The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

II

There came a sudden sound below her window, the muffled tread of steps on the stone flags, and the tall, angular figure of Sir George Downing strode into view. He was bare-headed, but about his square, powerful shoulders hung the old-fashioned cloak which had attracted Wantley's attention the afternoon before. When he reached the marble parapet Cecily saw that he was carrying a large red despatch-box, which he placed, and then leant upon, across the flat, weather-stained top of the balustrade.

As she gazed at the motionless, almost stark figure, of which the head was now sunk between the shoulders, Cecily felt that he strangely disturbed her peaceful impression of the scene, and that, while in no sense attracted by, or even specially interested in him, she was curiously conscious of his silent, pervading presence.

She tried to remember what Lord Wantley had said to her the evening before concerning this same fellow-guest, for after the two men had joined their hostess on the terrace, Mrs. Robinson and Downing, leaving the younger couple, had wandered off into the pine-wood which formed a scented rampart between Monk's Eype, its terraces and gardens, and the open down.

At once Wantley had spoken to his companion of the famous man, and of his life-history, which he seemed to think must be familiar to Cecily as it was to himself. 'If you are as romantic as all nice young ladies should be, and as, I believe, they are,' he had said, 'you must feel grateful to Mrs. Robinson for giving you the opportunity of meeting such a remarkable man. Even I, blasé as I am, felt a thrill to-day when I realized that Persian Downing was actually here.' There had been a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, but even so his listener had felt that he meant what he said.

Like most young people, Cecily dreaded above all things being made to look foolish, and so, not knowing what to answer—for she knew but little of Persia and nothing at all of Sir George Downing—she had wisely remained silent. But now she reddened as she remembered how ignorant and how awkward she must have seemed to her dear Penelope's cousin, and she made up her mind that she would this very day ask Mrs. Robinson why Sir George Downing was famous, and why Lord Wantley considered him specially interesting to the romantic.

Almost at once came the opportunity. There was a light tap at the door, and as it opened Cecily saw Penelope, a finger to her lips, standing in the wide corridor, of which the citron-coloured walls were hung with large, sharply-defined black-and-white engravings of Italian scenery and Roman temples.

For a moment they stood smiling at one another; then Mrs. Robinson beckoned to the girl to come to her. 'I thought it just possible you might already be up,' she whispered, 'and that you would like to come down to the shore. Last night I promised Sir George Downing to take him early to the Beach Room, which I have had arranged in order that he may be able to work there undisturbed.' Then, as together they walked down the corridor, she added: 'I am afraid he has been already waiting some time, for I found it so difficult to dress myself—without Motey, I mean!' and, with a graver note in her voice, 'It's rather terrible,' she said, 'to think how dependent one may become on another human being. Poor old Motey! from her point of view I could not possibly exist without her. When I was abroad—last spring, I mean—I often got up quite early to paint, but Motey always managed to be earlier—I never could escape her! However, to-day I've succeeded, and you, child, are a quite as efficient, and a much pleasanter chaperon.'

Cecily did not stop to wonder what Mrs. Robinson could mean by these last words, uttered with strange whispering haste. She had at once noticed, as people generally do notice any change in a loved or admired presence, that her friend this morning looked unlike herself; but a moment's thought had shown that this was owing to the way in which Penelope had dressed her hair. The red-brown masses, instead of being cunningly coiled above and round the face, had been thrust into a gold net, thus altering in appearance the very shape of their owner's head, of her slender neck, and even, or so it seemed to her companion, of the delicate, cameo-like features. Cecily was not sure whether she approved of the change, and Mrs. Robinson caught the look of doubt in the girl's ingenuous eyes.

'Yes, I know I failed with my hair! In that one matter Motey will be able to exult; but, fortunately, I remembered that I had a net. My father had it made in Italy for mamma, and all through my childhood she always wore it, I envying her the possession. One day when I was ill (you know I was far too cosseted and pampered as a child) I said to her: "I'm sure I should get well quicker if you would only lend me your gold net!"—for I was a selfish, covetous little creature—and, of course, she did give it me. But poor mamma never got back her net. After I was tired of wearing it, or trying to wear it, I made a breastplate of it for my favourite doll. I kept it more than twice seven years, and now you see I've found a use for it!'

