'Ah, dear, but come them back to me!
Whatever change the days have wrought,
I find not yet one lonely thought
That cries against my wish for thee.'
I
There are moments in the life of almost every human being when the sands
seem to be running out, when even the most careless, the least
scrupulous, feels a pang at the thought of all that has been left
undone, and, even more, of all that must be left unfinished and
incomplete. If the knowledge comes in the shape of a positive warning
that death is at hand, and will have to be faced in three months, in six
months, in a year, then the wise man sets his house in order as best he
can, and leaves the rest to God, or to that ordered chance in which so
many now believe as a substitute for Divine Providence. But when, as
perhaps more often happens in this strange, complicated world, a human
being has deliberately so set the hour-glass of his life that the sands
run out far more quickly than they were ever meant to do, and when the
last grain will bring, not death, but some astounding change in life,
dividing the what has been from the what will be more painfully than
would death itself; then the sense of responsibility, maybe the simple
fear of what may befall, is apt to make even the strongest nature quake.
Penelope had come to such a moment. She had so set her hour-glass that
now the sands were running out with what appeared to be relentless
haste, while the time left to her was beginning to seem so short, and
the things to be done in that same short time so many. She did not
waver, or rather she was not aware that, had it been possible, she would
perhaps have wavered. Instead, she was only conscious of a desire to
hasten on--to see everything cleared out of her way. One matter which
had never before troubled her now gave her much anxious thought--she
longed to retain, as far as might be possible, the good opinion of the
few people who really loved her.
And so it was with a mind deeply troubled that she stood waiting for
Winfrith, not in the studio, where every time she entered it everything
reminded her more and more of the life she was leaving, but in the high,
narrow room which corresponded on the ground-floor to Mrs. Mote's
bedroom above, and where still remained traces of the time when it had
been the study of Penelope's father--in a very real sense a workroom,
for there a great worker had spent many solitary hours.
On the ugly, substantial writing-table, so placed that the writer
commanded the whole of the wonderful view of the terraced gardens, the
irregular cliff-line, and the broad seas spread out below, Mrs. Robinson
had placed a number of documents tied up with red tape, also two small
black despatch-boxes, each stamped with the initials M. W. R. These
preparations for what she intended should be a short business interview
gave her courage. As she waited, nervously conscious that Winfrith was
now, what he so rarely was, a few minutes late, she turned and walked up
and down the narrow room, longing for the door to open and let him in,
longing even more for the moment when it should open and let him out.
At last the man she waited for came in smiling. One of those instincts
which tell only a half-truth made him aware that the news he brought
would greatly gratify her. 'Sir George Downing has won all along the
line,' he said boyishly, while shaking hands. 'We are going to send him
the man he wants. He ought to be very much obliged to you.' He added,
with the touch of condescension which--from him to her--always teased
and yet always touched Penelope, 'The great man owes you far more than
he knows. How odd that he should have met you, and so have come across
me! He is even more worth meeting than I had expected,' he concluded
hesitatingly. 'I wonder why there is still so strong a prejudice against
him.'
'Give a dog a bad name,' she said indifferently, and then turned the key
in the lock of the door. Penelope had inherited from her methodical
father an impatience of interruption. 'Sit down here at the table,' she
commanded, 'and now let us put aside Sir George Downing and his affairs,
for just now I am more interested in my own. Do you remember the exact
terms of the deed--I know you have seen it--in which were arranged all
the money matters connected with the Settlement?'
'Yes,' he answered at once, 'I remember the terms quite well. The
buildings are left in trust, and my father is one of the trustees; but
the income remains entirely in your hands. You could withdraw all
supplies to-morrow, or, to put it in another way, you could spend all
your income, and so have to pay the claims of the Settlement out of
capital. I always thought it a very bad arrangement.' He spoke with a
certain sharpness, as if the discussion were distasteful to him.
Penelope looked up with some anger, and 'My husband trusted me
absolutely,' she said rather proudly.
The man sitting opposite to her reddened darkly. He always disliked to
hear Penelope mention Melancthon Robinson; the slightest allusion to the
founder of the Settlement, when made by her, roused a violent primeval
instinct, which insisted on recognition of his own original claim to the
beautiful, elusive creature with whom his relations had now been for so
long lacking in sincerity. 'That's nonsense,' he said harshly. 'He had
no right to do such a thing with a girl of two-and-twenty.'
'One-and-twenty,' she corrected quickly.
