The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

II

There came a time when Wantley often debated painfully as to why he had lent himself to the bringing back of Downing to Monk's Eype, and when he was glad to remember that he had said a word of protest to his cousin. Penelope had chosen him to be her messenger; his had been the task of taking her invitation to Kingpole Farm.

Mrs. Robinson had tried to treat the matter with Wantley as of no moment. He had listened in silence, and then reluctantly had said: 'I will go if you really wish it, but I think you are not acting wisely;' only to be disarmed by the look of suffering, almost of despair, which had met his measured words.

And so he had taken the letter which had summoned Downing to her side. 'I beg you to come back for two or three days,' she wrote. 'Things have not been going well with me. I need your help. I feel that before leaving here I ought to inform my mother of my—of our—intentions.'

In later life Wantley sometimes recalled that last visit to Kingpole Farm.

During the long solitary drive he had wondered uneasily if he was expected—if this little episode had been arranged between Mrs. Robinson and the man with whom he was beginning to believe his cousin was indeed more closely connected than he liked to think possible. But at once he had seen that Downing knew nothing—that he, Wantley, had not been expected, indeed, was not welcome. Downing struck him as aged, sombre, perhaps even defiant, as he held out his lean brown hand for Penelope's note. While reading it he had turned away, treating his visitor with scant ceremony, then had said briefly, 'I understand I am to come back with you—now—to-day?' And Wantley had as shortly assented.

Perforce—this also he later remembered time and again—Wantley was present at the meeting of Penelope and Downing.

The two men found her standing by the open door, her tall figure outlined against the hall, the sunny terrace, the belt of blue sea beyond. She was looking out landward, shading her eyes—sunken, grey-lidded with much sleeplessness, perhaps with tears—from the bright light.

Without waiting for the high phaeton to stop, Downing had sprung out, and striding forward had taken her two hands in his. For a moment they seemed unaware of Wantley's presence; they exchanged no conventional word of greeting. Then, slowly, and with a deep sigh, Penelope withdrew her hands from the other's grasp, and observed, quite collectedly, that the Beach Room had been arranged, as before, to serve as study for her guest.

A moment later she had turned and gone, out through the hall, on to the terrace, leaving her cousin to play once more the part of host—but this time of reluctant host—to Persian Downing.

It was night. Wantley's light alone burnt brightly on the lower floor of the villa. The group of five people—for Lady Wantley had not come down to dinner—had broken up curiously early, Downing retreating to the Beach Room, Miss Wake upstairs, while Penelope, Cecily, and Wantley himself, after a short walk through the dark pine-wood, had also separated.

For awhile he tried to read and smoke, but soon he put down his book, and lay back in the large, deep chair, and thought of what he should do if——

Wantley had a great dislike to interfering in other people's business—in fact, he prided himself on never offering unasked advice, on never spoiling a game in which he was not taking a hand.

Well, what he was now doing savoured of interference. Still, it was his business, and his only, if he chose to outstay from bed his fellow-guests. After all, he had a perfect right to sit up on this, the last night of Cecily Wake's stay at Monk's Eype—the young man's face softened; on this, the first night of Downing's return—his face grew stern, his eyes alert.

If Downing, coming up from the Beach Room at one or two in the morning, met Penelope—well, scarcely by appointment, but by accident—in the studio, would it not be better for them both to be aware that he, Wantley, was there sitting up, almost next door? To make them aware of it might be a certain difficulty, but that could be managed if he now got up and left the door of the smoking-room ajar. He did so, treading softly across the matted floor.

A sudden sound made him start, but it was only a shutter, not, as he had thought, a door opening and closing.

Again he took up his book—a much annotated French edition of the Confessions of Saint Augustine—and he lighted another cigarette. It was now only eleven. There were hours to be got through, and if—as he believed had sometimes occurred before—Sir George Downing elected to stay in the Beach Room all night, then he, poor Wantley, must yet keep his bargain with himself, and sit doggedly on.

There was always one most disagreeable possibility—that which, to tell the truth, he really feared—namely, that Penelope might be seized with the idea of going down to the Beach Room, of seeking out Downing there. If he heard her coming down the silent house; if he heard her opening the door which led from the hall on to the terrace, then certainly he would, and must, break his cherished rule of non-interference. But the thought that this ordeal perhaps lay before him did not add to the pleasure of his vigil.