CHAPTER XVI
'For a pinte of honey thou shalt here likely find a gallon of gaul, for a dram of pleasure a pound of pain, for an inch of mirth an ell of mone: as Ivie doth an oke, these miseries encompass our life.'
I
After her return from Kingpole Farm that night of stress and storm, Penelope felt strangely, terribly forlorn. Those about her seemed changed. She gradually became aware that she was being watched, considered anxiously, by her mother, by Wantley, even by Miss Wake. Cecily alone among them seemed as she had always been, but even she, or so Mrs. Robinson suspected, had gone through some experience which she was keeping secret from the woman who knew herself so well and loyally loved by her.
As the time grew near when Miss Wake and her niece were to go back to town, leaving Penelope alone with her mother and with her cousin, there came over Mrs. Robinson an overmastering desire to recall Downing to Monk's Eype; she longed for the protection which would be afforded her by his presence. She also wished him to confirm her in the conviction that the time had come when Lady Wantley should be told of what they were about to do.
For the first time the gravity, the irrevocable nature, of the step she was taking came home to Penelope's mind, to her heart—especially after her agonizing interview with Winfrith—and even to her conscience, for she acknowledged a duty to her mother.
During these days of suspense Mrs. Robinson became 'gey ill to live with,' and the two who suffered most from her moods were Mrs. Mote and Cecily Wake. Penelope half suspected her old nurse of treachery, and sometimes she would give her a peculiar, and Motey felt it to be also a terrible, look. The old servant was a brave woman, but during that time of silent, fearful waiting her spirit often quailed, and she sometimes bitterly regretted having spoken to Lady Wantley.
To Cecily her friend's capricious moods were a source of pained bewilderment. Penelope no longer drew, no longer painted, no longer, indeed, did anything but walk and drive. She seemed to have a fear of solitude, and yet the girl was the only companion whom she tolerated.
Sometimes the two would drive in the broad, low pony-cart for hours, with scarce a word said on either side. At other times Mrs. Robinson would talk with her wonted impetuosity and sharp decision of many things and people of moment to Cecily. She would refer to her brief married life at the Settlement, even to her childhood and David Winfrith. Then would come bitter, slighting words concerning those whom the speaker knew to be dear to her listener, sarcastic references to enthusiastic Philip Hammond and large-minded, kindly Mrs. Pomfret; even—then Cecily Wake's heart would whisper that this was surely cruel—her cousin Wantley would be ruthlessly dissected, and his foibles held up to scorn.
There would come moments when Penelope again was kind, when she would say a word implying that Cecily Wake was her best, her most intimate, friend; but this was now often followed by a sentence which seemed to tell of an approaching break in their friendship, of coming separation.