II

Cecily's aunt, whom he himself already secretly regarded with the not altogether uncritical eye of a relation, was to Wantley a new and amusing variety of old lady. Miss Theresa Wake had the appearance, common to so many women of her generation, of having been petrified in early middle age. A brown hair front lent spurious youth to the thin, delicate face, and her slight, elegant figure was only now becoming bent. It was impossible to imagine her young, but equally difficult to believe that she would ever grow really old.

The young man who aspired to the honour of becoming in due course her kinsman, found a constant source of amusement in the fact that her sincere, unaffected piety was joined to a keen, almost morbid, interest in any worldly matter affecting her acquaintances. When with Miss Wake it was positively difficult for a sympathetic person to keep from mentioning people, and so, 'I think we shall have David Winfrith here in a few minutes,' he said, when, having sought her out, he was anxious to make amends for his neglect. 'Penelope and your niece will probably bring him back. My cousin is very anxious that he should meet Sir George Downing, who is leaving soon.'

'Leaving soon? He will be greatly missed.'

The remark was uttered primly, and yet, as Wantley felt, with some significance. The phrase diverted him, it seemed so absurdly inappropriate; for Downing had stood, and that to a singular degree, apart from the ordinary life of the villa.

But the old spinster lady was pursuing her own line of thought. 'I suppose,' she said hesitatingly, 'that the Settlement would not be affected should Penelope marry again? Of course, I am interested in the matter on account of my niece.'

Wantley looked at her, surprised. 'I don't see why it should make the slightest difference, the more so that David Winfrith has of late years taken a great part in the management of the Melancthon Settlement—in fact, the place has been the great tie between them. I should not care myself to spend the money of a man to whom my wife had once been married, but I am sure Winfrith will feel no such scruple, and the possession of the Robinson fortune might make years of difference to him in attaining what is, I suppose, his supreme ambition. After all, and of course you must not think that I am for a moment comparing the two men, where would Dizzy have been without Mrs. Lewis?'

'But what would Mr. Winfrith have to do with it?' inquired Miss Wake. 'Was he a friend of Penelope's husband? How could he influence the disposal of the Robinson fortune?'

It was Wantley's turn to look, and to be, astonished. 'I understood we were speaking of Penelope's marrying again,' he said quickly, 'and I thought that you, like myself, had come to the conclusion that she would in time make up her mind to marry Winfrith. He's been devoted to her ever since she can remember. Why, they were once actually engaged, and I should never be surprised any time, any moment—to-day, for instance—were she to tell us that they were to be married.'

The old lady remained silent, but he realized that her silence was not one of consent. 'Surely you were thinking of David Winfrith?' he repeated. 'There has never been, in a serious sense, anyone else.'

A little colour came to Miss Wake's thin, wrinkled cheeks, and she began to look very uncomfortable. 'I was thinking of someone very different,' she said at last, 'but you have made me feel that I was quite wrong.'

An odious suspicion darted into the young man's mind. He suddenly felt both angry and disgusted. After all this constant dwelling on other people and their affairs must often lead to ridiculous and painful mistakes, to unwarrantable suspicions. 'You surely cannot mean——' he began rather sternly, and waited for her to speak.

'I was thinking of Sir George Downing,' she answered, meeting his perturbed look with one of calm confidence. 'Surely, Lord Wantley, now that I have suggested the idea, you must admit that they are greatly interested in one another? At no time of my life have I seen much of lovers; but, though I have not wished in any way to watch Penelope and this gentleman, and though I have, of course, said nothing to my niece Cecily, it has seemed to me quite dear that there is an attachment. In fact'—she spoke with growing courage, emboldened by his silence—'I have no doubt about my cousin's feelings. Would not the marriage be a suitable one? Of course there must be a certain difference of age between them, but she seems, indeed I am sure she is, so very devoted to him.'

'I confess the thought of such a thing never occurred to me.'

Wantley spoke slowly, unwillingly; and even while he uttered the words there came to him, as in an unbroken, confirmatory chain, the memory of little incidents, words spoken by Penelope, others left unsaid, her altered manner to himself—much unwelcomed evidence that Miss Wake had been perhaps clear-sighted when they had all been blind. He felt a sudden pang of pity for his cousin, a feeling as if he had suddenly seen, through an open door, a sight not meant for his eyes. For a moment he deliberated as to whether he should tell Miss Wake of the one fact which made impossible any happy ending to what she believed was true of the relations between Mrs. Robinson and Sir George Downing.

'I think I ought to tell you,' he said at length, 'that a marriage between them is out of the question. Sir George Downing has a wife living. They are separated, but not divorced.' There was a painful moment of silence; then he added hastily: 'I know that my cousin is fully aware of the fact.'

Then, to his relief, Miss Wake spoke as he would have had her speak. 'If that is so,' she cried,' I have been utterly mistaken, and I beg your and Penelope's pardon. It is easy to make mistakes of the kind. You see, I have lived so long out of the world.'

There was a note of appeal in the thin, high voice.

'But indeed,' said Wantley quickly, 'my cousin is very unconventional, and your mistake was a natural one. I myself, had I not known the circumstances, would probably have come to the same conclusion.'

Their eyes met, and for a brief moment unguarded glances gave the lie to their spoken words.