gumberg, and I will tell you how and where I first
made her acquaintance and that of her daughter.'
• 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 mer-
chant, the kindest and wisest man I have ever known,
and the most delightful of companions, took me a walk-
ing tour through the Yorkshire dales. Now, those were
the days when all inns were bad and all houses hos-
pitable. 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 con-
trived that we should find a kind welcome and comfort-
able 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 crino-
line-in long, straight gray 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 :


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
29
“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 gentle-
man.” “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
gray 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 shalt 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,


30
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
33
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 Ogle-
thorpe. 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 really failed Mr. Gum-
3


34
. THE HEART OF PENELOPE
berg. For the third time he repeated, “A marriage'-
his old eyes gleamed maliciously—'which was no mar-
riage! 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 after-
wards 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
35
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 idea 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 some-
one 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.
3-
2


CHAPTER III
.... a queen
: By virtue of her brow and breast;
Not needing to be crowned, I mean.'
BROWNING.
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 gray
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
37
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.


38
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 the faded brocades, the ivory inlaid chairs and


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
39
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 windows looked out
on a fine old garden, along whose shady paths had
once walked blind Châteaubriand, led by Madame
Recamier; 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. Many years later,


40
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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, per-
haps 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 unconven-
tional 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 him-
self 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, Swedish plays printed in the
language in which they had been written, 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
inquiries into the gloomier problems of life. Such
were the contents of the small 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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
41
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 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 dis-
cussing 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, for 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


42
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 in-
telligent 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 the time that she could spare
from herself. Sometimes, when she realized the vast
sum which had been sunk in the Melancthon Settlement,
she would feel a pang at the thought of what so much
money would have done, if not for art, at least for those
who were studying art.
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 she 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 great artist her friend, who had once owed
her and Lord Wantley much in the way of sympathy


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
43
and encouragement, had desired to suggest in the com-
position 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 gray eyes had gained
somewhat in dimness, and the hair from dark brown
had become almost white. The painter himself sub-
stituted, for the lilies which were to have filled in part
of the background, a sheaf of rosemary.
The other painting 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.
Beneath this last portrait, holding herself upright on
the low white couch, a girl, Cecily Wake, sat waiting.


44
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
She looked round the room with an affectionate appre-
ciation 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, com-
pleted 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
45
her 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
utterly 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 look-
ing 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 unselfish-
ness 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; neverthe-
less, 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


46
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
of seeing to the unpacking of her aunt's boxes and
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, think-
ing, 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 her aunt 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
47
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.
could hver brince. This
Cecily had not long to wait. The tall book-framed
door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Robinson walked swiftly
in. As she came down the room, a smile of real plea-
sure and welcome lighting up her face, Cecily was
almost startled by the look of vigorous grace and vitality
with which the figure was instinct, and which was
accentuated rather than lessened by the short skirt, the
dun-coloured coat, and hard 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 am so glad to see you, and not sorry the
aunt is too tired to come down. 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


48
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
ride-such discussion such a quarrel—such a reconcilia-
tion! 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. No, 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, but she could not remember exactly what
it was.
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 Settle-
ment. 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.'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
49
‘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 Ludovic 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-
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 fitted 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 indeed 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 did not at all agree, but made no comment.
Instead, she observed, diffidently, 'Well, in any case,
I will try and interest him in the Settlement. I have
brought down the 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 printed
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, and opened the drawer
where she kept various odds and ends connected with
her work. “Tell me,' she said a little hurriedly, her face


50
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 unsatis-
factory 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. 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 was
perhaps only natural.
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
Wantley 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 she regarded her brilliant friend. Therefore
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 the
other side of the table, over whose open drawer Pene-
lope was still bending her head. 'Perhaps you re-
member 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- '


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
51
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 re-
minded her of that fragment of her past life to which
she looked back with a sense of almost angry amaze-
ment. And yet she had surely heard what her com-
panion had been saying, for her next words showed it.
'A good girl,' she repeated slowly ; then, hurrying
over the words as if anxious they should get themselves
said and heard: ‘I wish you to give to her, or to any
other of our girls you really like, and whose young man
you think well of, this wedding ring. 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 neigh-
bourhood 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
4-2


52
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 cæur. 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 !
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 require-
ments 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 char-
acter. 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, hold-
ing, with the saint who had been their founder, that it
53


54
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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. 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
someone 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 men-
tioned 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 had left his mark on
English literature, and whose children had one by one
returned to the old fold, taught them English composi-
tion, 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 super-
vision 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
55
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 Général 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, espe-
cially when she compared herself with such popular


