The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

'You were so unkind,' she whispered, and he saw that she was trembling, 'you were going away—so coldly.' Then, almost inaudibly, she added: 'I did not think you would care so much.'

She unclasped the hands in which her face had been hidden, and held them out to him. For a moment he took them in his, crushed the fingers wet with tears, and then let them go. 'Of course I care,' he said at length. 'You would not have me not care. We have been friends so long, you and I.' He stopped abruptly; the memory of many meetings, of many partings, became vivid and intolerable.

They both stood up, and again he made an effort over himself. Once more he took her hands in his, and held them tightly, as he said: 'But you must not distress yourself about me; men have worse things to bear. Think of what happened to my father.' And his voice shook for the first time. Never before, not even as a boy, had Penelope heard him allude to his parents' tragic story. And now this word, meant to comfort her, and perhaps himself, cut her to the heart. Soon he would learn, only too surely, the ironic parity which was to lie between his own and his father's fate.

For a moment she shrank back, then moved swiftly nearer to him; and it was with her arms about his neck, her face looking up into his, that he heard the eager tremulous words: 'David, before you go I want to say something—to tell you, so that you may remember afterwards when I am gone, that till now there has never been anyone else—never, never—anyone but you!' Her head sank on his breast as she added slowly, almost reluctantly: 'Things were not as you, perhaps, think they were between poor Melancthon and myself. We agreed before our marriage that it was only to be a partnership.' As she felt his arms tighten round her, she again lifted her face, and asked: 'Are you shocked? Do you think it was wrong? Motey (no one else ever guessed) thought it very wicked.'

'Then you were—you have always been mine!' he cried; and, as she shrank back, he holding her fast to him, 'Tell me,' he asked, 'should I have had a chance, another chance, during all those years?' He added, perhaps guided by some subtle instinct of which he was ashamed, for as he spoke Penelope felt him relaxing the strong grip of the arms which had held her so closely, 'Is there any chance—now?'

She shook her head. Through a blistering veil she saw the set grey face of the man who had loved her so well and long, and for whom she also had cared, if less well, quite as long. 'You had your chance, such as it was, at first,' she said, 'when we were both so young, when I was foolish and you were so wise.' His face contracted at the sad irony in her voice. 'I know now, I even knew then, that my father forced you to act as you did; but I was angered, disappointed, with you and in you. I had thought—I think even Motey expected—that you would have wanted to run away with me. Gretna Green seemed a very real place in those days.' She smiled dolorously. 'If you had been a little stronger or a little weaker, perhaps even a little less reasonable, I should have run away with you, for at that time—ah, David, I was in love with Love, and you were Love.'

'Then I only once forfeited my chance?' he again asked urgently. 'During all these past years it never came again?'

For a moment Penelope hesitated; then, as she lied, she again pressed closer to him, and again the tears ran down her cheeks. 'It never came again,' she repeated. 'But you know, you will always remember when I am gone, that you were the only one, the only one.'

'Is that quite true?' he asked slowly.

'Absolutely true.' She spoke eagerly, defending the truth as she had not been called upon to defend the lie. 'We have had our happy years, David—your years, my dear. You always seemed quite content——'