The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

When staying at Monk's Eype, Lady Wantley would spend long hours of solitude in the Picture Room; and there Cecily would sometimes find her, absorbed in a strangely-worded French or English book of devotion, from which, looking up, she would make the girl read her short passages. At other moments Cecily would discover her engaged in writing long letters of spiritual advice to correspondents, almost always unknown to her, who had read her books, and who wished to consult her concerning their own spiritual difficulties and perplexities.

When not thus employed Lady Wantley sat idle, her long, delicately-modelled hands clasped loosely together, enjoying, as she believed, actual communion with her own dead—with the fine, true-hearted father, whose earthly memory was so dear to her; with the beloved mother, to whom as she grew older she felt herself to be growing more alike and nearer; with the husband who, however stern and awe-inspiring to others, had ever been fond and tender to herself. The little group of strangely assorted souls seemed ever gathered about her, and in no distant, inaccessible heaven.

Once, when Cecily Wake had come upon her in one of these strange companied trances, Lady Wantley had said very simply: 'I have been telling Penelope's father of her many perfections: of her goodness to those who, if they are the disinherited of the earth, are yet the heirs of the kingdom—those whom he himself ever made his special care. I think, dear child, that, if you would not mind my doing so, I will also some day tell him—my husband, I mean—of you, and of Penelope's love and care for you.' And she had added, as if to herself: 'But how could she be otherwise? Was she not, even before her birth, dedicated to the Lord in His temple?'

Lady Wantley was sometimes in a sterner mood, when hell seemed as near as—ay, nearer than—heaven. Evil spirits then appeared to encompass her, and she would feel herself to be wrestling with their dread master himself. When this was so, her delicate, bloodless face would become transfigured, and the large, heavy-lidded grey eyes would seem to flash out fire, while Cecily listened, awed, to strange majestic utterances, of which she knew not that their source was the Apocalypse.

That this convent-bred girl had a genuine belief in the Evil One, and a due fear of his cunning ways, was undoubtedly a link between Lady Wantley and herself; as was also the softer fact of her great affection for the one creature whom Lady Wantley loved with simple human devotion. After hearing the older woman talk, as she so often did talk, of her loved and admired daughter, Cecily would feel grieved, even a little perplexed, when next she perceived how lightly Penelope esteemed this boundless mother-love.

In no material thing did Mrs. Robinson neglect Lady Wantley. Every morning she would make her way into the Picture Room, ready with some practical suggestion designed to further her mother's comfort during the coming day; but to Penelope, much as she loved her, Lady Wantley never alluded to the matters which lay nearest to her heart. She found it easier to do so to the Catholic girl than to the creature she had herself borne, over whose upbringing she had watched so zealously, and, as she sometimes admitted to herself in moments of rare self-sincerity, with so little success.

III

Wantley only so far remembered the presence at Monk's Eype of Penelope's mother as to thank Heaven that she had nothing in common with the match-making dowagers, of whom he had met certain types in his way through life, and who at this moment would have brushed some of the bloom from his fragrant romance.

Absorbed as he had already become in the novel feeling of considering another more than himself, he yet found the time now and again to wonder why it was that he saw so little of the remarkable man to whom he stood in at least the nominal relation of host. That first evening they had sat up together long into the night, and there had been, not only no apparent barrier between them, but the younger man had been both fascinated and interested by the other's account of the land where he had already spent the best half of his life. Such had been the magic of Downing's manner, such the infectious quality of his sustained enthusiasm, that for a moment Wantley had wondered whether he also might not create a career for himself in that country of which the boundless resources and equally boundless necessities had now been made real to him for the first time.

Then, as it had seemed, gradually, but looking back he saw that the change had come very quickly, Wantley had perceived that Downing avoided instead of seeking or welcoming his company. True, the other man was engaged in heavy work, spending much of his time in the Beach Room, and often returning there late in the evening; but even so Wantley could not understand why Downing now seemed desirous of seeing as little of him as possible. The knowledge made him a little sore, the more so that he attributed the change in the other's manner to some careless word uttered by Penelope.