56
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 them-
selves, 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 prepara-
tion 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
57
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 looked back to 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 really strait-
ened means, had learnt to content herself with a way of
existence which lacked every source of healthy excite-
ment, 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 senti-
ment 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 inost incessant,
though never mentioned, subject of thought. This was


58
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 forty, 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 neigh-
bours. 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 in York-
shire and Cumberland, but as the years went on, and as
her income lowered some pounds each year, she gradu-
ally 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
59
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 West-
morland, 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 Ogle-
thorpe, and I chose the place-
'I know,' had interrupted Miss Wake, her voice
trembling a little in spite of herself. You must have
done 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


60
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 pre-
sented 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
61
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 pro-
viding 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 intro-
ductions 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, unanswer-
able, 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


62
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.
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 Renais-
sance, and it was perhaps fortunate, in these gray
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.
To Melancthon Robinson's mother, a stern-faced,
plain old woman, to whom the marriage of her revered
only son had been a bitter disenchantment, deepening
not lessening since his death, Penelope's dress and
appearance were an ever-recurring outrage. She would
have preferred, on the part of her daughter-in-law, the
flaunting of bright colours, the wearing of sparkling
gems; the subdued tints, the changes rung on delicate
lavender, pale grays and ivory whites, moved the elder
woman to greater anger than would have done, the
wearing of bright reds and yellows. Too well she
knew that her son, if not absolutely forgotten, was


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
63
rarely in Penelope's thoughts, and these outward tributes
of respect to his memory were to his mother full of
hypocritical irony.
On the day that Mrs. Robinson, calling on Miss
Wake, first met Cecily, the wedding to which she had
been was the excuse for a white velvet gown of which
the brilliancy was softened and attenuated by a cape of
silver-gray fur. But the two women she had come to
see were in no mood to cavil at their lovely visitor's
appearance. To the elder lady the sight of her young
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 only 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 was a halt before the wide
doors of a long, low building, of which the latticed


64
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
windows and white curtains struck a curious note of
cleanliness and refinement in the squalid neighbour-
hood.
'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 though 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.
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
65
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, dis-
appeared for some moments, coming back laden 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.
Oh 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 fire-
place; her face, resting on her two clasped hands, shone
whitely against the gray, 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 Settle-
ment? 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


66
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
67
'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 Robin-
son 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 recon-
stitute 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 criticise the work that is done here, I
merely ask them one question. I say, “Have you ever
542


68
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
69
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,


70
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
71
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


72
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.
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,


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
,
73
clean-shaven face, of which she knew every turn and
expression. You must forgive and approve me for
being late,' she said. “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,'


74.
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
-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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
75
know, half your acquaintances, have had the privilege
of travelling with me across the world. When one of
your trusted party 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
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 anyone but
yourself. I once asked Ludovic to escort me from
Rome to Siena and back, but he refused. Now that
your mind is set at rest, now that you know you will be
the 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 per-
ceptibly. 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


76
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.
She turned quickly. But as she 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
77
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 in reason, 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 sat down by her, telling her what
had occurred, asking 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 say 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


78
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 he is not a man to understand that. And if
I may say so'—thus would she, the wise mentor, con-
clude her words of advice and of consolation to this most
unwise and impulsive friend—' I think you have really
had an escape. The half in this case 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 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,


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
79
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 silently
out of the room.


82
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 man who had sat for it some twenty years before.
And this resemblance was the more striking because of
the familiar attitude, the left hand supporting the chin,
which had for most of the sitter's fellow-countrymen
the ridiculous associations of caricature.
Mrs. Robinson disliked both the room and the por-
trait. But mingled feelings of respect, of affection,
and of fear, had caused her to leave the room as it
had been during its late owner'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.
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 spacious 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 travel-
ling-coat, and stick laid across the top of the Italian
marriage-chest, the brilliancy of whose armorial orna-
ments 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 entertain-
ing those of her fellow-painters whose work attracted
her fancy or excited her admiration, and Wantley's


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
83
fastidious taste sometimes revolted from the associa-
tions into which she thrust him.
The young man's relations to his beautiful cousin
were at once singular and natural-best, perhaps, ex-
plained by a word said in the frankness of grief during
the hours which had immediately followed his prede-
cessor'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-extra-
ordinary marriage, he had not been in any way con-
sulted. 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
6- 2


84
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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
religious 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 some-
times 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 indeed 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 supereroga-
tion as the principal relaxation of a somewhat austere
existence, while not concealing from himself, though, as
he believed, concealing from her, the fact that the
necessary interviews with his old love were the salt


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
85
of what was otherwise a laborious and abstemious
life.
David Winfrith had been more or less successful
in hiding his feelings, such as they were, from the
world round him. 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 had 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 the great philanthropist.
On the evening of his unexpected return to the
villa, an evening long remembered by him, Wantley
dressed early and made his way into the Picture Room,
expecting there to find an ill-assorted party, for Mrs.
Robinson was one of those women whose own personal


