'For a pinte of honey thou shalt here likely find a gallon of gaul,
for a dram of pleasure a pound of pain, for an inch of mirth an ell
of mone: as Ivie doth an oke, these miseries encompass our life.'
I
After her return from Kingpole Farm that night of stress and storm,
Penelope felt strangely, terribly forlorn. Those about her seemed
changed. She gradually became aware that she was being watched,
considered anxiously, by her mother, by Wantley, even by Miss Wake.
Cecily alone among them seemed as she had always been, but even she, or
so Mrs. Robinson suspected, had gone through some experience which she
was keeping secret from the woman who knew herself so well and loyally
loved by her.
As the time grew near when Miss Wake and her niece were to go back to
town, leaving Penelope alone with her mother and with her cousin, there
came over Mrs. Robinson an overmastering desire to recall Downing to
Monk's Eype; she longed for the protection which would be afforded her
by his presence. She also wished him to confirm her in the conviction
that the time had come when Lady Wantley should be told of what they
were about to do.
For the first time the gravity, the irrevocable nature, of the step she
was taking came home to Penelope's mind, to her heart--especially after
her agonizing interview with Winfrith--and even to her conscience, for
she acknowledged a duty to her mother.
During these days of suspense Mrs. Robinson became 'gey ill to live
with,' and the two who suffered most from her moods were Mrs. Mote and
Cecily Wake. Penelope half suspected her old nurse of treachery, and
sometimes she would give her a peculiar, and Motey felt it to be also a
terrible, look. The old servant was a brave woman, but during that time
of silent, fearful waiting her spirit often quailed, and she sometimes
bitterly regretted having spoken to Lady Wantley.
To Cecily her friend's capricious moods were a source of pained
bewilderment. Penelope no longer drew, no longer painted, no longer,
indeed, did anything but walk and drive. She seemed to have a fear of
solitude, and yet the girl was the only companion whom she tolerated.
Sometimes the two would drive in the broad, low pony-cart for hours,
with scarce a word said on either side. At other times Mrs. Robinson
would talk with her wonted impetuosity and sharp decision of many things
and people of moment to Cecily. She would refer to her brief married
life at the Settlement, even to her childhood and David Winfrith. Then
would come bitter, slighting words concerning those whom the speaker
knew to be dear to her listener, sarcastic references to enthusiastic
Philip Hammond and large-minded, kindly Mrs. Pomfret; even--then Cecily
Wake's heart would whisper that this was surely cruel--her cousin
Wantley would be ruthlessly dissected, and his foibles held up to scorn.
There would come moments when Penelope again was kind, when she would
say a word implying that Cecily Wake was her best, her most intimate,
friend; but this was now often followed by a sentence which seemed to
tell of an approaching break in their friendship, of coming separation.
Soon the two, the woman and the girl, were at utter variance the one
with the other, and Cecily suffered almost as keenly as did Penelope. It
seemed to her only too clear that Mrs. Robinson grudged her, and
disapproved of, Wantley's love. What else could mean her strange,
obliquely stabbing phrases?
Cecily's mind often reverted to that most moving, sacred hour when
Wantley had given her his mother's pearls, when he had told her, dryly
and yet tenderly, of how truly he loved her. He had said--she remembered
the words, and, so remembering, often let her eyes fall before those of
her friend--'Unless you particularly wish to do so, I should prefer that
you say nothing--just now, at once--to Penelope. Wait till I have spoken
to your aunt, till we are both in London, till we are ready to tell all
the world.' And, of course, she had assented, while yet feeling sure of
Mrs. Robinson's real sympathy.
But now Cecily felt sure no longer, and over her heart there came
something very like despair. How could she, Cecily Wake, who owed so
much--nay, her very acquaintance with Wantley--to Penelope, go against
her in so serious a matter? Cecily had retained the clear conscience,
free of all casuistry, of a child. She knew that she loved Wantley with
all her heart, that her feeling for him was no longer under her own
control; but she also knew that she could never marry him in direct
opposition to the wishes of the one human being to whom she regarded
herself as indebted for all which made life worth living.
And so her happiness became quite overshadowed with misgivings and
hesitations, of which she said nothing to her lover.
This reticence was made easy by Wantley's own conduct. With a
punctiliousness which did him honour, he scorned to take any advantage
of their hidden understanding. For many reasons he had preferred that
their formal engagement should take place, and be publicly announced,
in London. Meanwhile, he felt infinitely content, and in no haste to
provoke the elder Miss Wake's tremulous, incredulous satisfaction, or to
receive his cousin's ironical congratulations.
There are moments in almost every life when a man feels himself lifted
far above his usual plane of thought and feeling, when he knows he is
happily adrift from familiar moorings.
