III
Mrs. Robinson and Downing had sheltered but a moment in the porch of the old-fashioned house, which doubtless incorporated some portion of the monastic buildings, when the heavy, nail-studded door suddenly opened, revealing a roomy vaulted hall.
An old man, evidently a self-respecting and respected butler, stood peering out into the semi-darkness, and as he did so invited them rather crossly to come in.
Mrs. Robinson stepped back into the wind and rain, for she felt in no mood to confront a stranger. But the man repeated with some asperity: 'You are, please, to come in. Those are my mistress's orders. Now, don't be keeping me in this draught!'
At last, very reluctantly, they accepted his rather tart invitation, but when they stood side by side in the lamplight before him, the old manservant's tone altered at once. 'I beg your pardon, sir, but we do get such tramps about here, and my mistress, she's that kind! One of the maids saw you and the lady just after we thought one of the ruins had been struck by lightning——'
'I think the storm is dying down. If we may sit here in the hall for a few moments, I am sure we could then go on quite well.' Mrs. Robinson spoke with a touch of impatience. She felt greatly annoyed, and looked at Downing imploringly. Surely he must realize how unpleasant it would be if she were suddenly brought face to face with some London acquaintance. But Downing seemed for the moment to have no thought of her: he stood looking fixedly at the old man, trying to remember if he could ever have been here before. The atmosphere of the house, even the butler's impassive face, seemed familiar; but since he had been in England his memory had played him many queer tricks.
He sighed heavily, and the words Penelope had uttered a few moments before at last penetrated his brain. 'Yes,' he said, rousing himself, 'the storm is passing by, and we must go on to Burcombe without delay.'
'But my mistress particularly wished to speak to whoever it was, sir.' The man spoke urgently.
'This is intolerable,' muttered Penelope; then aloud: 'But we are neither of us fit to be seen by anybody. I am sure your mistress will excuse us.'
'My mistress will not see you, ma'am'—the old man's tone was a rebuke—'for she is blind.'
He did not wait to hear any more objections, but turning, suddenly opened a door on his right.
Penelope shrugged her shoulders. What an unsatisfactory, odious day this had been! But even so she motioned Downing to take off his old rain-sodden cloak, anxious that he at least should look well before this strange woman. Ah! but she was blind!
The door which the old man had just opened, and as he thought carefully closed, swung back, and the two standing outside saw into a pretty room, of which the uneven oak floor was sunk below the level of the hall. They heard, with some discomfort, the murmur of voices, and then the words, uttered in the clear, rather mincing intonation affected by a certain type of old-fashioned servant: 'But I'm quite positive that it is, ma'am. The minute the gentleman stept in with the young lady I said to myself, "Why, surely this is our Mr. Downing!" When he went away I'd already been some years in Mr. Delacour's service, ma'am, and of course I knew him quite well. I don't say he's not changed——'
But as Penelope was looking for a way of escape, if not for Downing, then most certainly for herself, the open door of the bright, gay little sitting-room suddenly framed a slight, almost shadowy, figure of which even Mrs. Robinson, standing there at bay, felt the disarming, pathetic charm.
There is often about a blind woman, especially about one who was not born blind, a ghost-like serenity of manner, and even of appearance.
Mrs. Delacour's voice still had its soothing, rather anxious quality, but she spoke with restraint and dignified simplicity to the two strangers, concerning one of whom she had just been told such an amazing, and to her most moving, fact. 'Will you come in and rest?' she said; 'I fear you must have gone through a terrible experience.'
As they were entering the room, Downing suddenly stumbled—he always so adroit, so easy in his movements—and Penelope, herself no longer afraid, but feeling curiously soothed and comforted in this quiet, gentle atmosphere, saw that he was terribly moved, his face ravaged with contending feelings to which she had no clue. She looked away quickly, but Downing seemed unaware of her presence, incapable of speaking.
The two women talked together. Mrs. Robinson told of the tree struck by lightning, of their danger, and still Downing did not, could not, speak.
'Tell me,' said Mrs. Delacour at last—and her voice, in spite of her determination, of her prayer, that it should not be so, trembled a little—'is it true that George Downing is here? We once had a friend, a very dear friend, of that name, and my old servant is convinced that it was he who came in just now out of the storm.'
Again there was silence. Mrs. Robinson looked at him reproachfully. Why did he keep this gentle, kindly woman in suspense? Could it be for her, Penelope's sake? But Downing suddenly held up his hand; he did not wish the answer to come from any lips but his own—'Yes,' he said hoarsely, 'I am George Downing, come back, as you said I should come back, Mrs. Delacour!'
And then, or so it appeared to Penelope, a strange desire seized the other two to make her go away, to leave them to themselves. No word was said revealing Mrs. Robinson's identity, but there was a question of the long drive to Wyke Regis. Mrs. Delacour offered her carriage, Downing went to order it, and so for a moment the other two were left alone together. Penelope tried to speak indifferently, but failed; she felt a wild, an unreasoning jealousy of this sightless, white-haired woman with whom she was leaving the man she loved.
Did Mrs. Delacour, with the strange prescience of the blind, divine something of what was passing in the other's mind? All she said was, 'Mr. Downing—or is it not Sir George now?—was with my husband, one of his younger colleagues, at the Foreign Office, and we saw him constantly. I fear this meeting must recall to him many painful circumstances.'
A moment later, as Downing was putting her into the carriage, unmindful of the old man standing just inside the hall, Penelope drew him with her into the darkness: 'Say that you love me!' she whispered, and he felt her tears on his lips; 'say that you cannot bear to let me go!'
And then she was comforted, for 'Shall I come with you?' he asked urgently, no lack of longing now in his low, deep voice; 'let me go back and tell her that I cannot let you go alone!'
But again Penelope felt suddenly afraid—of herself, perhaps, rather than of him. 'No, no!' she said hurriedly; 'it would be wrong, unkind, to your old friend—to Mrs. Delacour.'