86
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 Settle-
ment; 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, since her
widowhood of black silk or wool, the cross-over bodice,
and the lace coif, which almost wholly concealed her
banded hair, while not hiding the shape of her head,
had originally been designed for her by the painter to


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 return-
ing to her mother; but every winter saw the two
ladies spending some weeks together in London, and
regularly 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


88
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
annoyed that he had returned so soon from the visit
which, had he but known it, 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, address-
ing 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, 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
89
across, if not always famous, at least generally interest-
ing 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 some
man 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, in-
sistent 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
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 Mrs. Robinson'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.
to remember 4, my love." So many years
lingered in


90
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
• 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 foot-
steps 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.
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 intro-
duced; 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. 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,


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
91
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-gray eyes, in some ways singularly alike,
as Penelope had perceived with a certain shock of sur-
prise, 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 super-
ficially, 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 per-
suading 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,


92
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 re-
placed 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 mous-
tache, streaked with strands of white hair, and the
luminous gray 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
93
her aurred to Lady Washen standing by
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. But,
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 honoured
with his particular regard. David Winfrith was the


94
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
exception which always proves the rule, and Wantley
admitted, unwillingly enough, 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 admitted to himself in later life, foolishly,
culpably blind.
Gradually the conversation turned on that strange,
mysterious country with which Sir George Downing
was now so intimately connected. His slow voice,
even, toneless, as is so often that of those who have
lived 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 appre-
hensively, 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 ! cried 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 cen-
tralized in God's elect, and all concurrent wills of
the creature are thereto subordinated.'
'He may be odd, but he must certainly think us
odder,' thought Wantley, not without enjoyment.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
95
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 gray 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 deliber-
ately, into the deep pool where they all suddenly found
themselves. “Do you really believe in lucky numbers?'
she asked Aippantly.
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;
“This, then, is 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, though even
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.


96
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
No, I did not see him there. At the time of his
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 a few days; after that, perhaps, Sir George
Downing will meet him.' She spoke awkwardly, and
Wantley felt that 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 for her important
new friend, and had failed. But the young man knew
his cousin, and the potency of her spell over even
obstinate Winfrith, and 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 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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
97
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 sub-
missive, so intimately confidential while yet so willing
to take advice-in a word, so enchantingly near to him-
self, 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
'Oui, 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.
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 many 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
98


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
99
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 reputa-
tion 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 it a 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 dis-
pleased 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 conversa-
tion between the headstrong girl and her mother. If
7-2


100
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 the 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 in-
variably 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 young mistress's
most innocent actions and associates. Thus, she had
had first shown a rough contempt, and later a fierce
dislike, of poor Melancthon Robinson.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
IOI
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. This attitude had translated itself
in their young daughter into a contemptuous toleration,
which, as time had gone on, had altered into a pleasanter
though scarcely a warmer feeling. 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.


102
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.
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 HEART OF PENELOPE
103
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 border-
land 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 so 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 dis-
covered 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 has played so great
a rôle in the imagination of those Frenchmen who


104
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
belong to his generation. It was with this object in
view that he made a pilgrimage to the local shrine,
Mrs. Robinson, in spite of her old nurse's scandalized
protest, accompanying him, thus procuring for herself
a curious experience and a subject for more than one
excellent picture.
But when Penelope one evening had asked her,
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; in fact, Motey—but that she still occasionally
found the closely-covered sheets of foreign writing lying
about in her mistress's rooms—would have forgotten all
about the young Frenchman. Then suddenly he made
abrupt and most unlooked-for intrusion into Mrs. Robin-
son'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 year which were
always spent by Mrs. Robinson studying in the studio
of some great Paris artist.
In her secret soul Mrs. Mote did not admire her mis-
tress's painting, and there had been years when she had
done her by no means negligible best to put an end to


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
105
Penelope Wantley's art studies. But there came a
time when Motey realized that her mistress was never
so contented, so 'good,' as when really working hard in
the studio of one or other of the famous painters, who,
she believed, could teach her what she lacked.
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 her-
self, 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'!
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


106
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
even Mrs. Mote recognised 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 still-
ness, 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 mis-
tress; 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 pave-
ment, 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
107
initiative which seems common to those who have lived
in servitude held her back from doing something un-
doubtedly foolish.
At last, when she was making up her mind to do
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, as the old nurse saw with surprise and resent-
ment, 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, '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 remem-
bering in the darkness, recalled with bitterness, Mrs.
Robinson had had no confidante but her old nurse.
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, and now the poor
fellow is dying '—Penelope shuddered violently—and