He went on, avoiding her eyes, but his voice lowering, losing its
harshness, in spite of himself. 'It was a most unfair responsibility to
put upon you. However intelligent and businesslike,' he added, 'however
trusted and worthy of trust----'
It was Penelope's turn to redden. 'I do not say I was, or am, worthy of
such a trust,' she said rather coldly. 'You know, or perhaps you have
forgotten, that I thought my cousin would help me. He refused, and it
was because you, David, were so good to me then'--Penelope leant
forward; she put her hand, her slender, ringless left hand, on his
sleeve for a moment, and the blue eyes which met his in quick appeal
seemed darker, softer than usual--'because you have always been good to
me, that I now ask your advice. It is for the last time----'
Winfrith suddenly focussed his mind into close attention. Very slowly,
hardly conscious of what he was doing, he moved the chair on which he
was sitting further away from hers, and set a guard on his face.
There had been a time, shortly after the renewal of their intimacy, when
David Winfrith had schooled himself, with what he thought was easy
philosophy, to hear the announcement of Penelope's remarriage. But
curiously soon, and Mrs. Robinson had watched with mischievous interest
the different workings of his mind, the young man had seen reason to
assure himself that his new-found friend would do wisely to remain free
as himself from all sentimental entanglements, while yet always able to
benefit by his superior masculine sense and knowledge, both of the world
and of affairs.
Soon also he had come to fear for her, and this quite honestly, the
fortune-hunters with whom he felt rather than knew her to be, in those
early days, encompassed. A word denying any intention of remarriage--and
it was a word which Penelope, at that time of her life and even for long
after, could have uttered with all sincerity--would have made Winfrith
easy in his mind; but the word was never uttered. Mrs. Robinson had had
no desire to let the nearest, in a sense the dearest, and in any case
the most faithful and trustworthy of her mentors, feel too great a sense
of security.
And so their strange relationship had remained, and that over years, a
source of pleasant confidence and sentimental amusement to the woman, of
subtle charm and ever-recurring interest to the man.
When he turned restive, as sometimes though rarely happened, Penelope
dealt out the rope with no niggard hand, or, better still, provoked
something tantamount to a quarrel, followed in due course by the
inevitable healing reconciliation.
But not even his interest in Mrs. Robinson's affairs--for so he
described, even to himself, the feeling which dominated him--had ever
caused Winfrith to neglect his own work, or the public business with
which he was concerned; and this divided allegiance, as he sometimes
suspected, caused her more real annoyance than his frequent and frank
criticisms of her actions, and his tacit refusal to join in the pretty
flatteries of her other friends. As Penelope had learnt with anger,
there were times and seasons when even the most imperious note, the most
urgent appeal, could not bring him to her side. But while this state of
things had irked her greatly, especially in the early days of the
renewal of their friendship, she had always been aware that any ordinary
pleasure or personal concern was always flung aside, counted as nothing
to the delight of being with her and of acting as her confidential
adviser and friend.
To-day, while looking into his plain face, aware of the sternness of the
strong jaw, the ugly peculiarity of an exceptionally long upper lip,
Penelope's heart contracted with sudden tenderness as she evoked the
memory of the long years during which they had known one another with so
deep, so wordless, an intimacy.
For a moment there was silence between them. Then he said, rather
sharply: 'Well, what is it you want me to do? Of course I will give you
the best advice in my power, and not, I hope, for the last time.'
As he spoke he stood up and placed himself with his back to the window,
and for a moment Penelope saw the heavy, broad-shouldered figure
outlined against the sea and sky, his face--and this vaguely relieved
her--being in complete shadow. But she turned away, looked straight
before her as she said quickly, her voice full of defiant decision:
'Yes, I want to ask your advice, and more, to beg you to help me about a
certain matter.' She paused, and added: 'I have made some notes on a
piece of paper. I think I laid it down before you came in.'
Winfrith wheeled round, and looked at the table against which he had
been leaning. On coming into the room he had paid no attention to
Penelope's preparations for their interview, but now, as he became aware
of the odd little bundles of lawyer's letters, each tied together with
tape, and of the despatch-boxes, inscribed with the initials M. W. R.,
he felt amused, and even a little touched. 'These look quite old
papers,' he said kindly. 'Perhaps you forgot to bring your notes in here
with you, or--wait a moment--what is that you are holding in your hand?'
She frowned with annoyance. 'How stupid I am!' But the little episode
relieved the tension between them; and, as a child might have done to a
play-fellow, she suddenly put out her hand, and, taking his, pulled him
down beside her on the long, low, leather-covered couch. 'I want to
speak to you about a really serious business, and I know--at least, I am
afraid--that you will disapprove of what I want to do, and that you may
try and make me alter my mind.'
