The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

I

The last occasion on which Wantley had come to Marston Lydiate had been in order that he might be present at a great audit dinner, and he had felt acutely the unreality, the solemn absurdity, of it all. Those present, his tenants, all knew, and knew that he knew also, that he could never hope to come and live among them.

Lady Wantley, keeping up full state at the Hall, was still, as she had long been, their real overlord and Providence, and the young man had felt that it was to her that should have been addressed the heavy expressions of good will to which he had had to listen, and then to make a suitable reply.

But now, on Christmas Eve, more than a year after the death of Sir George Downing, as Wantley drove in the winter sunshine along lanes cut through land which after all belonged to him, and which must in time belong to those, yet unborn, whom he left after him, he felt something of the pride of possession stir within him, and he bethought himself that he was a link in a long human chain of worthy Wantleys, past and to come.

Sitting silent by his young wife's side, he felt well pleased with life, awed into thankfulness at the thought of how much better things had turned out with him than he had ever thought possible. Then a whimsical notion presented itself to his mind:

'Why are you smiling? Do tell me!' Cecily turned to him, rubbed her soft cheek against the pointed beard she had once—it seemed so long ago—despised as the appanage of age.

To her to-day was a great day, one to be remembered very tenderly the whole of her life through. She had read everything that could be read about this place, and, indeed, she knew far more of the history of the house to which they were going than did Wantley himself. Here also, in the substantial ivy-draped rectory, which her husband had pointed out as they had driven quickly through the village, he had been born, and spent his childhood. Oh yes, this was indeed to Cecily a day of days, and she felt pleased and moved to think that their first Christmas together should be spent at Marston Lydiate.

'Why was I smiling? Well, when I was a child, my nurse used to say to me, "If 'ifs' were horses, beggars would ride!" and I was thinking just then that if we have a son, and if our son marries an American heiress, and if he and she care to do so, they will be able to come and live here, a thing you and I, my darling, can never do!'

The brougham swung in through the lodge gates, each flanked by a curious and, Cecily feared, a most uncomfortable little house, suggestive of a miniature Greek temple; and a turn in the wide park road, lined with snow-laden evergreen bushes, brought suddenly into view the great plateau along which stretched the long regular frontage of the huge mansion for which they were bound.

The size of the building amazed and rather excited her. 'It must be an immense place,' she said. 'I had no idea that it was like this!'

'Yes, the young lady will require to have a great many dollars—eh, my dear?'

'You never told me it was such a—a——'

'Magnificent pile?' he suggested dryly. 'That is what some of my uncle's guests used to call it. My mother's name for it was the "White Elephant." Even Uncle Wantley could hardly have lived here if his wife had not been a very wealthy woman. Of course, to Penelope the essential ugliness of the place has always been very distasteful; and this perhaps is fortunate, as Marston Lydiate was the only thing my uncle possessed which he could not leave to her away from me.'

Still, he felt a thrill of pleasurable excitement when the carriage stopped beneath the large Corinthian portico; and he was touched as well as amused by the rather pompous welcome tendered by the crowd of servants, the majority of whom he had known all his life, either in their present situations or as his own village contemporaries. He was moved by the heartiness with which they greeted him and his young wife, and pleased at the discretion with which they finally vanished, leaving him and Cecily alone with the housekeeper, Mrs. Moss.

We are often assured that a servant's life is cast in pleasant places, and each member of such a household as that of Marston Lydiate doubtless enjoys a sense of security denied to many a free man and free woman. But human nature craves for the unusual, and what can exceed the utter dulness of life below stairs when the master or mistress of such an establishment becomes old or broken in health?

Cecily would have been amused had she known of the long discussions which had taken place between Mrs. Moss, the housekeeper, and Mr. Jenkins, the butler, as to whether she or he should have the supreme pleasure and excitement of leading the couple, who were still regarded, in that house at least, as a bridal pair, through the ornate state-rooms to that which had been set apart and prepared for their use as the most 'cosy' of them all.

The privilege had been finally conceded to Mrs. Moss, it being admitted that, with regard to a new Lady Wantley, such was her undoubted right; and the worthy woman would have been shocked indeed had she realized that Cecily, while being conducted through the splendid rooms, each lighted up with a huge fire—the English servant's ideal of welcome—was feeling very glad that fate had not made her mistress of Marston Lydiate.

'Mr. Jenkins thought your ladyship would like tea in the Cedar Drawing-room.'

Their long progress had come to an end, and Wantley was pleased that the room chosen had always been his own favourite apartment, among many which, though not lacking in the curious pompous charm of the grand period when Marston Lydiate had been built and furnished, were yet, to his fastidious taste, overdecorated and overladen with silk and gilding.

In old days he had often wondered that Lord and Lady Wantley, themselves with so fine and austere a taste, had been content to leave, at any rate, the state-rooms of Marston Lydiate exactly as they had found them. But now, during the last few months, the young man had come face to face with facts; above all, he had been compelled to see and witness much which had made him at last understand why his predecessor had chosen other uses for his wealth than that of putting a more costly simplicity in the place of the splendour which he had inherited.

After she had ushered them with much circumstance into the pretty circular room, even now full of the distinct faint fragrance thrown out by the cedar panelling from which it took its name, Mrs. Moss still lingered.

'Your lordship will find her ladyship very poorly,' she said nervously.' I know you've heard from Dr. Knox; he said he was writing to you. I do wish our young lady would come home. She writes to her mamma very regularly, that I will say; but it's my belief that her ladyship's just pining to death for her.'

'You've been having trouble with the nurses?' Wantley spoke with a certain effort. He had not shown his wife the country doctor's letter to himself.

Mrs. Moss tossed her head. 'That we have indeed! They don't like chronic cases. That's what they all say. I don't know what young women are coming to! Wait till they're chronic cases themselves! The night nurse left this morning. I don't know, I'm sure, what we shall do about to-night.'

Wantley checked the torrent of words. 'We will arrange about that, you and I, later. Do you think my aunt would like to see me now, at once?'

Mrs. Moss shook her head. 'One time's the same to her as another,' she said, sighing, and left the room.