108
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
I have promised to go and see him every day till he
does die.'
It was with no feeling of pity that Mrs. Mote now
turned in her own mind to the episode of the Spaniard.
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 lan-
guage, 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 immortal-
ized 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 English-
woman'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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
109
Robinson had rarely seen the passage of a better con-
trasted 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 in-
consequent 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. Robin-
son had not found herself. She was even then still
tasting, with a certain fearfulness, 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,


IIO
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 red-
dening 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 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 the French Ambassador, Monsieur de
Villars, whose wife has left so vivid an account of
seventeenth-century Madrid, were to be seen a magnifi-
cent collection of paintings and studies by Goya. Ac-
cording 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 circum-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
III
III
stances. And so the Don had been at considerable
pains in order to obtain the absent owner's permission.
His request had been acceded to only after a long
delay, and at the 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 oppor-
tunity 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 there-
fore 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


II2
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
112
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 paint-
ings which seemed ready to leap from the walls above
them. The heavy stillness, the utter emptiness, of the
great salons further affected the nurse, walking behind
the other two; she felt a vague misgiving, and was
more than ever glad to remember that in a few days
she would be home again in dear old England.
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
113
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.


114
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 gray 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 submissive-
ness, 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 now 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 anger-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
115
ing 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 sturdy little figure of Penelope's com-
panion 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.
8-2


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
117
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 gray 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 then 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


118
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.'
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
119


120
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 yester-
day, 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 Settle-
ment 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 recognised 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
I21
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, them-
selves so foolish, that seem utterly lost. He 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 infec-
tious 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
Roman 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


122
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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, sur-
prisingly 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!
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,


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
123
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 oppor-
tunity 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, but as he spoke she 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 remem-
bered 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. Robin-
son 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


124
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
light tap at the door, and as it opened outwards, accord-
ing to the fashion of foreign houses, Cecily saw Pene-
lope, 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
125
thrust into a gold net, thus altering in appearance the
very shape of their owner's head, of her şlender 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 child-
hood 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. Sur-
prised, 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


126
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 like 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 re-
markable writer, as one 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 circum-
stances 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 out-
lined 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 remem-
ber that Sir George Downing has never sought recogni-
tion; and though it has come at last, it has come too


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THE HEART OF PENELOPE
Penelope's wedding-ring; but on the whole she was in-
clined 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 un-
seen presence quickened her own sensibilities, and made
her more ready to receive new and unsought emotions.
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


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129
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 travel-
ling 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, the little neigh-
bouring town, by some séafaring 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 gray 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 tent, 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 in-
fluence 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,


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131
When there he had written to her twice, sometimes
three times, a day, letters which seemed to bring him
so much nearer to herself than she felt him to be now,
for they had been full 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 neighbourhood to Monk's Eype of David
Winfrith's home.
There had been some excuse, for 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 been full of his friends, and 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. Robin-
son, with feminine shrewdness, had 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
9-2


132
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 very 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 church. I have
arranged for Ludovic to drive you and Miss Theresa
over to the monastery. We won't mention it to
mamma, because she thinks Beacon Abbas the abiding-
place of the 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


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133
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.
An hour later an oddly-assorted couple set out for
Beacon Abbas, 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 inten-
sified 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 circon-
stance; 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 much to disapprove.
Perhaps Cecily's critic would have been surprised,
and rather nettled, had he known that he also was under-
going a keen scrutiny, and one not altogether favour-
able, 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


134
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
(Cecily felt sure that only old gentlemen were entitled
to wear beards); the gray eyes twinkling under light
eyebrows; the nondescript light-brown hair brushed
sleekly across the lined forehead—these did not com-
pose 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:
impertinent 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,


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135
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 under-
takings.' (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 spending more than an
hour or so in 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.
Yes. But though, mind you, I believe Penelope


136
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
was away very often during the four months the marriage
lasted, it was a new experience, and we all enjoy-
Penelope more than most of us, perhaps-new experi-
ences 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
has given 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 acquaint-
ance 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 dis-
appointment, Wantley refused to accompany her into
the chapel ; instead, he remained outside in the sun-
shine, smoking one cigarette after another, and amusing


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
137
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, pre-
sumably 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, and this last window, as the girl was
aware, was that which the young man, who had just
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


138
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 the world
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 familar, 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 im-
pertinent question, uttered, however, by a youthful and
therefore privileged voice, 'And do you, Lord Wantley,
remember your first meeting with her ?' answered in


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
139
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 infant's interior, and
he admired the way in which the speaker mingled
practical advice with praise of the poor baby's prettiness.
Finally, from the shabby little 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 ?'


