The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

I

Above, close to the window of a high narrow room which had once been the Catholic Lord Wantley's oratory, and which was next to the bedroom always occupied by Penelope herself, sat in the darkness Mrs. Mote.

The window directly overlooked the flagged terrace, the leafy scented gardens, and the sea, and there were members of Mrs. Robinson's household who considered it highly unfitting that an apartment so pleasantly situated should be the 'own room' of the plain, sturdy little woman who, after having been Penelope Wantley's devoted and skilful nurse for close on twenty years, had been promoted on her nursling's marriage to be her less skilful but equally devoted maid.

Mrs. Mote had never been what we are wont to call a pleasant woman. She was over thirty when she had first entered Lord and Lady Wantley's service as nurse to their only child, and as the years had gone on her temper had not improved, and her manner had not become more conciliating. Even in the days when Penelope had been a nervous, highly-strung little girl, Lady Wantley had had much to bear from 'Motey,' as the nurse had been early named by the child. Very feminine, under a hard, unprepossessing exterior which recalled that of Noah's wife in Penelope's old-fashioned Noah's ark, Motey instinctively disliked all those women—and, alas! there were many such, below and above stairs—who were more attractive than herself.

Lady Wantley, beautiful, beloved, and enjoying, even among many of the servant's own sort, a reputation for austere goodness and spiritual perfection, was for long years the object of poor Motey's special aversion. Singularly reticent, and taking pride in 'keeping herself to herself,' the woman never betrayed her feelings, or rather she did so in such small and intangible ways as were never suspected by the person most closely concerned. Lady Wantley recognised the woman's undoubted devotion to the child to whom she was herself so devoted, and she simply regarded Mrs. Mote's sullen though never disrespectful behaviour to herself as one of those unfortunate peculiarities of manner and temper which often accompany sterling worth. Lord Wantley had been so far old-fashioned that he disliked going anywhere without his wife, and the mother had felt great solace to leave her daughter in such sure hands; but she had sacrificed excellent maids of her own, and innumerable under-servants, to the nurse's peculiar temper and irritability.

There had been a moment, Penelope being then about seventeen, when Mrs. Mote's supremacy had trembled in the balance. The trusted nurse had played a certain part in the girl's first love affair, acting with a secretiveness, a lack of proper confidence in her master and mistress, which had made them both extremely displeased and angry, and there had been some question as to whether she should remain in their service. Mrs. Mote never forgot having overheard a short conversation between the headstrong girl and her mother. 'If you tell me it must be so, I will give up David Winfrith,' Penelope had declared, sobbing bitterly the while; 'but if you send Motey away I will throw myself into the sea!'

All this was now, however, ancient history. Mrs. Mote had been forgiven her plunge into vicarious romance, and a day had come, not, however, till after Lord Wantley's death, when Penelope's mother had admitted to herself that perhaps Motey had been more clear-sighted than herself. In any case, the old nurse had firmly established her position as a member of the family. She and Lady Wantley had grown old together, and even before Penelope's marriage the servant had learnt to regard her mistress not only with a certain affection, but with what she had before been unwilling to give her—namely, real respect. To her master she had always been warmly attached, and she mourned him sincerely, being pathetically moved when she learnt that he had left her, as 'a token of regard and gratitude,' the sum of five hundred pounds.

The phrase had touched her more than the money had done. Motey, as are so many servants, was lavishly generous, and she had helped with her legacy several worthless relations of her own to start small businesses which invariably failed. These losses, however, she bore with great philosophy. Her home was wherever her darling, her 'young lady,' her 'ma'am,' happened to be, and her circle that of the family with whose fortunes hers had now been bound up for so many years.

Mrs. Robinson's faithful affection for this old servant was one of the best traits in a somewhat capricious if generous character, the more so that the maid by no means always approved of even her mistress's most innocent actions and associates. Thus, she had first felt a rough contempt, and later a fierce dislike, of poor Melancthon Robinson.

There were two people, both men, whom Motey would have been willing to see more often with her mistress.

The one was David Winfrith, who, if now a successful, almost it might be said a famous man, had played a rather inglorious part in Penelope's first love affair. The other was young Lord Wantley, of whom the old nurse had constituted herself the champion in the days when her master and mistress had merely regarded the presence of the nervous, sensitive boy as an unpleasant duty.

Mrs. Mote's liking for these two young men was completely subordinate to her love for her nursling; she would cheerfully have seen either of them undergo the most unpleasant ordeal had Penelope thereby been saved the smallest pain or hurt. In fact, it was because she well knew how stanch a friend Winfrith could be, and how useful, in perhaps a slightly whimsical way, Lord Wantley had more than once proved himself in his cousin's service, that she would have preferred to see more of these two and less of certain others.

Ah, those others! There had always been a side of Mrs. Robinson's nature which thirsted for sentimental adventure, and yet of the three women who in their several ways loved her supremely—her mother, Cecily Wake, and the old nurse—only the last was really aware of this craving for romantic encounter. Mrs. Mote had too often found herself compelled to stand inactive in the wings of the stage on which her mistress was wont to take part in mimic, but none the less dangerous, combat, for her to remain ignorant of many things, not only unsuspected, but in a sense unthinkable, by either the austere mother or the girl friend.

Perhaps this blindness in those who yet loved her well was owing to the fact that, in the ordinary sense of the term, Penelope was no flirt. Indeed, those among her friends who belonged to a society which, if over-civilized, is perhaps the more ready to extend a large measure of sympathy to those of its number who feel an overmastering impulse to revert, in affairs of the heart, to primitive nature, regarded the beautiful widow as singularly free from the temptations with which they were themselves so sorely beset.

Doubtless because she was herself so physically perfect, physical perfection held for Penelope none of that potent, beckoning appeal it so often holds for even the most refined and intelligent women. Rather had she always been attracted, tempted, in a certain sense conquered, by the souls of those with whom her passion for romance brought her into temporary relation. Even as a girl she had disdained easy conquest, and at all times she had been, when dealing with men, as a skilful musician who only cares to play on the finest instruments. Often she was surprised and disturbed, even made indignant, both by the harmonies and by the discords she thus produced; and sometimes, again, she made a mistake concerning the quality of the human instrument under her hand.