She spoke nervously, with a new, a gentler, note in her voice. A blessed
peace stole into Winfrith's heart; he chased the dread which had for the
moment possessed him, and it was in his usual tone, with his usual
half-bantering manner, that he asked the reproachful question, 'Why did
you say that--I mean, as to this being the last time? Surely I have not
deserved that you should say such things to me!'
'No, indeed--indeed you have not!' And the hurried humility with which
she spoke might well have re-awakened his premonition of coming pain and
parting. 'But you will soon understand what I meant, when I have
explained everything.'
Again there was silence between them; but Winfrith, her last words
sounding in his ears, feeling her dear nearness, though he had moved
somewhat away from where she had placed him, was in no haste to hear her
confidences. Secretly he pledged himself not to scold her--indeed, to
listen patiently, and to help her, however unpractical and foolish the
scheme for which she sought his help.
At last Penelope, paler than her wont, her voice tremulous, lacking its
usual hard, bell-like quality of tone, spoke, and to some purpose: 'I
have made up my mind to do what you have always wished--that is, to
endow the Settlement. Though what you said just now about my husband and
his arrangements made me angry, I know it was true. He ought not to have
left me such power.'
Winfrith felt relieved but bewildered, and straightway he blundered.
'Certainly something of the kind ought to have been done long ago, but
you always opposed it. You----'
'I suppose I have the right to change my mind, to be guided by
circumstances? Besides, I am tired, utterly tired, of the responsibility
as well as of the Settlement.' She looked at him fixedly for a moment.
'I know what you would like to say; that I have had nothing to do with
it, in a real sense, for many years past. But that is false; no day goes
by without my receiving some tiresome letter or letters. Whenever any of
the "Settlers"'--Winfrith had never before heard her use the
contemptuous term--'fall out, and they are always falling out----'
'That at least is untrue,' he interrupted.
'Yes, they do--they do! And when they do, then they write to me to patch
up the quarrel!'
She paused, then went on in a more measured voice: 'And there are other
things! How would you like it if, when acting the part of a traitor to
your party, you were always being praised for your loyalty? _I_ am a
traitor to all that the Settlement represents. I hate--no, I do not
hate, I despise--the wretched human beings to whom poor Melancthon gave
up his life. I don't think they are worth the trouble expended on them.
When I come into personal contact with them, of course I am sorry, so I
am for the ants when Brown Bess puts her foot on an ant-hill! And to
you, David, I have never pretended otherwise. Of course I recognise that
in so feeling I am almost alone. Some of the people I have most cared
for, my father'--she hesitated and added more gently--'you yourself,
feel quite otherwise.'
Then breaking off short, she glanced down at the paper she held in her
hand, and Winfrith saw with some surprise that it was covered with
neatly pencilled notes. 'But, after all, I own no apology for what I
feel to any human being, and so now let us consider the practical side
of the matter. Apart from the question of the endowment, I wish
arrangements to be made by which Cecily Wake can carry out her
experiment--I mean her co-operative cheap food idea.'
Winfrith bit his lip. This, then, was the new scheme? He had never liked
Cecily Wake; perhaps--but of this, of course, he was totally unaware--he
was irritated by the girl's enthusiastic affection for Penelope, so much
more unobtrusive and sincere than that of some of those whom he also
unconsciously regarded as his rivals. Then, again, Cecily, like himself,
had the power, in spite of her youth, in spite even of a certain
childishness of which the bloom had not been rubbed off in the two years
spent by her in working at the Settlement, of obtaining her own way, and
of imposing her own point of view on others. Finally, he had the average
Englishman's distrust of Roman Catholicism, and naturally suspected the
motives of a convent-bred girl.
As to the proposed scheme, it was in some ways childish, in others
revolutionary. In her dreams Cecily Wake had seen the squalid
neighbourhoods about the Settlement each rejoicing in its own huge cheap
and pure food emporium. To Winfrith the idea was little less than
absurd, and to be, from every point of view, deprecated and discouraged;
so he now nerved himself, without any great difficulty, to opposition.
'Miss Wake's scheme, from what I can make of it,' he said coldly, 'would
not only require the outlay of a considerable amount of capital, but,
what is more serious, could not but disorganize local trade.'