140
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 her 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,


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
141
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 childhood, of
the home he had had to leave at almost a moment's
notice, of Lord Wantley's 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


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OF PENELOPE
TL THE HEART 11
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 un-
questioning directness, he said, smiling, “And may I
ask if you still believe, Miss Wake, in the actual con-
stant 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
143
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 up-
stairs 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,


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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
Viss Theresa's shawl as if arranging for a long stay.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
145
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 some-
times, 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.
. 10


CHAPTER VIII
L'amour est de toutes les passions la plus forte, parce qu'elle
attaque à la fois la tête, le cour et le corps.
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
146


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
147
those about him with reference to their attitude to him-
self, instinctively avoided the solitary company of Lady
Wantley, for in her he recognised a possible and for-
midable 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 he 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 weeks.
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 days which had so
marvellously renewed his youth, brought warmth about
his chilled heart, and made the future bright exceed-
ingly. 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
10-2


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151
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
gray eyes would seem to flash out fire, while Cecily lis-
tened, awed, to strange majestic utterances, of which she
knew not that the 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 per-
plexed, when next she perceived how lightly Penelope
esteemed this boundless mother-love.


152
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 sug-
gestion 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.
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 bound-
less 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
153
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 under-
stand 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 his 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 in-
volved early rising, was quite exceptional, and must
surely be done with an object.
Poor Wantley, unconscious of these hopes, his sense


154
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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— '


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
155
‘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 com-
mence!" !
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 !


156
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 won-
dered why women sometimes put things so much more
coarsely than a man, in a similar case, would do. But
before he could answer she had moved away, and, with
a complete change of voice and a return to 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 comfort-
able, 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
157
come better from you.' Wantley assented, cordially
enough, 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-examina-
tion. 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 com-
fort, 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


158
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 dis-
covered 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 post-
ing 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 "Tourne-
bride' 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 syn-
onymous terms, and the knowledge had angered him. In
one of his rare moments of confidence he had said to his


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
159
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 paren-
thesis, 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 senti-
mentalist 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 tem-
perament 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 con-
venance 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.


160
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
Unfortunately, Wantley was an Englishman, and by
no means as unconventional as he liked to think him-
self. 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 attend-
ance 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 dis-
concerting swiftness, had come over him, in these few
days of sunny quietude, a limitless unreasoning tender-
ness 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, com-
pared 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
161
10
Cecily Wake he felt that he was journeying through
some delicious unknown country, the old Paradise re-
discovered 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 en-
thusiasts 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.
II


162
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
He took down a slim, ill-printed volume, bearing on
the title-page the name of Philip Hammond, and com-
posed 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 pre-
judice, 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 Ham-
mond, 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 feel-
ing, had told him, when he was still a boy, concerning


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
163
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 elements 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.
II-2


CHAPTER IX
'La Passion, c'est l'ascétisme profâne, aussi rude que l'ascétisme
religieux.'-ANATOLE FRANCE.
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 accompani-
ments 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
164


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
165
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 Sir 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. But 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 amuse-


166
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
ment 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; of the strips of felt laid down over
the oak Aloor; 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 some-
thing 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 some-
what unreasonably declined in consequence, and no sus-
picion that these little arrangements, these little luxuries,
might be the fruit of another person's intelligent thought-
fulness 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 HEART OF PENELOPE
167
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 gray 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


168
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 philo-
sopher 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 perfec-
tion 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,


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
169
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
171
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 l' 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 un-
doubtedly led many a one to put deliberately from
himself all thought of love.'
Wantley looked at him with some curiosity, wonder-
ing whether his words had a personal application.
Now, take my own case,' continued Downing de-
liberately. 'I am in quite perpetual danger of assassina-
tion, 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.'


172
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
Downing spoke as if weighing his words, then added
in a different tone: 'Of course, 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 an individual 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 fascina-
tion about Downing, something which might even now
make him beloved by the type of woman—Wantley
imagined the meek, affectionate, and intensely feminine


174
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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, un-
affected piety was joined to a keen, almost morbid,
interest in any worldly matter affecting her acquaint-
ances. When with Miss Wake it was positively
difficult for a sympathetic person to keep from mention-
ing 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


176
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 clear 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 inci-
dents, words spoken by Penelope, others left unsaid, her
altered manner to himself-much unwelcome evidence
that Miss Wake had been perhaps clear-sighted when
they had all been blind. For a moment he deliberated
as to whether he should tell her 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. 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.
'I think I ought to tell you,' he said at length, 'that
a marriage between them is out of the question. Sir


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
177
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.
12


CHAPTER X
‘On ne choisit pas la femme que l'on doit aimer.'
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 interest-
ing. 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 un-
spoken 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 asso-
ciated, 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
178


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
179
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. Win-
frith 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 Settle-
ment. Only the most unemotional, and, intellectually
speaking, limited, human being is totally unaffected by
environment. Winfrith, when at home, not only ap-
peared 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 him-
self that he seemed a survival from a long-past generation.
1242


180
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 con-
nected 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 work-
ing 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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
181
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, unfor-
tunately 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 allure-
ment. 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 away 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 extrava-
gance since he had first come to Shagisham, unnumbered
years before, Mrs. Robinson said abruptly: 'Whenever
I see your father, David, I cannot 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.'


