The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

I

The radiant stillness of early summer morning lay over the gardens of Monk's Eype; and though the wide stone-flagged terrace was in shadow, the newly-risen sun rioted gloriously beyond, flecking with pink and silver the sheets of sand which spread their glistening spaces from the shore to the sea.

Cecily Wake, already up and dressed, sitting writing by her open window, felt exquisitely content. The pungent scent thrown out by the geranium bushes which rose from the curiously twisted vases set at intervals along the marble balustrade floated up to where she sat, giving a delicate keenness to the warm sea-wind. She longed to go out of doors and make her way down to the little strip of beach which she knew lay below the terraces and gardens; but the plain gold watch which had been her father's, and a treasured possession of her own since she had left the convent school, told her that it was only a quarter to six.

Alone the birds, the butterflies, and herself seemed to be awake, in this enchanting and enchanted place, and she put the longing from her. Now and again, as she looked up from the two account-books lying open before her on the old-fashioned, rather rickety little table set at right angles to the window, and saw before and below her the splendid views of land and sea, came joyous anticipations of pleasant days to be spent in the company of Mrs. Robinson. To her fellow-guests—to Downing, to Wantley—she gave no thought at all. Winfrith alone was a possible rival. She sighed a little as she remembered that Penelope had seen him yesterday, and would doubtless see him to-morrow.

The girl was well aware—for only the vain and the obtuse are not always well aware of such things—that David Winfrith had no liking for her; more, that he regarded her affection for Mrs. Robinson as slightly absurd; worst of all, that he viewed with suspicion and disapproval her connection with the Melancthon Settlement and its affairs.

Some folk are born to charity—such was Cecily Wake; and some, in these modern days at any rate, have charity thrust upon them—such, in the matter of the Melancthon Settlement, was David Winfrith. Problems affected him far more than persons; and though the apparently insoluble problems of London poverty, London overcrowding, and London thriftlessness, had become to him matters full of poignant concern, he gave scarcely a thought to the individuals composing that mass of human beings whose claims upon society he recognized in theory. What thought he did give was extremely distasteful to him, perhaps because he regarded those who now provided these problems as irrevocably condemned and past present help.

Winfrith had never cared to join in the actual daily effort made by the small group of educated, refined people, who were the precursors of the many now trying to grapple with a state of things which the thinkers of that time were just beginning to realize. Still, his hard good sense had been of the utmost use to the Settlement, or rather to Mrs. Robinson, during the years which immediately followed her husband's death.

But though he had been the terror, and the vigorous chaser-forth, of the sentimental faddist, he had at no time understood the value of that grain of divine folly without which it is difficult to regain those, themselves so foolish, that seem utterly lost.

Winfrith had been astonished, and none too well pleased, when he had found that certain of Cecily Wake's innovations, especially a day-nursery where mothers could leave their babies throughout their long working hours, had received the flattery of imitation from several of the new philanthropic centres then beginning to spring up in all the poorer quarters of the town. Cecily was full of the eager constructive ardour of youth, and during the two years spent by her at the Settlement her infectious energy had quickened into life more than one of the paper schemes evolved by Melancthon Robinson.

To the girl, in this early, instinctive stage of her life, problems were nothing, individuals everything. The Catholic Church enjoins the duty of personal charity, insisting upon its efficacy, both to those who give and to those who receive, as opposed to that often magnificent impersonal institutional philanthropy so much practised in this country. Thus, Cecily's instinct in this direction had never been checked, and the first sermon to which, as a child, she had listened with attention and understanding had been one in which a Jesuit had insisted on the duty of helping those who cannot, rather than those who can, help themselves.

But even if Cecily Wake had never been taught the duty of charity, her nature and instinct would have always impelled her to lift up those who had fallen by the way, and to seek a cure for the apparently incurable. Then, as sometimes happens, the burdens which others had refused became, when she assumed them, surprisingly light; and often she felt abashed to find with what approval, and openly-expressed admiration, her two mentors at the Settlement, Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret, regarded some action or scheme which had cost her nothing but a happy thought and a little hard work to carry through.

Cecily, an old-fashioned girl, was humble-minded, and far more easily cast down by a word of admonition concerning some youthful fault or want of method than lifted up by successes which sometimes seemed to those about her to be of the nature of miracles.

Even now, on this the first morning of her holiday, she was struggling painfully with the simple accounts of the day-nursery; for she had promised Mrs. Pomfret to make out a detailed statement of what its cost had actually been during the past month, and as she caught herself repeating 'Five and four make fifty-four,' she felt heartily ashamed of herself, knowing that Winfrith would indeed despise her if he knew how difficult she found this simple task!