The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

Without waiting for the high phaeton to stop, Downing had sprung out, and striding forward had taken her two hands in his. For a moment they seemed unaware of Wantley's presence; they exchanged no conventional word of greeting. Then, slowly, and with a deep sigh, Penelope withdrew her hands from the other's grasp, and observed, quite collectedly, that the Beach Room had been arranged, as before, to serve as study for her guest.

A moment later she had turned and gone, out through the hall, on to the terrace, leaving her cousin to play once more the part of host—but this time of reluctant host—to Persian Downing.

It was night. Wantley's light alone burnt brightly on the lower floor of the villa. The group of five people—for Lady Wantley had not come down to dinner—had broken up curiously early, Downing retreating to the Beach Room, Miss Wake upstairs, while Penelope, Cecily, and Wantley himself, after a short walk through the dark pine-wood, had also separated.

For awhile he tried to read and smoke, but soon he put down his book, and lay back in the large, deep chair, and thought of what he should do if——

Wantley had a great dislike to interfering in other people's business—in fact, he prided himself on never offering unasked advice, on never spoiling a game in which he was not taking a hand.

Well, what he was now doing savoured of interference. Still, it was his business, and his only, if he chose to outstay from bed his fellow-guests. After all, he had a perfect right to sit up on this, the last night of Cecily Wake's stay at Monk's Eype—the young man's face softened; on this, the first night of Downing's return—his face grew stern, his eyes alert.

If Downing, coming up from the Beach Room at one or two in the morning, met Penelope—well, scarcely by appointment, but by accident—in the studio, would it not be better for them both to be aware that he, Wantley, was there sitting up, almost next door? To make them aware of it might be a certain difficulty, but that could be managed if he now got up and left the door of the smoking-room ajar. He did so, treading softly across the matted floor.

A sudden sound made him start, but it was only a shutter, not, as he had thought, a door opening and closing.

Again he took up his book—a much annotated French edition of the Confessions of Saint Augustine—and he lighted another cigarette. It was now only eleven. There were hours to be got through, and if—as he believed had sometimes occurred before—Sir George Downing elected to stay in the Beach Room all night, then he, poor Wantley, must yet keep his bargain with himself, and sit doggedly on.

There was always one most disagreeable possibility—that which, to tell the truth, he really feared—namely, that Penelope might be seized with the idea of going down to the Beach Room, of seeking out Downing there. If he heard her coming down the silent house; if he heard her opening the door which led from the hall on to the terrace, then certainly he would, and must, break his cherished rule of non-interference. But the thought that this ordeal perhaps lay before him did not add to the pleasure of his vigil.