182
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
If you are so devoted to him,' he said, smiling, but
rather nettled, “I wish you would come and see him
oftener. You know he is very fond 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. She answered obliquely, eager to
punish him for the lightest deviation from his usual
allegiance. 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 license, and arrogating every right to go
her own way, it incensed her that he should, even to
herself, allude lightly to his attachment.
“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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
183
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, exclaim-
ing 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, her
meaning found its way straight to his heart. He turned
and looked at her 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 Down-
ing, 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 im-
portant paper or report, and we had the Beach Room
arranged as a study for him. But he is rather peculiar,


184
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 Govern-
ment 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE 185
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 an 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 off 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


186
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
-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


188
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 Win-
frith'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 is 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 mar-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
189
riage, 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.'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
191
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
in time, 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
I pointed out to you. She often looks out of one of the
windows. I have myself seen her several times. She
has a thin, rather clever-looking face, and long gray
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, and she peeps out through her red blinds.
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.
That Sir George Downing should spend the last days
of his sojourn in Dorset at Kingpole Farm, a seven-
teenth-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 fushed cheek, why all seemed to go ill
between them during this time of waiting and of sus-
pense, 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 not
less strange ignorances, which she kept closely hidden
from those about her, had often received, especially in
192


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
193
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 rela-
tions 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 that time they would be
friends, merely friends, not lovers.
Then had Mrs. Robinson made her great mistake.
She 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! 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
13


194
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
Wake. The very simplicity of the life led by Mrs. Robin-
son's little circle of unworldly, simple-minded guests
made intimate talk between herself and Downing diffi-
cult, 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.
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.
After the quiet evening had at last come to an end,
she went upstairs with Cicely and old Miss Wake, dis-
missed 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 Mrs. Robin-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
195
son. 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 Down-
ing'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 Downing
heard, mingling with the surge of the sea, the sound, the
unmistakable dragging sound, of a woman's long cling-
ing skirt. He got up, opened the door, and, coming out
for a moment into the moonlit darkness, 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
13-2


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
197
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 great 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, trem-
bling.
Once more he took her in his arms, once more
murmured the words of broken, passionate endearment
for which her heart had hungered, only, however, again
to say, but no longer with a smile : 'Go. Go now, my
beloved. I will stay here, for I am only a man after all
-only a man as other men are.'
Then for some days Penelope had found him once
more strangely cold and alien. She had felt the situa-
tion 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 begin-
ning to divine the last, act.
It is not the apparently inevitable sin, so much as the


198
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 repug-
nance 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 sus-
picion 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 mis-
tress, 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 por-
tent-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


200
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
of her first love, of David Winfrith. The memory of
the hours spent by her with him at Shagisham con-
stantly 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 Win-
frith 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 con-
demnation and horror he would remember that con-
versation held between them, especially that portion
of it which had 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 con-
sidering 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 dark-
ness 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
201
ty, but she lorinfrith had the older man.
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 she 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 her 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


202
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
imagined in the first instance by Penelope—the Robin-
son 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 ac-
cepted 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 formali.
ties. 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-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
203
to wonder, with tightened throat, how Lady Wantley
would meet the ordeal coming so swiftly to meet
her.
Even with those whose thoughts, emotions, and con-
sciences seem 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 engage-
ment, after a strangely short acquaintance, to Melanc-
thon Robinson ; but Lady Wantley—and her daughter,
looking back in after years, had often wondered sorely,
with a shuddering retrospection, that it had been som
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


204
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 as
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 indis-
pensable 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
205
that their dear 'Perdita' was making herself slightly
ridiculous.
Another reason why Mrs. Robinson found it im-
possible 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. But
still, as Penelope now remembered with great discom-
fort and prevision of pain, concerning actual matters
of life and conduct Lady Wantley’s ‘doxy' had always
been, so far as she knew it, her husband's ‘doxy'; 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.


