III
To Mrs. Robinson, looking up into Downing's face, full of fearful, exultant joy in his presence—she had not felt sure that he would really come to Monk's Eype—the Beach Room, as arranged by her for her great man, cried the truth aloud.
Very divergently does love act on different natures, sometimes, alas! bringing out all that is grotesque and absurd in a human being, happily more often evoking an intelligent tenderness which seeks to promote the material happiness of the beloved.
Penelope had spent happy hours preparing the place where Downing, while under her roof, was to do the work he had so much at heart, and nothing had been omitted from the Beach Room which could minister to his peculiar ideals of comfort.
On the large table, where twenty odd years before the little Penelope Wantley and the dour-faced boy, David Winfrith, had set up their mimic fleets of wooden boats, were many objects denoting how special had been her care. Thus, in addition to the obvious requirements of a writer, stood a replica of the old-fashioned opaquely-shaded reading-lamp which she knew was always included in his travelling kit; close to the lamp were simple appliances for the making of coffee, for she was aware of Downing's almost morbid dislike to the presence, about him, of servants; and, behind a tall eighteenth-century screen, brought from China to Wyke Regis by some seafaring man a hundred years ago, was a camp-bed which would enable the worker, if so minded, to remain with his work all night.
Apart from these things, the large room had been left bare of ordinary furniture, but across the uneven oak boards, never wholly free from cobweb-like sheets of glittering grey sand, were strips of carpet, for Penelope had remembered Downing's once telling her that he generally came and went barefooted in that mysterious Persian dwelling—part fortress, part palace—to which her thoughts now so often turned with a strange mingling of dread and longing.
The man for whom all these preparations had been made, after passing through the heavy wooden door which shut out wind, sand, and spray, paused a moment and looked about him abstractedly.
Downing had always been curiously sensitive to the spirit and influence of place, and the oddly-shaped bare room, partly excavated from the cliff, into which for the moment no sun penetrated, struck him with sudden chill and gloom. Mrs. Robinson, intently watching him, aware of every flicker of feeling sweeping over the lean, strongly-accentuated features, saw the momentary hesitation, the darkening of his face, and there came over her, also, a feeling of sharp misgiving, a fear that all was not well with him.
Since they had first looked into one another's eyes, Penelope had never felt Downing to be so remote from herself as during the brief hours they had spent together the evening before; and now he still seemed to be mentally withdrawn, communing apart in a place whither she could not follow him.
Standing there in the Beach Room, she asked herself whether, after all, she had not been wrong to compel him to come to Monk's Eype, imprudent to subject him, and herself, to such an ordeal. Yet, at the time she had first proposed his coming, she had actually made herself believe that in this way would be softened the blow she knew herself about to inflict on those who loved her, and those whose respect she was eager to retain. 'I want my mother to meet you,' she had said, in answer to a word of hesitation, even, as she now saw looking back, of repugnance, on Downing's part, 'for then, later, she will understand, even if she does not approve, what I am about to do.'
And so at her bidding he had come; and now, this morning, they both knew, and felt ashamed to know, how completely successful they had been in concealing the truth from those about them.
That first night, when out of earshot of Lord Wantley and Cecily Wake, Downing's words, uttered when they had found themselves alone for the first time for many days, had been: 'I feel like a thief—nay, like a murderer—here!' And yet, as she had eagerly reminded herself, he had stolen nothing as yet—that is to say, nothing tangible—only her heart—the heart which had proved so enigmatical a Will-o'-the-wisp to many a seeker.
And now, returning up the steep steps, going up slowly, as if she were bearing a burden, with Cecily silent by her side, respecting her mood, Mrs. Robinson blamed herself, with something like anguish, for not having been content to let Downing stay on in London. When there he had written to her twice, sometimes three times, a day, letters which seemed to bring him much nearer to herself than she felt him to be now, for they had been of ardent prevision of a time when they would be always together, side by side, heart to heart, in that far-away country which had become to her full of mysterious glamour and delight.
She stayed her steps, and, turning, looked at the sea with a long wavering look, as she remembered, and again with a feeling of shame, though she was glad to know that this could not be in any sense shared by Downing, that one reason she had urged for his coming had been the nearness to Monk's Eype of David Winfrith's home.
She had become aware that, by lingering with her so long in France while on his way to England, Downing had lost a chance of furthering his political and financial projects.
The former Government had consisted of men who, even if not friendly to himself, sympathized with his aims; but now, among the members of the incoming Liberal Ministry, Persian Downing was looked at with suspicion, and regarded as one who desired to embroil his country with the great European Power who is only dangerous, according to Liberal tradition, when aggressively aroused from her political torpor.
Winfrith alone among the new men was known to have other views. He had in a sense made his name by a book concerning Asian problems, and Mrs. Robinson, with feminine shrewdness, felt sure that he would not be able to resist the chance of meeting, in an informal way, the man who admittedly knew more of Persia and its rulers than any Englishman alive.
No woman, save, perhaps, she who only lives to make a sport of men, cares to be present as third at the meeting of a man who loves her and of the man whom she herself loves. And so Penelope had arranged in her own mind that her cousin, Lord Wantley, should be the link between Winfrith and Downing.
She had, however, meant to prepare the way, and it was with that object in view that she had asked Winfrith to ride with her the day before. But to her surprise, almost to her indignation and self-contempt, she had found that the name of Sir George Downing, from her to her old friend, had literally stuck in her throat, and she had been relieved when she found that Winfrith was to be for some days absent from the neighbourhood.
When she and Cecily were once more standing on the broad terrace spread out before the villa, Mrs. Robinson broke her long silence. Resolutely she put from her the painful thoughts and the perplexities which had possessed her, and 'It must be very nice,' she said, 'to be a good girl. I was always a very naughty girl; but I am good now, and I want to beg your pardon for having been so very horrid to you yesterday—I mean about the ring.'
'Be horrid to me again,' said Cecily, 'but never beg my pardon; I don't like to hear you do it. Besides,' she added quaintly, 'you can never be really horrid to me, for I shall not let you be.'
'You are a comfortable friend, child, if even rather absurd at times. But now about this morning. I have arranged for Ludovic to drive you and Miss Theresa over to the monastery. We won't mention the plan to mamma, because she thinks Beacon Abbas the abiding-place of seven devils.'
'I'm afraid Aunt Theresa won't be well enough to get up to-day; but, of course, I can go to church by myself.'
'In that case, you and Ludovic can walk across the cliffs. It will be a good opportunity for you to describe to him the delights of the Settlement, and perhaps to make him feel a little ashamed of having done so little to help us.'
They were now close to the open windows of the dining-room, and Cecily could see the stately figure of Lady Wantley bending over a small table, on which lay, open, a large Bible.