Penelope frowned. 'I know, I know! You've said all that to me before. As
to the money required, of course there will be plenty of money. You have
never liked Cecily; but still, even you must admit that she has done
very well, and, after all, both Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret agree
that something of the kind she suggests is badly needed. I remember that
I myself, in old days, always considered that we thought far too much of
our protégés' minds and morals, and far too little of their bodies; and
I know I heartily sympathized with the poor wretches who, when they
discovered that there were to be no more doles, broke all the windows of
good Mr. B.'
Winfrith vehemently disagreed, but it was an old quarrel between them,
and he refused to be drawn.
'To return to the main question,' he said quietly, 'it seems to me to be
entirely one of money. If you endow the Settlement, as I understand you
mean to do--that is, adequately--your own income will be greatly
lowered, and even so large, so immense a fortune as that left you by
your husband'--he brought out the word with a gulp--'will be seriously
affected. You know sometimes, as it is, you have not found matters very
easy.'
He hesitated, for here he felt on delicate ground. The way in which
this, to him, dearest of women, dowered with apparently such simple
personal tastes, so over-spent her large income as to find it difficult
sometimes to meet the claims of the Settlement, had been to him for
years a matter of profound astonishment.
'Well, I shall have to manage better in future.' She sighed a little
wearily. 'As you said just now the money was really left to me in
trust;' and, when Winfrith made a gesture of negation, she said, 'Well,
most of it was.' And then, with complete change of tone, she said
slowly, 'And now I intend to be shut of it all.'
As he looked at her, perplexed, she added: 'You don't know the
expression? Ah well, if you had ever lived at the Settlement, even for a
short time, you would be quite familiar with it, for there women are
always longing to be "shut" of things--principally, of course, of their
husbands and babies. But seriously, David, what I want you to tell me
and to help me to do concerns the practical side of this great
renouncement.'
There had come again into her voice, during the last few moments, the
satirical ring he dreaded and disliked. 'We will take all your
remonstrances and reproaches as said'--she softened the discourtesy of
her words by the touch for a moment of her hand on his arm. 'And I want
it all done at once--within the next few weeks.'
Winfrith smiled, not unkindly. 'So I should suppose,' he said quietly;
'but of course that will be quite impossible.'
'But you have often helped me to get things done quickly,' she cried
urgently, 'and it really is most important that these changes and new
arrangements should be made now, as soon as possible.'
Winfrith laughed outright. He wondered for a moment, with a certain
complacency, whether any man, however foolish and lacking in knowledge
of business, could be found to propose so absurd a thing as this clever,
and sometimes so shrewd, woman had done.
'Why all this haste?' he asked good-humouredly. 'I'll tell you what we
had better do; I will draft a letter, for you to copy, to your lawyers.
In this letter we will explain that you wish the arrangements
concerning the Settlement, embodied, I believe, in your will, to be
carried out now, in your lifetime; further, you will tell them prettily,
in your own words, that you wish the whole thing settled as soon as
possible. They will then go into the whole matter, and let you know what
can be done, and how long it will take to do it.'
He waited a moment, then continued: 'Now about Miss Wake's scheme. I
should suggest its being tried at first on a small scale. I understand
she has reduced her demands'--he could not keep his prejudice against
Penelope's young friend out of his voice--'to what she calls "a pure
milk depôt." Some time ago I did consult a doctor I know on that point,
and I admit he thought it a good idea. This portion of her scheme need
not cost a great deal of money, and though, of course, it will put all
the milkmen against you, as you personally won't be there when their
boys come and break the windows of the Settlement, I don't know that
that much matters!'
He waited for her answer. These discussions, which had at intervals
taken place for many years past between Mrs. Robinson and himself always
amused him and bored her, the more so that, after a spirited struggle on
her part, he generally got his own way.
But to-day Penelope was not in fighting trim. 'You don't understand,'
she said at length, and in a voice so low that he had to bend forward to
hear her words. 'This is only a part of what I want you to do for me.
You referred just now to my will. Supposing that I died suddenly--that I
was killed out riding, for instance; you, as my executor, would have to
see to almost everything, to undertake almost all the arrangements I
want you to get done for me now, during the next few weeks.'
Winfrith turned and looked at her keenly. She met his gaze
unflinchingly; but the colour had gone from her face, the proud mouth,
which he had once kissed so often, and which he had once refused to
kiss (did Penelope ever remember, too? he wondered; he never forgot) was
trembling, and her eyes met his in questioning, shrinking distress at
the pain she felt herself about to inflict.
And then suddenly he realized, with a feeling of sharp revolt and
anguish, that that which he had sometimes thought of as being possible,
but which during recent years had gone into the background of his
mind--for he was a much-occupied as well as an unimaginative man--had
come upon him. He saw that he was going to lose her, that their old
relationship was even now severed, and that this was in very truth her
last and supreme call on him for help.
But there was no perceptible change in his voice, as he said very
quietly: 'Please read me your notes: then I shall understand more
clearly what you want done; and once I understand, I will do all in my
power to see that your wishes are carried out.'
She bowed her head, and Winfrith listened with dismay and increasing
astonishment as Mrs. Robinson explained the scheme, evidently well and
carefully thought out, by which she proposed to renounce and distribute
the whole of the immense fortune which had been left to her by
Melancthon Robinson.
As she spoke, as she read on from her notes, her voice regained
something of its sureness of accent; and glancing frequently at the
paper she held in her hand, she elaborated the various points, showing
more real knowledge of the problems which confront the modern
philanthropist than Winfrith would have thought possible.
Then came the sudden, the agonizing, conviction that in this matter
Penelope had been helped by some other and more practical mind than her
own; and, as this fact became clear, he set his teeth, and forced
himself to remember that the man, whoever he might be, who had inspired
this great renunciation could be no fortune-hunter.
'Of course, you can guess,' she said at last--for his silence made her
uneasy--'why I am doing all this. I have as yet told nobody; but my life
henceforth will be spent abroad, and'--again she hesitated
painfully--'the person whose wishes I am now bound to consult absolutely
agrees with me, and approves of what I am going to do about Melancthon's
money.'
He brushed aside her last words, and brought himself to consider her
material interests, and so, 'You realize what all this means?' he said
at length. 'If these arrangements are carried out, your income, in the
sense you now understand the word, will be wholly absorbed--gone.'
'I am retaining everything my father left to me, with the exception of
this place,' she said quickly.
'With the exception of this place?' he repeated with dismay. 'Do you,
then, mean to sell Monk's Eype?'
'No, no! how could you think of such a thing?' A tone of profound
dejection crept into her voice. 'What I mean is that, before going away,
I intend to hand Monk's Eype over to Ludovic. He was not fairly treated
by my father; but, even as it is with him, he could afford to keep up
the villa and the gardens as they should be kept up, and I am sure he
will always make my mother welcome, should she care to come here from
time to time.'
The accent of pain in her voice again stung Winfrith into protest. 'Are
you sure that you are acting wisely? Of course, I know that it is none
of my business.' And as she made a quick dissenting gesture: 'If it
is--if you will allow it to be my business, then let me say that in this
matter of your fortune you are about to take a great risk, and one which
you might bitterly regret later on,' he added deliberately, 'and for
which you might in time be reproached.'
But as he uttered these last words a sudden change came over Penelope's
face. Winfrith had evoked another, a more intimate--ay, and a more
eloquent--presence, and as she answered, 'Ah no! I need never be afraid
of that,' a strange radiance came over her face, softening the severity
of the lines, veiling the brightness of her blue eyes.
Winfrith rose quickly from where he was sitting; he felt an impulse to
wound, to strike, and then to flee. 'Men alter,' he said--'men and
women, too. You and I----' Then he drove out the jealous devil which had
possessed him for a moment, and asked: 'Well, I suppose that is all you
wanted to see me about for the present? If you will give me your notes I
will go into the matter; and if, as I understand, your marriage is to
take place very soon abroad'--he waited for a moment, but there came no
word of assent--'that will, of course, be a sufficient reason for
pushing on everything as quickly as possible.'
He added, with an air of studied indifference: 'May I ask how long you
wish your engagement to be kept secret? Do you, for instance, object to
my father being told?'
Then he looked down at her, and what he saw roused every generous
instinct, banished unworthy jealousy, and even dulled his bitterness.
When had he last seen Penelope weeping? Years and years before, on the
day of their parting, when they were still boy and girl lovers. But then
her tears had come freely, like those of a child distressed; now no
sound came from the bowed figure save long, shuddering sobs. Again he
sat down by her. 'My dear,' he said, deeply troubled, 'what is it? What
can I do for you?'
'You were so unkind,' she whispered, and he saw that she was trembling,
'you were going away--so coldly.' Then, almost inaudibly, she added: 'I
did not think you would care so much.'
She unclasped the hands in which her face had been hidden, and held them
out to him. For a moment he took them in his, crushed the fingers wet
with tears, and then let them go. 'Of course I care,' he said at length.
'You would not have me not care. We have been friends so long, you and
I.' He stopped abruptly; the memory of many meetings, of many partings,
became vivid and intolerable.