CHAPTER XII
*Ah ! le bon chemin que le droit chemin !
DÉROULÈDE.
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 up-
lifting 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 other 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 un-
easiness 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 charac-
teristic 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
206


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
207
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, an added reason for standing
firm. She pointed out, in the gentle, reasonable
tone which he felt was all that now remained of
the Puritan girl he had once known (how strangely
maligned is the American voice !), that Christian
marriage is indissoluble. Your sin will be the same in
either case,' she had 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 seek-
ing 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, voice-
less lamentation, that he had failed in inducing Lady
Downing 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
209
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 gray 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, and
what the French call sensible, Penelope's outward ap-
pearance--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
. often detta
career.
quicken feche life of the
14


210
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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
utterly 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 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 peach, with
which he had known well enough he must never quench
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 Downing 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 friendship.
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
2II
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
14-2


212
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
read them now,' she said. Downing, eager to please
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 melan.
choly, 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


214
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
very deliberately, and Downing thought her oddly in-
different, '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 if 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 utterly to forget-and, seeing this,
Downing's heart grew heavy within him—that her posi-
tion 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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
215
Penelope's face darkened when a word was said con-
cerning 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 Bur-
combe she would be able to hire some kind of convey-
ance 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 furnish-
ings. 'I wonder when we shall meet again,' she said a little
plaintively. But Downing made no answer. Instead,
he Aung 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.


216
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 at the time
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
gray 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 raising 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, first one and
then the other, of the wearer's feet.


218
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 yet had time to penetrate the
canopy of green leaves shutting out the gray sky, but
the path along which Downing was soon 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 Aung
both his 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
be stayed his own and Penelope's feet, while his eyes.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
219
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 bowl-
ing-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.
Mrs. Robinson and Downing had sheltered but a
moment in the porch of the old-fashioned house, which
doubtless incorporated some portion of the old 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


220 THE HEART OF PENELOPE
invitation, but when they stood side by side in the lamp-
light 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, 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 who-
ever it was, sir.' The man spoke urgently. “This is in-
tolerable,' 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 unsatis-
factory, odious day this had been! But even so she
motioned Downing to take off his old rain-sodden cloak,


222
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 do 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. Dela-
cour 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
blind, 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-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
223
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.'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
225
,
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 fore-
gathered 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 con-
vince him that this was no moment to speak-upon
another matter—to Cecily Wake. In London, amid
the impersonal surroundings of the Melancthon Settle-
ment, 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
15


226
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
227
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 Cecily 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.
15-2


228
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 con-
vinced 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.'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
229
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
231
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 inade 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 ?'


234
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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, cele-
brated 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 warmer 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
235
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.
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, clad
in flowing black draperies, was outlined for a moment
against the dim patch of light given by the corridor
window opposite.
Surely your mistress did not intend to stay out so


236
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 ?


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
237
"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 gray 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 wait-
ing 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 ques-
tions. 'I know that you love my daughter,' she said


238
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 her nursling.
'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 dawn-
ing 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 con-
fidences. She did not know, and Mrs. Mote saw no
reason to enlighten her, that Penelope had always been


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
239
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 the 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 them-
selves, 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 everyone 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.


240
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
Wantley 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 accom-
pany me to London to-morrow morning. It is all-
important that we should go quite early.'
• Certainly,' he said quickly; 'I will arrange every-
thing.'
'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.
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 tre-
mendous odds—tremendous because the victory had
remained with one whose own heart had been traitor
to the cause.
241
16


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
243
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 won-
dered 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 most tangible con-
firmation of Theresa Wake's suspicion.
Perhaps, after all, Lady Wantley had reason to fear
something tangible, definite. The thought was an un-
pleasant one. 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 consist-
ing, 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 long 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
16—2


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
245
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 anyone that you
know,' Wantley answered dryly. '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 other-
wise 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.'
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 jour-
neyed westward from the City to ask his advice con-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
247
should surely be saved from what the mother, full of
pain and shrinking terror, could not but regard as the
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 origin-
ally purchased the house, formed an incongruous back-
ground 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 some-
thing 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 pain-
fully 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 con-
cerning which she had evidently come to consult him ;
but he was too experienced a confessor to hasten con-
fidences 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
upstairs, to seek the assistance of his man-servant'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 aim-
chair, his man dismissed, his visitor seated opposite hina
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 Penelope's 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 inter-
vention 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 excite-


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
249
ment 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 !


254
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 Down-
ing 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 credit-
able 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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
255
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 stilling
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 for-
gotten 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


CHAPTER XV
Ah, dear, but come thou back to me!
Whatever change the days have wrought,
I find not yet one lonely thought
That cries against my wish for thee.'
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
257
IZ


258
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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. I
wonder why there is still so strong a prejudice against
him,' he concluded hesitatingly.
'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 com-
manded, and now let us put aside Sir George
Downing and his affairs, for just now I am more inter-
ested 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 hus-
band trusted me absolutely,' she said rather proudly.
The man sitting opposite to her reddened darkly.
He always disliked to hear Penelope mention Melanc-
17-2


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
261
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 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 heal-
ing 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
- 263
scribed 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 playfellow,
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 re-
proachful 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.


