The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

At once Wantley had spoken to his companion of the famous man, and of his life-history, which he seemed to think must be familiar to Cecily as it was to himself. 'If you are as romantic as all nice young ladies should be, and as, I believe, they are,' he had said, 'you must feel grateful to Mrs. Robinson for giving you the opportunity of meeting such a remarkable man. Even I, blasé as I am, felt a thrill to-day when I realized that Persian Downing was actually here.' There had been a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, but even so his listener had felt that he meant what he said.

Like most young people, Cecily dreaded above all things being made to look foolish, and so, not knowing what to answer—for she knew but little of Persia and nothing at all of Sir George Downing—she had wisely remained silent. But now she reddened as she remembered how ignorant and how awkward she must have seemed to her dear Penelope's cousin, and she made up her mind that she would this very day ask Mrs. Robinson why Sir George Downing was famous, and why Lord Wantley considered him specially interesting to the romantic.

Almost at once came the opportunity. There was a light tap at the door, and as it opened Cecily saw Penelope, a finger to her lips, standing in the wide corridor, of which the citron-coloured walls were hung with large, sharply-defined black-and-white engravings of Italian scenery and Roman temples.

For a moment they stood smiling at one another; then Mrs. Robinson beckoned to the girl to come to her. 'I thought it just possible you might already be up,' she whispered, 'and that you would like to come down to the shore. Last night I promised Sir George Downing to take him early to the Beach Room, which I have had arranged in order that he may be able to work there undisturbed.' Then, as together they walked down the corridor, she added: 'I am afraid he has been already waiting some time, for I found it so difficult to dress myself—without Motey, I mean!' and, with a graver note in her voice, 'It's rather terrible,' she said, 'to think how dependent one may become on another human being. Poor old Motey! from her point of view I could not possibly exist without her. When I was abroad—last spring, I mean—I often got up quite early to paint, but Motey always managed to be earlier—I never could escape her! However, to-day I've succeeded, and you, child, are a quite as efficient, and a much pleasanter chaperon.'

Cecily did not stop to wonder what Mrs. Robinson could mean by these last words, uttered with strange whispering haste. She had at once noticed, as people generally do notice any change in a loved or admired presence, that her friend this morning looked unlike herself; but a moment's thought had shown that this was owing to the way in which Penelope had dressed her hair. The red-brown masses, instead of being cunningly coiled above and round the face, had been thrust into a gold net, thus altering in appearance the very shape of their owner's head, of her slender neck, and even, or so it seemed to her companion, of the delicate, cameo-like features. Cecily was not sure whether she approved of the change, and Mrs. Robinson caught the look of doubt in the girl's ingenuous eyes.

'Yes, I know I failed with my hair! In that one matter Motey will be able to exult; but, fortunately, I remembered that I had a net. My father had it made in Italy for mamma, and all through my childhood she always wore it, I envying her the possession. One day when I was ill (you know I was far too cosseted and pampered as a child) I said to her: "I'm sure I should get well quicker if you would only lend me your gold net!"—for I was a selfish, covetous little creature—and, of course, she did give it me. But poor mamma never got back her net. After I was tired of wearing it, or trying to wear it, I made a breastplate of it for my favourite doll. I kept it more than twice seven years, and now you see I've found a use for it!'

They were already halfway down the staircase which connected the upper story of Monk's Eype with the hall, when came the earnest question: 'Penelope, I want to ask you—now—before we go out, why Sir George Downing is famous, and what he has done to make him so?'

For a moment Mrs. Robinson made no answer. Then Cecily, her feet already on the rug laid below the lowest marble stair, felt a firm hand on her shoulder. Surprised, she turned and looked up. Penelope stood two or three steps higher, and though the younger woman in time forgot the actual words, she always remembered their gist, and the rapt, glowing look, the deliberation, with which they had been uttered.

'I am glad you have asked me this. I meant—I wanted—to speak to you of him yesterday, before you met him. For, Cecily'—the speaker's hand leaned heavily on the girl's slight shoulder, and her next words, though not uttered loudly, rang out as a confession of faith,—'if my acquaintance with Sir George Downing has been short, and I admit that it has been so, measured by time, his friendship and—and—his regard have become very much to me. I reverence the greatness of his mind, of his heart, and of his aims. Some day you will be proud to remember that you once met him.'

A little colour suffused the speaker's face, seeming to intensify the blue of her clear, unquailing eyes, to make memorable the words she had said.