They were already halfway down the staircase which connected the upper story of Monk's Eype with the hall, when came the earnest question: 'Penelope, I want to ask you—now—before we go out, why Sir George Downing is famous, and what he has done to make him so?'

For a moment Mrs. Robinson made no answer. Then Cecily, her feet already on the rug laid below the lowest marble stair, felt a firm hand on her shoulder. Surprised, she turned and looked up. Penelope stood two or three steps higher, and though the younger woman in time forgot the actual words, she always remembered their gist, and the rapt, glowing look, the deliberation, with which they had been uttered.

'I am glad you have asked me this. I meant—I wanted—to speak to you of him yesterday, before you met him. For, Cecily'—the speaker's hand leaned heavily on the girl's slight shoulder, and her next words, though not uttered loudly, rang out as a confession of faith,—'if my acquaintance with Sir George Downing has been short, and I admit that it has been so, measured by time, his friendship and—and—his regard have become very much to me. I reverence the greatness of his mind, of his heart, and of his aims. Some day you will be proud to remember that you once met him.'

A little colour suffused the speaker's face, seeming to intensify the blue of her clear, unquailing eyes, to make memorable the words she had said.

More indifferently she presently added: 'As to why he has lately become what you call famous, ask the reason of my cousin, Lord Wantley. He will give what is, I suppose, the true explanation—namely, that Sir George Downing has of late years revealed himself as a brilliant diplomatist, as well as a remarkable writer, able to describe, as no one else has been able to do, the strange country which has become his place of work and dwelling. Other circumstances have also led, almost by accident, to his name becoming known, and his life in Persia discussed, by the sort of people whose approval and interest confer fame.'

In silence they walked together across the hall to the glass door, through which could be seen, darkly outlined against the line of sea, the angular, bent figure of the man of whom they had been speaking.

And then Mrs. Robinson again opened her lips; again the clear voice vibrated with intense, unaccustomed feeling: 'I should like to say one more thing—Always remember that Sir George Downing has never sought recognition; and though it has come at last, it has come too late. Too late, I mean, to atone for a great injustice done to him as a young man—too late to be now of any real value to him, unless it helps him to achieve the objects he has in view.'

But though the words were uttered with a solemnity, a passion of protest, which made the voice falter, when speaker and listener joined Downing, it was Cecily whose hazel eyes were full of pity, Penelope whose radiant and now softened beauty made the man, tired and seared with life, whose cause she had been so gallantly defending, feel, as he turned to meet her, once more young and glad.

That sunny morning hour altered, and in a measure transformed and deepened, Cecily Wake's emotional nature. Then was she brought into contact, for the first time, with the rarefied atmosphere of a great, even if unsanctified passion, and that she was, and for some considerable time remained, ignorant of its presence and nearness made the effect on her mind and heart, if anything, more subtle and enduring.

To this convent-bred orphan girl Love was the lightsome pagan deity, synonymous with Youth, whose arrows sometimes stung, perhaps even fastened into the wound, but who threw no shadow as he walked the earth, seeking the happy girls and boys who had leisure and opportunity—Cecily was very human, and sometimes found time to sigh that she had neither—to enjoy the pretty sport of love-making, with the logical outcome of ideal marriage.

Life just then would have been a very different matter had she realized that Cupid spent a considerable portion of his time in the neighbourhood of the Settlement, and not always with the happiest results. Of course, Cecily knew that even in Stratford East there were happy lovers, such, for instance, the girl for whom she destined Penelope's wedding-ring; but on the whole she was inclined to believe that Cupid reserved his attentions, or at any rate his swiftest arrows, for those young people who enjoy the double advantage of good birth and wealth. Even them she would have thought more likely to meet with Cupid in the country than in the town, just as the believer in fairyland finds it impossible to associate the Little People with the London pavement, however much he may hope to meet with them some day sporting in grassy glades or under the hedgerows.

And so, while the other two were well aware that Love walked with them, down the steep steps cut out of the soft blue lias rock, Cecily Wake was utterly unconscious of his nearness, and this although the unseen presence quickened her own sensibilities, and made her more ready to receive new and unsought emotions.