264
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
265
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 owe 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 English-
man'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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
267
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 a 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 people 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 renounce-
ment.'
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 sup-
pose,' 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.


268
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
• 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 they 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


272
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 re-
member afterwards when I am gone, that till now


274
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 to whom
I ever gave a thought.'
'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 HEART OF PENELOPE
275
-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, com-
pelled, 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.
18—2


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.'
AFTER her return from Kingpole Farm that night of
stress and storm, Penelope felt strangely, terribly for-
lorn. 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 sus-
pected, 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 Down-
ing 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.
276


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
277
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 Miss Pom-
fret; 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 friend-
ship, of coming separation.
Soon the two, the woman and the girl, were at utter


278
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
disapproved of, liguely stabbing Pro that most m
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 remem-
bered the words, and, so remembering, often let her
eyes fall before those of her friend— Unless you par-
ticularly 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 re-
tained 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 punctilious-
ness which did him honour, he scorned to take any
advantage of their hidden understanding. For many


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
281
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 Down-
ing 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, gray-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 pres-
ence; 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


282
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
on the lower foor of the villa. The group of five
people—for Lady Wantley had not come down to
dinner-had broken up curiously early, Downing retreat-
ing 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 inter-
ference. 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.


284
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
wakened to see Penelope standing by the side of her
bed. The tall, ghostlike figure, clad in a long pale-
gray 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 un-
lighted 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
287
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 occur-
rences ?' 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 dis-
tress, 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


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THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 re-
splendent 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 under-
stand, 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.


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THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 inter-
minably 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 draw-
ing 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 Down-
ing till your return.' And then—not till then—a wave
of colour reddened Penelope's oval face from brow
to chin.
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 un-
reasonable and unreasoning irritation that he saw Lady


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THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 consola-
tion; 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-
minded 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 HEART OF PENELOPE
293
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 Pen-
elope'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 con-
ditions. 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


294
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 argu-
ment. A braver than he might well hesitate to face
the contemptuous indignation of the eccentric, power-
ful 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.
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
suddenly came to him the conviction that she had been
down to the Beach Room, that she had seen Downing,
and that she had followed the advice tendered by
the shrewd old man to whom she had confided her
great fear and distress.
A keen desire to know whether he guessed truly, and,


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
295
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. Then 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 bad,' said the listener to himself,
'very bad !
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 him-
self 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
297
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 under-
stand 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


298
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 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 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 occu-
pant. 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.


300
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 fruit-
lessly, 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 no 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


302
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.
The hour 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 told 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, of his dreadful dis-
covery—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 long hours of 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 dreadful dis-
covery was made.
Such had been the story Wantley had to tell in-
numerable 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 con-


304
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 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, Master 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


306
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 con-
cluding 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 him-
self 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 mis-
taken-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


308
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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—mistress.'
Her voice dropped, but she did not spare Wantley
the word, adding 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 inten-
tion, 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.'


310
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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 Want-
ley 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 himn 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 ?'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
311
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 explana-
tion 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. Person-
ally, 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 emphasize her words.
And Wantley, marvelling, turned to carry out her wish.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
313
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 uncom-
fortable 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


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
315
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 re-
garded, 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 fur-
nished, 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 com-
pelled to see and witness much which had made him


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
319
• 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, meet-
ing the still penetrating gray 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 other-
wise, 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 for-
get! 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


320
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
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.'


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
321
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 en-
during 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.
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 per-
plexed 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 anyone has been outwardly disrespectful or un-
kind to her. But, dearest, before you go up to her, I
think you should be prepared to find her in a very piti-
ful 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 ?
21


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
323
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 sur-
prise. 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


326
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
looked at him Wantley raisedhen you went on to
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 have 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 any-
thing of my own wife. Even as it is, I have offended a
good many people, especially lately, by my determina-
tion that she shall not join any more committees or
undertake any new work. Cecily is quite bewildered to


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.
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
328


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
329
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 speak-
ing to herself, added : How often I have looked at
my beloved child—my beautiful gifted Penelope-and


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
331
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.'
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 gen-
teelly 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 doubt-
less 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 after-
noon 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 agree-


332
THE HEART OF PENELOPE
ably 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 eaves-
droppers 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.


THE HEART OF PENELOPE
335
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 explana-
tion as to why it had not been delivered before.
Oh, it's addressed to you,' said Wantley, handing it
to his wife.