I
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 tremendous odds—tremendous because the victory had remained with one whose own heart had been traitor to the cause.
But her intuitive knowledge of her daughter's character warred with any hope that Penelope, having once made up her mind, would draw back. The mother was dimly aware that the barrier must be raised from the outside, and that the appeal must be made in this case to the man, and not to the woman.
So little like her father in most things, Mrs. Robinson had inherited from him a quality which his critics had called 'obstinacy,' and his admirers 'exceptional steadfastness of character.' Opposition had always strengthened Lord Wantley's power of performance, and, as his wife remembered only too clearly, in Penelope's early love affair it had been David Winfrith, and not the impulsive, headstrong girl, who had given way before the father's stern and inexorable command.
Lady Wantley was one of those fortunate people—more often to be found in a former generation than in our own—to whom their human possessions appear to be well-nigh perfect. In her eyes Mrs. Robinson was the most beautiful, the most gifted, the most generous-hearted, of God's creatures; and though she reluctantly admitted to herself that her daughter lacked spiritual perfection, the mother believed that in time this also would be added to her beloved child. Even now it did not occur to Lady Wantley that Penelope might be, in this matter, herself to blame. Instead, she reserved the whole strength of her condemnation for Sir George Downing, and she was on the way to persuade herself—as, indeed, she did in time come to do—that, in order to accomplish his fell purpose, this strange man had used unholy Eastern arts to snare Penelope, the fair guerdon for whom such a fighter as Persian Downing might well be willing to risk body and soul.
Wantley, as he lay back in the railway-carriage, his 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 wondered 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 only confirmation of Theresa Wake's suspicion.
Perhaps, after all, Lady Wantley had reason to fear something tangible, definite. If so, 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 consisting, 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 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 devotion by those about her. In those far-away days his aunt—for so he had been taught to call her—had always worn, even when on long, dusty Continental journeys, pale lavenders, soft greys, and ivory whites, each of her garments being fashioned in a way which, while scrupulously simple, yet heightened the quality of her physical beauty, and set her apart as on a pinnacle of exquisite and spotless womanliness.
Wantley remembered the kind of sensation which the great English milord and his lady naturally created in the little-frequented French and German towns selected by them for sometimes prolonged halts.
To-day, as he sat opposite to her, there came over him with extraordinary vividness the recollection of one such sojourn in a Bavarian village overhung by an historic castle, the owner of which had invited Lord Wantley and his whole party to spend a day there. The young man recalled with whimsical clearness each incident of what had been an enchanting episode—the hours spent in the green alleys of a park of which the still canals, stone terraces, and formal statuary recalled, as they were meant to do, Versailles, for the place had been designed in those far-off days when France and the French ideal of life still ruled the German imagination.
He remembered the fair-haired German girl whose gentle presence had for him dominated the scene, her shy kindliness, the contrast between her good English and his own and his cousin's indifferent German; and then the feeling with which he had heard some passing words—a brief question and a briefer answer—exchanged between the hospitable Prince and the noble philanthropist: 'A charming lad—doubtless your eldest son?' And the quick answer, 'No, no! quite a distant kinsman.' The words had rankled, and over years.
Lady Wantley had never been to London in August, 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 any one that you know,' Wantley answered dryly. 'Still 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 otherwise 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.'