'Of course, you can guess,' she said at last—for his silence made her uneasy—'why I am doing all this. I have as yet told nobody; but my life henceforth will be spent abroad, and'—again she hesitated painfully—'the person whose wishes I am now bound to consult absolutely agrees with me, and approves of what I am going to do about Melancthon's money.'
He brushed aside her last words, and brought himself to consider her material interests, and so, 'You realize what all this means?' he said at length. 'If these arrangements are carried out, your income, in the sense you now understand the word, will be wholly absorbed—gone.'
'I am retaining everything my father left to me, with the exception of this place,' she said quickly.
'With the exception of this place?' he repeated with dismay. 'Do you, then, mean to sell Monk's Eype?'
'No, no! how could you think of such a thing?' A tone of profound dejection crept into her voice. 'What I mean is that, before going away, I intend to hand Monk's Eype over to Ludovic. He was not fairly treated by my father; but, even as it is with him, he could afford to keep up the villa and the gardens as they should be kept up, and I am sure he will always make my mother welcome, should she care to come here from time to time.'
The accent of pain in her voice again stung Winfrith into protest. 'Are you sure that you are acting wisely? Of course, I know that it is none of my business.' And as she made a quick dissenting gesture: 'If it is—if you will allow it to be my business, then let me say that in this matter of your fortune you are about to take a great risk, and one which you might bitterly regret later on,' he added deliberately, 'and for which you might in time be reproached.'
But as he uttered these last words a sudden change came over Penelope's face. Winfrith had evoked another, a more intimate—ay, and a more eloquent—presence, and as she answered, 'Ah no! I need never be afraid of that,' a strange radiance came over her face, softening the severity of the lines, veiling the brightness of her blue eyes.
Winfrith rose quickly from where he was sitting; he felt an impulse to wound, to strike, and then to flee. 'Men alter,' he said—'men and women, too. You and I——' Then he drove out the jealous devil which had possessed him for a moment, and asked: 'Well, I suppose that is all you wanted to see me about for the present? If you will give me your notes I will go into the matter; and if, as I understand, your marriage is to take place very soon abroad'—he waited for a moment, but there came no word of assent—'that will, of course, be a sufficient reason for pushing on everything as quickly as possible.'
He added, with an air of studied indifference: 'May I ask how long you wish your engagement to be kept secret? Do you, for instance, object to my father being told?'
Then he looked down at her, and what he saw roused every generous instinct, banished unworthy jealousy, and even dulled his bitterness. When had he last seen Penelope weeping? Years and years before, on the day of their parting, when they were still boy and girl lovers. But then her tears had come freely, like those of a child distressed; now no sound came from the bowed figure save long, shuddering sobs. Again he sat down by her. 'My dear,' he said, deeply troubled, 'what is it? What can I do for you?'