Mrs. Robinson would have been surprised indeed had she known how much more it cost this friend she longed to turn into a lover to tell her of the present fame than of the far-away disgrace. When he revealed to her something of his hopes, of his plans, of what he intended to do when in England, it meant that she had conquered a side of Downing's nature which had been wholly starved since the great trouble which had ruined his youth—that which longed for human intimacy and confidence.
As he stood to-day looking at her from his window he felt a certain surprise. Never had he seen her look quite as she did now—so girlish, so virginal, so young, in spite of her thirty years of life. And truly Penelope's present outward appearance—that of embodied chastity—reflected, to quite a singular degree, her inward, instant mood. For, though this visit to Kingpole Farm had been the outcome of an intense longing to see Downing, and to be once more with him, she had yet feared that seeking him out like this might seem overbold. Still she had a good excuse, and one she could offer even to herself, namely, that all manner of material matters had to be settled between them, especially concerning her renouncement of the Robinson fortune.
And yet, had Penelope believed in omens, she would surely have turned back, for the few miles' drive had not been free of disagreeable incident.
First she had met the Winfriths, father and son, and she had been forced to allow them to believe a lie, for she could not tell them whither she was bound. Then, when some two miles from Kingpole Farm, and, fortunately, not far from a blacksmith's forge, had come a mishap to one of the wheels of her pony-cart, making further driving impossible, and so she had gone on up the steep hill on foot, feeling perhaps unreasonably ruffled and disturbed.
At last Downing saw her turn and walk up to the front-door. There was a pause, and then she came in through the open door of his room, and somewhat stiffly offered him her hand, still encased in a stout driving-glove.
So scrupulously did her host respect Mrs. Robinson's obvious wish to be treated as a stranger, that he even avoided looking into her face as they both instinctively walked over to where it was lightest—close to the curtainless open window.
Penelope had brought a packet of letters from Monk's Eype. 'I thought they might be important. Pray read them now,' she said.
Downing, eager to obey her, did so, while she, apparently absorbed in watching the flying storm-clouds scurrying over the broad valleys below, was yet intensely conscious of his presence, and of how strangely young he looked to-day—how straight, how lean, how strong, how much more a man, in the same sense that David Winfrith was a man, than he had appeared to be at Monk's Eype, pitted against the shadowless youth of Cecily Wake, and even of Wantley.
Suddenly, having slightly turned her head, thinking to see Downing without appearing to do so, Penelope became aware that he was watching her with a melancholy, intense look.
Her heart began to beat unaccountably fast. She turned away hurriedly, and again looked out over the vast panorama of land and sky lying unrolled before them. Then she began talking quickly, and not very coherently, of the matters about which she had come to consult him. Had he anything to suggest, for instance, concerning the money arrangements which must now be made about the Melancthon Settlement?