Such a moment had now come to Wantley. He would ask himself, with a
certain exultation of heart, whether it were possible that a time could
come when he would feel any nearer, ever more intimately linked, to his
beloved, to this young and still mysterious creature, the tips of whose
fingers he had not even kissed, and who, as he well knew, and was glad
to know, lived in a spiritual sense in a world so far removed from that
in which he had always dwelt.
He trembled at his own good fortune, and would fain have propitiated
that sportive Fate which lies in wait for those to whom Providence has
been too kind. So feeling, he told himself that he should not grudge
Penelope the present companionship of Cecily. He divined something of
his cousin's unhappiness and unrest, though far from suspecting their
intensity, and so the gradual shadowing of Cecily's face was attributed
by him to her hourly contact with one who was obviously ill at ease and
sick at heart.
On the last day of Theresa Wake's stay at Monk's Eype, Mrs. Robinson
quite unexpectedly and most capriciously, or so it seemed to the older
lady, expressed a sudden wish that the aunt and niece should stay on for
another two or three days.
So eager was Penelope to compass the matter that she actually sought out
Miss Wake in the early morning before she was up and dressed. 'Pray,
Cousin Theresa, stay on a little longer! Do not go to-morrow. This is
the sixth--stay on till the ninth. We are all leaving on Saturday.' She
added, after a scarcely perceptible pause: 'Sir George Downing is coming
back to-day.'
But Miss Wake's answer was very decided, and not very gracious in
expression. Was it fancy that made Mrs. Robinson feel that the few words
were uttered very coldly? 'No; we cannot alter our plans at this late
hour, Mrs. Pomfret is expecting Cecily back to-morrow evening. We must
certainly leave in the morning, and you will be able to spare us very
well.'
II
There came a time when Wantley often debated painfully as to why he had
lent himself to the bringing back of Downing to Monk's Eype, and when he
was glad to remember that he had said a word of protest to his cousin.
Penelope had chosen him to be her messenger; his had been the task of
taking her invitation to Kingpole Farm.
Mrs. Robinson had tried to treat the matter with Wantley as of no
moment. He had listened in silence, and then reluctantly had said: 'I
will go if you really wish it, but I think you are not acting wisely;'
only to be disarmed by the look of suffering, almost of despair, which
had met his measured words.
And so he had taken the letter which had summoned Downing to her side.
'I beg you to come back for two or three days,' she wrote. 'Things have
not been going well with me. I need your help. I feel that before
leaving here I ought to inform my mother of my--of our--intentions.'
In later life Wantley sometimes recalled that last visit to Kingpole
Farm.
During the long solitary drive he had wondered uneasily if he was
expected--if this little episode had been arranged between Mrs.
Robinson and the man with whom he was beginning to believe his cousin
was indeed more closely connected than he liked to think possible. But
at once he had seen that Downing knew nothing--that he, Wantley, had not
been expected, indeed, was not welcome. Downing struck him as aged,
sombre, perhaps even defiant, as he held out his lean brown hand for
Penelope's note. While reading it he had turned away, treating his
visitor with scant ceremony, then had said briefly, 'I understand I am
to come back with you--now--to-day?' And Wantley had as shortly
assented.
Perforce--this also he later remembered time and again--Wantley was
present at the meeting of Penelope and Downing.
The two men found her standing by the open door, her tall figure
outlined against the hall, the sunny terrace, the belt of blue sea
beyond. She was looking out landward, shading her eyes--sunken,
grey-lidded with much sleeplessness, perhaps with tears--from the bright
light.
Without waiting for the high phaeton to stop, Downing had sprung out,
and striding forward had taken her two hands in his. For a moment they
seemed unaware of Wantley's presence; they exchanged no conventional
word of greeting. Then, slowly, and with a deep sigh, Penelope withdrew
her hands from the other's grasp, and observed, quite collectedly, that
the Beach Room had been arranged, as before, to serve as study for her
guest.
A moment later she had turned and gone, out through the hall, on to the
terrace, leaving her cousin to play once more the part of host--but this
time of reluctant host--to Persian Downing.
It was night. Wantley's light alone burnt brightly on the lower floor of
the villa. The group of five people--for Lady Wantley had not come down
to dinner--had broken up curiously early, Downing retreating to the
Beach Room, Miss Wake upstairs, while Penelope, Cecily, and Wantley
himself, after a short walk through the dark pine-wood, had also
separated.
For awhile he tried to read and smoke, but soon he put down his book,
and lay back in the large, deep chair, and thought of what he should do
if----
Wantley had a great dislike to interfering in other people's
business--in fact, he prided himself on never offering unasked advice,
on never spoiling a game in which he was not taking a hand.
Well, what he was now doing savoured of interference. Still, it was his
business, and his only, if he chose to outstay from bed his
fellow-guests. After all, he had a perfect right to sit up on this, the
last night of Cecily Wake's stay at Monk's Eype--the young man's face
softened; on this, the first night of Downing's return--his face grew
stern, his eyes alert.
If Downing, coming up from the Beach Room at one or two in the morning,
met Penelope--well, scarcely by appointment, but by accident--in the
studio, would it not be better for them both to be aware that he,
Wantley, was there sitting up, almost next door? To make them aware of
it might be a certain difficulty, but that could be managed if he now
got up and left the door of the smoking-room ajar. He did so, treading
softly across the matted floor.
A sudden sound made him start, but it was only a shutter, not, as he had
thought, a door opening and closing.
Again he took up his book--a much annotated French edition of the
Confessions of Saint Augustine--and he lighted another cigarette. It was
now only eleven. There were hours to be got through, and if--as he
believed had sometimes occurred before--Sir George Downing elected to
stay in the Beach Room all night, then he, poor Wantley, must yet keep
his bargain with himself, and sit doggedly on.
There was always one most disagreeable possibility--that which, to tell
the truth, he really feared--namely, that Penelope might be seized with
the idea of going down to the Beach Room, of seeking out Downing there.
If he heard her coming down the silent house; if he heard her opening
the door which led from the hall on to the terrace, then certainly he
would, and must, break his cherished rule of non-interference. But the
thought that this ordeal perhaps lay before him did not add to the
pleasure of his vigil.
III
At half-past eleven Wantley heard that which he had feared to hear, the
sound of steps coming down the marble staircase. He got up from his
chair, very slowly, very reluctantly. There came the murmur of low
voices, and the listener's ear caught Cecily's low, even tones answering
Penelope's eager, whispering voice.
'What a relief,' the voice was saying--'what a relief to get away from
upstairs--from Motey next door! Here we shall be quite alone----' Then,
with surprise, but no annoyance: 'Why, there's a light in Ludovic's
smoking-room! But he's very discreet. He would never intrude on a
dressing-gown conference.'
And the voices swept on, past the door ajar, on into the short passage
which led to the studio.
Wantley sat down again with a very altered feeling. He was ashamed of
his former fears, and at that moment begged his cousin's pardon for
suspicions which he trusted she would never know he had entertained.
Cecily asleep, dreaming sad dreams, had suddenly wakened to see
Penelope standing by the side of her bed.
The tall, ghostlike figure, clad in a long pale-grey dressing-gown, held
a small lamp in her hand; and, as the girl opened her eyes, bent down
and whispered, 'I could not sleep, and so I thought we might have one
last talk. Not here--for we might wake Cousin Theresa; not in my
room--for there Motey can hear every word--but downstairs in the studio,
if you are not afraid of the cold.'
And so they had made their way through the unlighted house, Cecily's
smaller figure wrapped in pale blue and white, her fair hair spread over
her shoulders, looking, so her companion in tender mood assured her,
like one of Fra Angelico's heavenly visitants.
When in the studio, Penelope put the lamp down on her painting-table and
drew the girl over to the broad couch where Cecily had sat down and
waited for her, just a month ago, on the afternoon of her first day at
Monk's Eype. The knowledge of how happy she had then been, of how
beautiful she had thought this room, now full of dim, mysterious
sadness, came back to the girl with a pang of pain. She looked round
with troubled eyes, but Mrs. Robinson, an elbow on her knee, her chin
resting in her left hand, caught nothing of this look, for she was
staring out through the dark uncurtained window, absorbed in her own
thoughts.
At last she slowly turned her head.
'Cecily,' she said, and her voice sounded curiously strained, 'you must
have thought me odd of late, and even sometimes not kind. And yet, my
dear, I love you very well.'
'I know,' said Cecily, speaking with difficulty; 'I have understood.'
'You have understood?' Mrs. Robinson looked at her with quick suspicion,
and her face hardened. 'Do you mean that my affairs have been
discussed? What have you heard? What have you understood?'
'Your feeling as to Lord Wantley--and myself.' Cecily's voice sank, but
she spoke very steadily, a little coldly. Surely Penelope might have
spared her this utterance.
But the other had heard the slow, reluctant words with a feeling of
remorse and relief.
'Why, Cecily!' she cried, and as she spoke she put her arm round the
girl's shoulders, 'did you think--did you believe, that I could feel
anything but glad? Why, when I first saw how things were going, I could
hardly believe in Ludovic's good fortune.' She added, half to herself,
'in his good taste! You are a thousand times too good for him; but he
knows that well enough. Of course, I knew he had spoken to you; but as
you did not tell me----' There was a note of reproach in Penelope's
voice. 'How strange, how amazing, that you should have understood me so
little! For the last few days,' she sighed a sharp, short sigh, 'my only
really happy, comfortable moments have been spent in thinking of you and
of Ludovic.'
She stopped speaking abruptly, but kept her arm round the girl's
shoulder. Cecily had time to wonder why she herself felt so far from
content; surely the kind words just uttered should have filled her with
joy and peace?
