More indifferently she presently added: 'As to why he has lately become what you call famous, ask the reason of my cousin, Lord Wantley. He will give what is, I suppose, the true explanation—namely, that Sir George Downing has of late years revealed himself as a brilliant diplomatist, as well as a remarkable writer, able to describe, as no one else has been able to do, the strange country which has become his place of work and dwelling. Other circumstances have also led, almost by accident, to his name becoming known, and his life in Persia discussed, by the sort of people whose approval and interest confer fame.'
In silence they walked together across the hall to the glass door, through which could be seen, darkly outlined against the line of sea, the angular, bent figure of the man of whom they had been speaking.
And then Mrs. Robinson again opened her lips; again the clear voice vibrated with intense, unaccustomed feeling: 'I should like to say one more thing—Always remember that Sir George Downing has never sought recognition; and though it has come at last, it has come too late. Too late, I mean, to atone for a great injustice done to him as a young man—too late to be now of any real value to him, unless it helps him to achieve the objects he has in view.'
But though the words were uttered with a solemnity, a passion of protest, which made the voice falter, when speaker and listener joined Downing, it was Cecily whose hazel eyes were full of pity, Penelope whose radiant and now softened beauty made the man, tired and seared with life, whose cause she had been so gallantly defending, feel, as he turned to meet her, once more young and glad.
That sunny morning hour altered, and in a measure transformed and deepened, Cecily Wake's emotional nature. Then was she brought into contact, for the first time, with the rarefied atmosphere of a great, even if unsanctified passion, and that she was, and for some considerable time remained, ignorant of its presence and nearness made the effect on her mind and heart, if anything, more subtle and enduring.
To this convent-bred orphan girl Love was the lightsome pagan deity, synonymous with Youth, whose arrows sometimes stung, perhaps even fastened into the wound, but who threw no shadow as he walked the earth, seeking the happy girls and boys who had leisure and opportunity—Cecily was very human, and sometimes found time to sigh that she had neither—to enjoy the pretty sport of love-making, with the logical outcome of ideal marriage.
Life just then would have been a very different matter had she realized that Cupid spent a considerable portion of his time in the neighbourhood of the Settlement, and not always with the happiest results. Of course, Cecily knew that even in Stratford East there were happy lovers, such, for instance, the girl for whom she destined Penelope's wedding-ring; but on the whole she was inclined to believe that Cupid reserved his attentions, or at any rate his swiftest arrows, for those young people who enjoy the double advantage of good birth and wealth. Even them she would have thought more likely to meet with Cupid in the country than in the town, just as the believer in fairyland finds it impossible to associate the Little People with the London pavement, however much he may hope to meet with them some day sporting in grassy glades or under the hedgerows.
And so, while the other two were well aware that Love walked with them, down the steep steps cut out of the soft blue lias rock, Cecily Wake was utterly unconscious of his nearness, and this although the unseen presence quickened her own sensibilities, and made her more ready to receive new and unsought emotions.
III
To Mrs. Robinson, looking up into Downing's face, full of fearful, exultant joy in his presence—she had not felt sure that he would really come to Monk's Eype—the Beach Room, as arranged by her for her great man, cried the truth aloud.