She bent her thin, humped and crooked body forward with fresh energy and a spark of the spirit she had conquered flashed out again in her dark eyes and tired face.
“My soul has longed so to do something, to be something, to be able to use my abilities and my energies as other people do! I have longed so fiercely to go about and see the beautiful and wonderful things in the world, to achieve something myself and to meet as an equal other people who have done things worth while! If there is hell anywhere it used to be in my heart! I fought it—it was the only thing there was to do—by myself, for I couldn’t add to mother’s troubles such a burden as that would have been. Father knew, a little, of how I felt, before he died. But afterwards I fought it out myself—it took years to do it—and at last forced myself into a sort of content, or resignation.
“I know I am some comfort to mother, although I have cost her so much care. But for a long time her chief pleasure, after her delight in Felix, has been in our companionship. So that is something, and I read a good deal and think all I can, and I try to do through others the little good in the outside world that is possible to me.”
She leaned back again feebly and closed her eyes for a moment in physical weariness. “And so at last,” she went on, meeting his compassionate look with a faint smile, “I come to be—not unhappy.”
“And now the opportunity is coming,” he assured her impulsively, “for you to make some use of your sweet, strong spirit and your capable brain. But I don’t know—Felix—I don’t know—” he hesitated, casting at her a keen, inquiring glance, but continued in a confident tone: “But you’ll understand, you’ll see it’s for the best! Oh, I know you’ll agree that I’m doing the right thing!”
He saw the fatigue in her countenance and rose to go. “I’m afraid I’ve tired you, Penelope, but I hope you’ll forgive me when I tell you what pleasure our talk has given me. Before I go I want to ask you one more thing—about your mother. Did she—was she much grieved by what I did about—Felix and that bribery business?”
A look of gratification crossed Penelope’s face. “I hoped you wouldn’t go away without saying something about that,” she said frankly. “Of course, it grieved her. She was deeply hurt.”
“I knew she would be,” he interrupted sorrowfully. “But it was the best way I could see. I thought it would be a warning to Felix.”
“Of course she didn’t believe it was true. She thought you were acting under a conviction of public duty and that you were mistaken in your understanding of what had happened. You impressed her very much when you were here and she thought so much about you afterwards that it was hard for her to reconcile your action with your friendship for Felix. But she did and finally came to think it really noble in you to hold what you thought to be the public good above your personal feelings.”