They both stood up, and again he made an effort over himself. Once more
he took her hands in his, and held them tightly, as he said: 'But you
must not distress yourself about me; men have worse things to bear.
Think of what happened to my father.' And his voice shook for the first
time. Never before, not even as a boy, had Penelope heard him allude to
his parents' tragic story. And now this word, meant to comfort her, and
perhaps himself, cut her to the heart. Soon he would learn, only too
surely, the ironic parity which was to lie between his own and his
father's fate.
For a moment she shrank back, then moved swiftly nearer to him; and it
was with her arms about his neck, her face looking up into his, that he
heard the eager tremulous words: 'David, before you go I want to say
something--to tell you, so that you may remember afterwards when I am
gone, that till now there has never been anyone else--never,
never--anyone but you!' Her head sank on his breast as she added slowly,
almost reluctantly: 'Things were not as you, perhaps, think they were
between poor Melancthon and myself. We agreed before our marriage that
it was only to be a partnership.' As she felt his arms tighten round
her, she again lifted her face, and asked: 'Are you shocked? Do you
think it was wrong? Motey (no one else ever guessed) thought it very
wicked.'
'Then you were--you have always been mine!' he cried; and, as she shrank
back, he holding her fast to him, 'Tell me,' he asked, 'should I have
had a chance, another chance, during all those years?' He added, perhaps
guided by some subtle instinct of which he was ashamed, for as he spoke
Penelope felt him relaxing the strong grip of the arms which had held
her so closely, 'Is there any chance--now?'
She shook her head. Through a blistering veil she saw the set grey face
of the man who had loved her so well and long, and for whom she also had
cared, if less well, quite as long. 'You had your chance, such as it
was, at first,' she said, 'when we were both so young, when I was
foolish and you were so wise.' His face contracted at the sad irony in
her voice. 'I know now, I even knew then, that my father forced you to
act as you did; but I was angered, disappointed, with you and in you. I
had thought--I think even Motey expected--that you would have wanted to
run away with me. Gretna Green seemed a very real place in those days.'
She smiled dolorously. 'If you had been a little stronger or a little
weaker, perhaps even a little less reasonable, I should have run away
with you, for at that time--ah, David, I was in love with Love, and you
were Love.'
'Then I only once forfeited my chance?' he again asked urgently. 'During
all these past years it never came again?'
For a moment Penelope hesitated; then, as she lied, she again pressed
closer to him, and again the tears ran down her cheeks. 'It never came
again,' she repeated. 'But you know, you will always remember when I am
gone, that you were the only one, the only one.'
'Is that quite true?' he asked slowly.
'Absolutely true.' She spoke eagerly, defending the truth as she had not
been called upon to defend the lie. 'We have had our happy years,
David--your years, my dear. You always seemed quite content----'
'Did I?' he said bitterly. 'Ah well, now comes the turn of the other
man!'
Penelope started back, wounded and ashamed. She put her hand over her
eyes. For a moment they both felt an intangible, but none the less
reproachful, presence between them.
'I beg your pardon,' he said hurriedly. 'I should not have said that.
Forgive me.'
'It was my fault,' she answered coldly. 'I brought it on myself--I know
you had great provocation.'
There was a painful moment of silence. 'I think I must leave you now,'
she said at length, 'I will write to you to-morrow. I do not think our
meeting again would be of any use. We should both say'--her voice
quivered--'and perhaps do, things we should regret later.' She held out
her hand, her head still averted, wishing her anger, her disappointment,
with Winfrith to endure.
But suddenly he drew her again, this time resisting, into his arms. 'We
can't part like this,' he whispered urgently. 'Forgive the brutish thing
I said! I promise I will never so offend again--I swear I will respect
him--the man you love, I mean.' To keep her another moment in his arms
he abased himself yet further. 'You must not be afraid that I shall
quarrel with your choice. Surely we can remain friends--he shall have no
reason to be jealous of me.'
But punishment came swift and sure. Again he felt her shrink from him,
again he felt another presence between them, and the jealous devil, so
lately laid, once more took possession of his soul.
He thrust her away. 'I had better go now,' he said hoarsely. 'It's no
use. You were right: we had better not meet again.'
And as Penelope, swept with infinite distress, compelled, mastered, by
impulses the source of which was wholly hidden from herself, came once
more near to him, again took his hand in hers, looked up mutely into
his face, he said roughly, 'No, no! keep your kisses for the other man;
I will not rob him any more!' and, fumbling for a moment with the key in
the lock, was gone.