'Tell me,' she said, and as she spoke she fixed her eyes imploringly on
her companion's face, taking unconscious note of Penelope's rigid mouth
and stern, contracted brows--'do tell me why you are so unhappy! I would
not ask you if I did not care for you so much.'
'Am I unhappy? Do I seem unhappy?' Mrs. Robinson looked fixedly at the
questioner as if really seeking an answer. She got up suddenly, walked
to the end of the long room and back, then came and stood before Cecily.
'Well, Cecily, I will tell you, for you deserve to know the truth. I am
unhappy, if indeed I am so, because I am about to do a thing of which
almost everyone who knows me--in fact, I might say everyone who knows
me--will disapprove. Also, it is a thing which will separate me from all
those I love and esteem, both in a material sense--for I am going very
far away--and in a spiritual sense.'
Penelope sank down on her knees, and placed her hands so that they
clasped and covered those of Cecily Wake. 'In your heaven, my dear,
there may be found a place for me--after a long stay, I imagine, in
purgatory; but there will be no room in mamma's heaven, especially not
in that where she believes my father to be. David Winfrith also will
consign me to outer darkness, and that of a very horrible kind. Still I
would give up willingly all hope of future heaven, Cecily, if only I
could conciliate them here--if only they would sympathize with what I am
about to do.'
Cecily looked down on the lovely face turned up to hers with a feeling
of pity and terror. 'What do you mean?' she said. 'I am sure you would
never do anything which would make your mother love you less.'
'I believe there are people'--Penelope was speaking quietly, as if to
herself--'to whom what I am going to do would appear to be perfectly
right, and, indeed, commendable. But then, you see, I do not know those
people, so the thought of them brings no comfort.'
She waited a moment, rose from her knees, and again sat down on the
couch. She felt ashamed of her emotion, and forced herself into
calmness, her voice into measured tones: 'I am going away with Sir
George Downing, back with him to Persia, to Teheran. We hope to be
always together, never apart till death takes one of us. I have even
promised him that I will not return to England, excepting, of course,
with him.'
'But I thought, I understood----' Cecily looked anxiously at her friend.
'You think rightly, you have understood the truth. Sir George Downing
has a wife. They have been married many years, and separated almost as
many.'
'But if he is married,' said Cecily slowly, 'how can you go away with
him like that?'
Mrs. Robinson thought Cecily strangely dull of understanding. 'Surely
you have heard of such occurrences?' she said impatiently.
'Oh, yes,' answered the girl, and her eyes filled with tears, which ran
down her cheeks unheeded. 'You mean St. Mary Magdalen, Penelope? And
others, later----'
Mrs. Robinson again got up. 'Surely,' she cried, 'you can understand how
it is with me? You love Ludovic--supposing that you suddenly heard, now,
that he was married--what would you do?--how would you feel?'
But Cecily, looking at her in dumb, agonized distress, made no answer.
'You are too kind to say so, but I know quite well what you would do.
You would go away, and never see him again. It might kill you, but you
would never do what you believed to be wrong.'
'Wrong for him, too,' the girl said, with difficulty.
'Well, I am not good, like you. If I had hesitated--and Cecily, believe
me, I never did so, not for a moment--it would have been owing to mean,
worldly considerations----'
'Do you, then, love him so very much?'
'Ah, my dear! Listen, Cecily, and I will tell you of our first meeting.
It was in the Gare de Lyon, when we--Motey and I--were on our way to Pol
les Thermes. I lost my purse, and he came forward, offered to lend me
what I needed. Should I'--Penelope's voice altered, became curiously
introspective, questioning--'should I have taken money from a stranger?'
And then as Cecily looked at her, amazed, 'I tell you that from the
moment our eyes met we _knew_ one another in a more real sense than many
lovers do after years of communion. My unhappiness the last few days has
come from his absence, from the knowledge, too, that we are both to be
tormented, as I am now being tormented--by you.' And, as Cecily made a
gesture of protest, 'Yes, my dear, by you! Why, he has also been
attacked by old Mr. Gumberg, of all people in the world!'
Penelope laughed nervously. She took the girl by the arm, and silently
they retraced their footsteps through the quiet house--the silence
broken at intervals by Cecily's long sighing sobs.
Some moments later, Wantley, going up to bed with uneasy mind, for he
had heard the sound of Cecily's distress, met his cousin face to face. A
white cloak concealed her figure, and a black silk hood her resplendent
hair.
They looked at one another for a moment. Then very deliberately he
spread out his arms, barring the way. 'You cannot, shall not go down to
the Beach Room!' he whispered.
'I must, and shall!' she said. 'You do not understand, I must see
him--you can come and wait for me if you like.'
But Wantley was merciless. He looked at her till her eyes fell before
his--till she turned and slowly went up before him, back into her room.