The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

Another grievance, and one which pushed the other into the background of his mind, was the fact that Mrs. Robinson, more capricious, more restless than her wont, absorbed each day much of the time and attention of Cecily Wake. That the latter apparently regarded this constant call on her leisure as a privilege, in no sense softened the young man's irritation: it seemed to him that his cousin took an impish delight in frustrating his attempts—somewhat shamefaced at first, openly eager as time went on—to be with the girl.

Wantley consoled himself by bestowing on the aunt the time and the attention he would fain have bestowed on the niece. The elder Miss Wake soon came to regard him as an exceptionally agreeable and well-bred man, with a strong leaning to Catholicism—even, she sometimes ventured to hope, to the priesthood; for many were Lord Wantley's questions concerning monasteries and convents, and had he not on two week-day mornings escorted her niece to Mass at Beacon Abbas? According to Miss Wake's limited knowledge of the ways of men, and especially of the ways of noblemen, such zeal, if it involved early rising, was quite exceptional, and must surely be done with an object.

Poor Wantley, unconscious of these hopes, his sense of humour for the moment more or less suspended, found the mornings especially hang heavy on his hands, for Cecily, after an hour spent with Penelope in the studio, generally disappeared upstairs into her own room till lunch; and this absorption, as he supposed, in business connected with the Melancthon Settlement did not increase his liking for the place which filled so much of Cecily's heart, and took up so much of the time he might have spent with her.

At last the day came when the young man solved the innocent mystery of how Cecily Wake spent her mornings. Passing along the terrace, he overheard a fragmentary conversation which showed him that his cousin was using her young friend as secretary, handing over to her the large correspondence which dogs the hours of every man and woman known to have the disposal of great wealth. When there had been no one at hand more compliant, Wantley had himself undertaken the task of dealing with the hundred and one absurd, futile, often pathetic, requests for help, which filled by far the greater part of Mrs. Robinson's letter-bag. Too well he knew the tenor of the various remarks which now fell upon his ear; one sentence, however, at once compelled closer attention: 'I have had a letter—to which I should like you also to send an answer. It's from David Winfrith. Please say I'm glad he's back, and that we will drive over there to-morrow. Write to him and say I have asked you to do so, as I am too busy to answer his letter to-day.'

Wantley, with keen irritation, heard the low, hesitating answer: 'If you don't mind, I would so much prefer not to write to Mr. Winfrith. You know he has never liked me, and I am sure he would feel very much annoyed if he thought'—the soft voice paused, but went bravely on—'if he thought I had seen any letter of his to you——'

'But you have not seen his letter! Still, I dare say you're right. We will drive over there to-day—the more so that I have something else to do in that neighbourhood.'

A moment later Wantley heard the door of the studio opening and shutting, and knew that his cousin was alone. He walked in through the window prepared to tell Mrs. Robinson, and that very plainly, his opinion of what he considered her gross selfishness. But quickly she carried the war into the enemy's country.

'I saw you,' she said, with heightened colour, 'and I didn't think it very pretty of you to stand listening out there!'

Then, struck by the look of suppressed anger which was his only answer, she added: 'Perhaps I've been rather selfish the last few days, but you and she see quite as much of each other as is good for you, just at present. And, Ludovic, I've been longing to show you something which, I think even you will agree, exactly fits your present condition.'

She took from the table a prettily bound volume, in which had been thrust an envelope as marker. 'Listen!' she cried, and then declaimed with emphasis, and partly in the faultless French which he had always envied her: