I

'Ah, dear, but come them back to me!Whatever change the days have wrought,I find not yet one lonely thoughtThat cries against my wish for thee.'

'Ah, dear, but come them back to me!

Whatever change the days have wrought,

I find not yet one lonely thought

That cries against my wish for thee.'

There are moments in the life of almost every human being when the sands seem to be running out, when even the most careless, the least scrupulous, feels a pang at the thought of all that has been left undone, and, even more, of all that must be left unfinished and incomplete. If the knowledge comes in the shape of a positive warning that death is at hand, and will have to be faced in three months, in six months, in a year, then the wise man sets his house in order as best he can, and leaves the rest to God, or to that ordered chance in which so many now believe as a substitute for Divine Providence. But when, as perhaps moreoften happens in this strange, complicated world, a human being has deliberately so set the hour-glass of his life that the sands run out far more quickly than they were ever meant to do, and when the last grain will bring, not death, but some astounding change in life, dividing the what has been from the what will be more painfully than would death itself; then the sense of responsibility, maybe the simple fear of what may befall, is apt to make even the strongest nature quake.

Penelope had come to such a moment. She had so set her hour-glass that now the sands were running out with what appeared to be relentless haste, while the time left to her was beginning to seem so short, and the things to be done in that same short time so many. She did not waver, or rather she was not aware that, had it been possible, she would perhaps have wavered. Instead, she was only conscious of a desire to hasten on—to see everything cleared out of her way. One matter which had never before troubled her now gave her much anxious thought—she longed to retain, as far as might be possible, the good opinion of the few people who really loved her.

And so it was with a mind deeply troubled that she stood waiting for Winfrith, not in the studio, where every time she entered it everything reminded her more and more of the life she was leaving, but in the high, narrow room which corresponded on the ground-floor to Mrs. Mote's bedroom above, and where still remained traces of the time when it had been the study of Penelope's father—in a very real sense a workroom, for there a great worker had spent many solitary hours.

On the ugly, substantial writing-table, so placed that the writer commanded the whole of the wonderful view of the terraced gardens, the irregular cliff-line, and the broad seas spread out below, Mrs. Robinson had placed a number of documents tied up with red tape, also two small black despatch-boxes, each stampedwith the initials M. W. R. These preparations for what she intended should be a short business interview gave her courage. As she waited, nervously conscious that Winfrith was now, what he so rarely was, a few minutes late, she turned and walked up and down the narrow room, longing for the door to open and let him in, longing even more for the moment when it should open and let him out.

At last the man she waited for came in smiling. One of those instincts which tell only a half-truth made him aware that the news he brought would greatly gratify her. 'Sir George Downing has won all along the line,' he said boyishly, while shaking hands. 'We are going to send him the man he wants. He ought to be very much obliged to you.' He added, with the touch of condescension which—from him to her—always teased and yet always touched Penelope, 'The great man owes you far more than he knows. How odd that he should have met you, and so have come across me! He is even more worth meeting than I had expected,' he concluded hesitatingly. 'I wonder why there is still so strong a prejudice against him.'

'Give a dog a bad name,' she said indifferently, and then turned the key in the lock of the door. Penelope had inherited from her methodical father an impatience of interruption. 'Sit down here at the table,' she commanded, 'and now let us put aside Sir George Downing and his affairs, for just now I am more interested in my own. Do you remember the exact terms of the deed—I know you have seen it—in which were arranged all the money matters connected with the Settlement?'

'Yes,' he answered at once, 'I remember the terms quite well. The buildings are left in trust, and my father is one of the trustees; but the income remains entirely in your hands. You could withdraw allsupplies to-morrow, or, to put it in another way, you could spend all your income, and so have to pay the claims of the Settlement out of capital. I always thought it a very bad arrangement.' He spoke with a certain sharpness, as if the discussion were distasteful to him.

Penelope looked up with some anger, and 'My husband trusted me absolutely,' she said rather proudly.

The man sitting opposite to her reddened darkly. He always disliked to hear Penelope mention Melancthon Robinson; the slightest allusion to the founder of the Settlement, when made by her, roused a violent primeval instinct, which insisted on recognition of his own original claim to the beautiful, elusive creature with whom his relations had now been for so long lacking in sincerity. 'That's nonsense,' he said harshly. 'He had no right to do such a thing with a girl of two-and-twenty.'

'One-and-twenty,' she corrected quickly.

He went on, avoiding her eyes, but his voice lowering, losing its harshness, in spite of himself. 'It was a most unfair responsibility to put upon you. However intelligent and businesslike,' he added, 'however trusted and worthy of trust——'

It was Penelope's turn to redden. 'I do not say I was, or am, worthy of such a trust,' she said rather coldly. 'You know, or perhaps you have forgotten, that I thought my cousin would help me. He refused, and it was because you, David, were so good to me then'—Penelope leant forward; she put her hand, her slender, ringless left hand, on his sleeve for a moment, and the blue eyes which met his in quick appeal seemed darker, softer than usual—'because you have always been good to me, that I now ask your advice. It is for the last time——'

Winfrith suddenly focussed his mind into close attention. Very slowly, hardly conscious of whathe was doing, he moved the chair on which he was sitting further away from hers, and set a guard on his face.

There had been a time, shortly after the renewal of their intimacy, when David Winfrith had schooled himself, with what he thought was easy philosophy, to hear the announcement of Penelope's remarriage. But curiously soon, and Mrs. Robinson had watched with mischievous interest the different workings of his mind, the young man had seen reason to assure himself that his new-found friend would do wisely to remain free as himself from all sentimental entanglements, while yet always able to benefit by his superior masculine sense and knowledge, both of the world and of affairs.

Soon also he had come to fear for her, and this quite honestly, the fortune-hunters with whom he felt rather than knew her to be, in those early days, encompassed. A word denying any intention of remarriage—and it was a word which Penelope, at that time of her life and even for long after, could have uttered with all sincerity—would have made Winfrith easy in his mind; but the word was never uttered. Mrs. Robinson had had no desire to let the nearest, in a sense the dearest, and in any case the most faithful and trustworthy of her mentors, feel too great a sense of security.

And so their strange relationship had remained, and that over years, a source of pleasant confidence and sentimental amusement to the woman, of subtle charm and ever-recurring interest to the man.

When he turned restive, as sometimes though rarely happened, Penelope dealt out the rope with no niggard hand, or, better still, provoked something tantamount to a quarrel, followed in due course by the inevitable healing reconciliation.

But not even his interest in Mrs. Robinson's affairs—for so he described, even to himself, the feelingwhich dominated him—had ever caused Winfrith to neglect his own work, or the public business with which he was concerned; and this divided allegiance, as he sometimes suspected, caused her more real annoyance than his frequent and frank criticisms of her actions, and his tacit refusal to join in the pretty flatteries of her other friends. As Penelope had learnt with anger, there were times and seasons when even the most imperious note, the most urgent appeal, could not bring him to her side. But while this state of things had irked her greatly, especially in the early days of the renewal of their friendship, she had always been aware that any ordinary pleasure or personal concern was always flung aside, counted as nothing to the delight of being with her and of acting as her confidential adviser and friend.

To-day, while looking into his plain face, aware of the sternness of the strong jaw, the ugly peculiarity of an exceptionally long upper lip, Penelope's heart contracted with sudden tenderness as she evoked the memory of the long years during which they had known one another with so deep, so wordless, an intimacy.

For a moment there was silence between them. Then he said, rather sharply: 'Well, what is it you want me to do? Of course I will give you the best advice in my power, and not, I hope, for the last time.'

As he spoke he stood up and placed himself with his back to the window, and for a moment Penelope saw the heavy, broad-shouldered figure outlined against the sea and sky, his face—and this vaguely relieved her—being in complete shadow. But she turned away, looked straight before her as she said quickly, her voice full of defiant decision: 'Yes, I want to ask your advice, and more, to beg you to help me about a certain matter.' She paused, and added: 'I have made some notes on a piece of paper. I think I laid it down before you came in.'

Winfrith wheeled round, and looked at the tableagainst which he had been leaning. On coming into the room he had paid no attention to Penelope's preparations for their interview, but now, as he became aware of the odd little bundles of lawyer's letters, each tied together with tape, and of the despatch-boxes, inscribed with the initials M. W. R., he felt amused, and even a little touched. 'These look quite old papers,' he said kindly. 'Perhaps you forgot to bring your notes in here with you, or—wait a moment—what is that you are holding in your hand?'

She frowned with annoyance. 'How stupid I am!' But the little episode relieved the tension between them; and, as a child might have done to a play-fellow, she suddenly put out her hand, and, taking his, pulled him down beside her on the long, low, leather-covered couch. 'I want to speak to you about a really serious business, and I know—at least, I am afraid—that you will disapprove of what I want to do, and that you may try and make me alter my mind.'

She spoke nervously, with a new, a gentler, note in her voice. A blessed peace stole into Winfrith's heart; he chased the dread which had for the moment possessed him, and it was in his usual tone, with his usual half-bantering manner, that he asked the reproachful question, 'Why did you say that—I mean, as to this being the last time? Surely I have not deserved that you should say such things to me!'

'No, indeed—indeed you have not!' And the hurried humility with which she spoke might well have re-awakened his premonition of coming pain and parting. 'But you will soon understand what I meant, when I have explained everything.'

Again there was silence between them; but Winfrith, her last words sounding in his ears, feeling her dear nearness, though he had moved somewhat away from where she had placed him, was in no haste to hear her confidences. Secretly he pledged himself not to scold her—indeed, to listen patiently, and tohelp her, however unpractical and foolish the scheme for which she sought his help.

At last Penelope, paler than her wont, her voice tremulous, lacking its usual hard, bell-like quality of tone, spoke, and to some purpose: 'I have made up my mind to do what you have always wished—that is, to endow the Settlement. Though what you said just now about my husband and his arrangements made me angry, I know it was true. He ought not to have left me such power.'

Winfrith felt relieved but bewildered, and straightway he blundered. 'Certainly something of the kind ought to have been done long ago, but you always opposed it. You——'

'I suppose I have the right to change my mind, to be guided by circumstances? Besides, I am tired, utterly tired, of the responsibility as well as of the Settlement.' She looked at him fixedly for a moment. 'I know what you would like to say; that I have had nothing to do with it, in a real sense, for many years past. But that is false; no day goes by without my receiving some tiresome letter or letters. Whenever any of the "Settlers"'—Winfrith had never before heard her use the contemptuous term—'fall out, and they are always falling out——'

'That at least is untrue,' he interrupted.

'Yes, they do—they do! And when they do, then they write to me to patch up the quarrel!'

She paused, then went on in a more measured voice: 'And there are other things! How would you like it if, when acting the part of a traitor to your party, you were always being praised for your loyalty?Iam a traitor to all that the Settlement represents. I hate—no, I do not hate, I despise—the wretched human beings to whom poor Melancthon gave up his life. I don't think they are worth the trouble expended on them. When I come into personal contact with them, of course I am sorry, so I am for the ants when BrownBess puts her foot on an ant-hill! And to you, David, I have never pretended otherwise. Of course I recognise that in so feeling I am almost alone. Some of the people I have most cared for, my father'—she hesitated and added more gently—'you yourself, feel quite otherwise.'

Then breaking off short, she glanced down at the paper she held in her hand, and Winfrith saw with some surprise that it was covered with neatly pencilled notes. 'But, after all, I own no apology for what I feel to any human being, and so now let us consider the practical side of the matter. Apart from the question of the endowment, I wish arrangements to be made by which Cecily Wake can carry out her experiment—I mean her co-operative cheap food idea.'

Winfrith bit his lip. This, then, was the new scheme? He had never liked Cecily Wake; perhaps—but of this, of course, he was totally unaware—he was irritated by the girl's enthusiastic affection for Penelope, so much more unobtrusive and sincere than that of some of those whom he also unconsciously regarded as his rivals. Then, again, Cecily, like himself, had the power, in spite of her youth, in spite even of a certain childishness of which the bloom had not been rubbed off in the two years spent by her in working at the Settlement, of obtaining her own way, and of imposing her own point of view on others. Finally, he had the average Englishman's distrust of Roman Catholicism, and naturally suspected the motives of a convent-bred girl.

As to the proposed scheme, it was in some ways childish, in others revolutionary. In her dreams Cecily Wake had seen the squalid neighbourhoods about the Settlement each rejoicing in its own huge cheap and pure food emporium. To Winfrith the idea was little less than absurd, and to be, from every point of view, deprecated and discouraged; so he nownerved himself, without any great difficulty, to opposition.

'Miss Wake's scheme, from what I can make of it,' he said coldly, 'would not only require the outlay of a considerable amount of capital, but, what is more serious, could not but disorganize local trade.'

Penelope frowned. 'I know, I know! You've said all that to me before. As to the money required, of course there will be plenty of money. You have never liked Cecily; but still, even you must admit that she has done very well, and, after all, both Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret agree that something of the kind she suggests is badly needed. I remember that I myself, in old days, always considered that we thought far too much of our protégés' minds and morals, and far too little of their bodies; and I know I heartily sympathized with the poor wretches who, when they discovered that there were to be no more doles, broke all the windows of good Mr. B.'

Winfrith vehemently disagreed, but it was an old quarrel between them, and he refused to be drawn.

'To return to the main question,' he said quietly, 'it seems to me to be entirely one of money. If you endow the Settlement, as I understand you mean to do—that is, adequately—your own income will be greatly lowered, and even so large, so immense a fortune as that left you by your husband'—he brought out the word with a gulp—'will be seriously affected. You know sometimes, as it is, you have not found matters very easy.'

He hesitated, for here he felt on delicate ground. The way in which this, to him, dearest of women, dowered with apparently such simple personal tastes, so over-spent her large income as to find it difficult sometimes to meet the claims of the Settlement, had been to him for years a matter of profound astonishment.

'Well, I shall have to manage better in future.'She sighed a little wearily. 'As you said just now the money was really left to me in trust;' and, when Winfrith made a gesture of negation, she said, 'Well, most of it was.' And then, with complete change of tone, she said slowly, 'And now I intend to be shut of it all.'

As he looked at her, perplexed, she added: 'You don't know the expression? Ah well, if you had ever lived at the Settlement, even for a short time, you would be quite familiar with it, for there women are always longing to be "shut" of things—principally, of course, of their husbands and babies. But seriously, David, what I want you to tell me and to help me to do concerns the practical side of this great renouncement.'

There had come again into her voice, during the last few moments, the satirical ring he dreaded and disliked. 'We will take all your remonstrances and reproaches as said'—she softened the discourtesy of her words by the touch for a moment of her hand on his arm. 'And I want it all done at once—within the next few weeks.'

Winfrith smiled, not unkindly. 'So I should suppose,' he said quietly; 'but of course that will be quite impossible.'

'But you have often helped me to get things done quickly,' she cried urgently, 'and it really is most important that these changes and new arrangements should be made now, as soon as possible.'

Winfrith laughed outright. He wondered for a moment, with a certain complacency, whether any man, however foolish and lacking in knowledge of business, could be found to propose so absurd a thing as this clever, and sometimes so shrewd, woman had done.

'Why all this haste?' he asked good-humouredly. 'I'll tell you what we had better do; I will draft a letter, for you to copy, to your lawyers. In this letter we will explain that you wish the arrangementsconcerning the Settlement, embodied, I believe, in your will, to be carried out now, in your lifetime; further, you will tell them prettily, in your own words, that you wish the whole thing settled as soon as possible. They will then go into the whole matter, and let you know what can be done, and how long it will take to do it.'

He waited a moment, then continued: 'Now about Miss Wake's scheme. I should suggest its being tried at first on a small scale. I understand she has reduced her demands'—he could not keep his prejudice against Penelope's young friend out of his voice—'to what she calls "a pure milk depôt." Some time ago I did consult a doctor I know on that point, and I admit he thought it a good idea. This portion of her scheme need not cost a great deal of money, and though, of course, it will put all the milkmen against you, as you personally won't be there when their boys come and break the windows of the Settlement, I don't know that that much matters!'

He waited for her answer. These discussions, which had at intervals taken place for many years past between Mrs. Robinson and himself always amused him and bored her, the more so that, after a spirited struggle on her part, he generally got his own way.

But to-day Penelope was not in fighting trim. 'You don't understand,' she said at length, and in a voice so low that he had to bend forward to hear her words. 'This is only a part of what I want you to do for me. You referred just now to my will. Supposing that I died suddenly—that I was killed out riding, for instance; you, as my executor, would have to see to almost everything, to undertake almost all the arrangements I want you to get done for me now, during the next few weeks.'

Winfrith turned and looked at her keenly. She met his gaze unflinchingly; but the colour had gone from her face, the proud mouth, which he had oncekissed so often, and which he had once refused to kiss (did Penelope ever remember, too? he wondered; he never forgot) was trembling, and her eyes met his in questioning, shrinking distress at the pain she felt herself about to inflict.

And then suddenly he realized, with a feeling of sharp revolt and anguish, that that which he had sometimes thought of as being possible, but which during recent years had gone into the background of his mind—for he was a much-occupied as well as an unimaginative man—had come upon him. He saw that he was going to lose her, that their old relationship was even now severed, and that this was in very truth her last and supreme call on him for help.

But there was no perceptible change in his voice, as he said very quietly: 'Please read me your notes: then I shall understand more clearly what you want done; and once I understand, I will do all in my power to see that your wishes are carried out.'

She bowed her head, and Winfrith listened with dismay and increasing astonishment as Mrs. Robinson explained the scheme, evidently well and carefully thought out, by which she proposed to renounce and distribute the whole of the immense fortune which had been left to her by Melancthon Robinson.

As she spoke, as she read on from her notes, her voice regained something of its sureness of accent; and glancing frequently at the paper she held in her hand, she elaborated the various points, showing more real knowledge of the problems which confront the modern philanthropist than Winfrith would have thought possible.

Then came the sudden, the agonizing, conviction that in this matter Penelope had been helped by some other and more practical mind than her own; and, as this fact became clear, he set his teeth, and forced himself to remember that the man, whoever he mightbe, who had inspired this great renunciation could be no fortune-hunter.

'Of course, you can guess,' she said at last—for his silence made her uneasy—'why I am doing all this. I have as yet told nobody; but my life henceforth will be spent abroad, and'—again she hesitated painfully—'the person whose wishes I am now bound to consult absolutely agrees with me, and approves of what I am going to do about Melancthon's money.'

He brushed aside her last words, and brought himself to consider her material interests, and so, 'You realize what all this means?' he said at length. 'If these arrangements are carried out, your income, in the sense you now understand the word, will be wholly absorbed—gone.'

'I am retaining everything my father left to me, with the exception of this place,' she said quickly.

'With the exception of this place?' he repeated with dismay. 'Do you, then, mean to sell Monk's Eype?'

'No, no! how could you think of such a thing?' A tone of profound dejection crept into her voice. 'What I mean is that, before going away, I intend to hand Monk's Eype over to Ludovic. He was not fairly treated by my father; but, even as it is with him, he could afford to keep up the villa and the gardens as they should be kept up, and I am sure he will always make my mother welcome, should she care to come here from time to time.'

The accent of pain in her voice again stung Winfrith into protest. 'Are you sure that you are acting wisely? Of course, I know that it is none of my business.' And as she made a quick dissenting gesture: 'If it is—if you will allow it to be my business, then let me say that in this matter of your fortune you are about to take a great risk, and one which you might bitterly regret later on,' he added deliberately, 'and for which you might in time be reproached.'

But as he uttered these last words a sudden change came over Penelope's face. Winfrith had evoked another, a more intimate—ay, and a more eloquent—presence, and as she answered, 'Ah no! I need never be afraid of that,' a strange radiance came over her face, softening the severity of the lines, veiling the brightness of her blue eyes.

Winfrith rose quickly from where he was sitting; he felt an impulse to wound, to strike, and then to flee. 'Men alter,' he said—'men and women, too. You and I——' Then he drove out the jealous devil which had possessed him for a moment, and asked: 'Well, I suppose that is all you wanted to see me about for the present? If you will give me your notes I will go into the matter; and if, as I understand, your marriage is to take place very soon abroad'—he waited for a moment, but there came no word of assent—'that will, of course, be a sufficient reason for pushing on everything as quickly as possible.'

He added, with an air of studied indifference: 'May I ask how long you wish your engagement to be kept secret? Do you, for instance, object to my father being told?'

Then he looked down at her, and what he saw roused every generous instinct, banished unworthy jealousy, and even dulled his bitterness. When had he last seen Penelope weeping? Years and years before, on the day of their parting, when they were still boy and girl lovers. But then her tears had come freely, like those of a child distressed; now no sound came from the bowed figure save long, shuddering sobs. Again he sat down by her. 'My dear,' he said, deeply troubled, 'what is it? What can I do for you?'

'You were so unkind,' she whispered, and he saw that she was trembling, 'you were going away—so coldly.' Then, almost inaudibly, she added: 'I did not think you would care so much.'

She unclasped the hands in which her face had been hidden, and held them out to him. For a moment he took them in his, crushed the fingers wet with tears, and then let them go. 'Of course I care,' he said at length. 'You would not have me not care. We have been friends so long, you and I.' He stopped abruptly; the memory of many meetings, of many partings, became vivid and intolerable.

They both stood up, and again he made an effort over himself. Once more he took her hands in his, and held them tightly, as he said: 'But you must not distress yourself about me; men have worse things to bear. Think of what happened to my father.' And his voice shook for the first time. Never before, not even as a boy, had Penelope heard him allude to his parents' tragic story. And now this word, meant to comfort her, and perhaps himself, cut her to the heart. Soon he would learn, only too surely, the ironic parity which was to lie between his own and his father's fate.

For a moment she shrank back, then moved swiftly nearer to him; and it was with her arms about his neck, her face looking up into his, that he heard the eager tremulous words: 'David, before you go I want to say something—to tell you, so that you may remember afterwards when I am gone, that till now there has never been anyone else—never, never—anyone but you!' Her head sank on his breast as she added slowly, almost reluctantly: 'Things were not as you, perhaps, think they were between poor Melancthon and myself. We agreed before our marriage that it was only to be a partnership.' As she felt his arms tighten round her, she again lifted her face, and asked: 'Are you shocked? Do you think it was wrong? Motey (no one else ever guessed) thought it very wicked.'

'Then you were—you have always been mine!' he cried; and, as she shrank back, he holding herfast to him, 'Tell me,' he asked, 'should I have had a chance, another chance, during all those years?' He added, perhaps guided by some subtle instinct of which he was ashamed, for as he spoke Penelope felt him relaxing the strong grip of the arms which had held her so closely, 'Is there any chance—now?'

She shook her head. Through a blistering veil she saw the set grey face of the man who had loved her so well and long, and for whom she also had cared, if less well, quite as long. 'You had your chance, such as it was, at first,' she said, 'when we were both so young, when I was foolish and you were so wise.' His face contracted at the sad irony in her voice. 'I know now, I even knew then, that my father forced you to act as you did; but I was angered, disappointed, with you and in you. I had thought—I think even Motey expected—that you would have wanted to run away with me. Gretna Green seemed a very real place in those days.' She smiled dolorously. 'If you had been a little stronger or a little weaker, perhaps even a little less reasonable, I should have run away with you, for at that time—ah, David, I was in love with Love, and you were Love.'

'Then I only once forfeited my chance?' he again asked urgently. 'During all these past years it never came again?'

For a moment Penelope hesitated; then, as she lied, she again pressed closer to him, and again the tears ran down her cheeks. 'It never came again,' she repeated. 'But you know, you will always remember when I am gone, that you were the only one, the only one.'

'Is that quite true?' he asked slowly.

'Absolutely true.' She spoke eagerly, defending the truth as she had not been called upon to defend the lie. 'We have had our happy years, David—your years, my dear. You always seemed quite content——'

'Did I?' he said bitterly. 'Ah well, now comes the turn of the other man!'

Penelope started back, wounded and ashamed. She put her hand over her eyes. For a moment they both felt an intangible, but none the less reproachful, presence between them.

'I beg your pardon,' he said hurriedly. 'I should not have said that. Forgive me.'

'It was my fault,' she answered coldly. 'I brought it on myself—I know you had great provocation.'

There was a painful moment of silence. 'I think I must leave you now,' she said at length, 'I will write to you to-morrow. I do not think our meeting again would be of any use. We should both say'—her voice quivered—'and perhaps do, things we should regret later.' She held out her hand, her head still averted, wishing her anger, her disappointment, with Winfrith to endure.

But suddenly he drew her again, this time resisting, into his arms. 'We can't part like this,' he whispered urgently. 'Forgive the brutish thing I said! I promise I will never so offend again—I swear I will respect him—the man you love, I mean.' To keep her another moment in his arms he abased himself yet further. 'You must not be afraid that I shall quarrel with your choice. Surely we can remain friends—he shall have no reason to be jealous of me.'

But punishment came swift and sure. Again he felt her shrink from him, again he felt another presence between them, and the jealous devil, so lately laid, once more took possession of his soul.

He thrust her away. 'I had better go now,' he said hoarsely. 'It's no use. You were right: we had better not meet again.'

And as Penelope, swept with infinite distress, compelled, mastered, by impulses the source of which was wholly hidden from herself, came once more near to him, again took his hand in hers, looked up mutelyinto his face, he said roughly, 'No, no! keep your kisses for the other man; I will not rob him any more!' and, fumbling for a moment with the key in the lock, was gone.

'For a pinte of honey thou shalt here likely find a gallon of gaul, for a dram of pleasure a pound of pain, for an inch of mirth an ell of mone: as Ivie doth an oke, these miseries encompass our life.'

After her return from Kingpole Farm that night of stress and storm, Penelope felt strangely, terribly forlorn. Those about her seemed changed. She gradually became aware that she was being watched, considered anxiously, by her mother, by Wantley, even by Miss Wake. Cecily alone among them seemed as she had always been, but even she, or so Mrs. Robinson suspected, had gone through some experience which she was keeping secret from the woman who knew herself so well and loyally loved by her.

As the time grew near when Miss Wake and her niece were to go back to town, leaving Penelope alone with her mother and with her cousin, there came over Mrs. Robinson an overmastering desire to recall Downing to Monk's Eype; she longed for the protection which would be afforded her by his presence. She also wished him to confirm her in the conviction that the time had come when Lady Wantley should be told of what they were about to do.

For the first time the gravity, the irrevocable nature, of the step she was taking came home to Penelope's mind, to her heart—especially after her agonizinginterview with Winfrith—and even to her conscience, for she acknowledged a duty to her mother.

During these days of suspense Mrs. Robinson became 'gey ill to live with,' and the two who suffered most from her moods were Mrs. Mote and Cecily Wake. Penelope half suspected her old nurse of treachery, and sometimes she would give her a peculiar, and Motey felt it to be also a terrible, look. The old servant was a brave woman, but during that time of silent, fearful waiting her spirit often quailed, and she sometimes bitterly regretted having spoken to Lady Wantley.

To Cecily her friend's capricious moods were a source of pained bewilderment. Penelope no longer drew, no longer painted, no longer, indeed, did anything but walk and drive. She seemed to have a fear of solitude, and yet the girl was the only companion whom she tolerated.

Sometimes the two would drive in the broad, low pony-cart for hours, with scarce a word said on either side. At other times Mrs. Robinson would talk with her wonted impetuosity and sharp decision of many things and people of moment to Cecily. She would refer to her brief married life at the Settlement, even to her childhood and David Winfrith. Then would come bitter, slighting words concerning those whom the speaker knew to be dear to her listener, sarcastic references to enthusiastic Philip Hammond and large-minded, kindly Mrs. Pomfret; even—then Cecily Wake's heart would whisper that this was surely cruel—her cousin Wantley would be ruthlessly dissected, and his foibles held up to scorn.

There would come moments when Penelope again was kind, when she would say a word implying that Cecily Wake was her best, her most intimate, friend; but this was now often followed by a sentence which seemed to tell of an approaching break in their friendship, of coming separation.

Soon the two, the woman and the girl, were at utter variance the one with the other, and Cecily suffered almost as keenly as did Penelope. It seemed to her only too clear that Mrs. Robinson grudged her, and disapproved of, Wantley's love. What else could mean her strange, obliquely stabbing phrases?

Cecily's mind often reverted to that most moving, sacred hour when Wantley had given her his mother's pearls, when he had told her, dryly and yet tenderly, of how truly he loved her. He had said—she remembered the words, and, so remembering, often let her eyes fall before those of her friend—'Unless you particularly wish to do so, I should prefer that you say nothing—just now, at once—to Penelope. Wait till I have spoken to your aunt, till we are both in London, till we are ready to tell all the world.' And, of course, she had assented, while yet feeling sure of Mrs. Robinson's real sympathy.

But now Cecily felt sure no longer, and over her heart there came something very like despair. How could she, Cecily Wake, who owed so much—nay, her very acquaintance with Wantley—to Penelope, go against her in so serious a matter? Cecily had retained the clear conscience, free of all casuistry, of a child. She knew that she loved Wantley with all her heart, that her feeling for him was no longer under her own control; but she also knew that she could never marry him in direct opposition to the wishes of the one human being to whom she regarded herself as indebted for all which made life worth living.

And so her happiness became quite overshadowed with misgivings and hesitations, of which she said nothing to her lover.

This reticence was made easy by Wantley's own conduct. With a punctiliousness which did him honour, he scorned to take any advantage of their hidden understanding. For many reasons he had preferred that their formal engagement should takeplace, and be publicly announced, in London. Meanwhile, he felt infinitely content, and in no haste to provoke the elder Miss Wake's tremulous, incredulous satisfaction, or to receive his cousin's ironical congratulations.

There are moments in almost every life when a man feels himself lifted far above his usual plane of thought and feeling, when he knows he is happily adrift from familiar moorings.

Such a moment had now come to Wantley. He would ask himself, with a certain exultation of heart, whether it were possible that a time could come when he would feel any nearer, ever more intimately linked, to his beloved, to this young and still mysterious creature, the tips of whose fingers he had not even kissed, and who, as he well knew, and was glad to know, lived in a spiritual sense in a world so far removed from that in which he had always dwelt.

He trembled at his own good fortune, and would fain have propitiated that sportive Fate which lies in wait for those to whom Providence has been too kind. So feeling, he told himself that he should not grudge Penelope the present companionship of Cecily. He divined something of his cousin's unhappiness and unrest, though far from suspecting their intensity, and so the gradual shadowing of Cecily's face was attributed by him to her hourly contact with one who was obviously ill at ease and sick at heart.

On the last day of Theresa Wake's stay at Monk's Eype, Mrs. Robinson quite unexpectedly and most capriciously, or so it seemed to the older lady, expressed a sudden wish that the aunt and niece should stay on for another two or three days.

So eager was Penelope to compass the matter that she actually sought out Miss Wake in the early morning before she was up and dressed. 'Pray, CousinTheresa, stay on a little longer! Do not go to-morrow. This is the sixth—stay on till the ninth. We are all leaving on Saturday.' She added, after a scarcely perceptible pause: 'Sir George Downing is coming back to-day.'

But Miss Wake's answer was very decided, and not very gracious in expression. Was it fancy that made Mrs. Robinson feel that the few words were uttered very coldly? 'No; we cannot alter our plans at this late hour, Mrs. Pomfret is expecting Cecily back to-morrow evening. We must certainly leave in the morning, and you will be able to spare us very well.'

There came a time when Wantley often debated painfully as to why he had lent himself to the bringing back of Downing to Monk's Eype, and when he was glad to remember that he had said a word of protest to his cousin. Penelope had chosen him to be her messenger; his had been the task of taking her invitation to Kingpole Farm.

Mrs. Robinson had tried to treat the matter with Wantley as of no moment. He had listened in silence, and then reluctantly had said: 'I will go if you really wish it, but I think you are not acting wisely;' only to be disarmed by the look of suffering, almost of despair, which had met his measured words.

And so he had taken the letter which had summoned Downing to her side. 'I beg you to come back for two or three days,' she wrote. 'Things have not been going well with me. I need your help. I feel that before leaving here I ought to inform my mother of my—of our—intentions.'

In later life Wantley sometimes recalled that last visit to Kingpole Farm.

During the long solitary drive he had wondered uneasily if he was expected—if this little episodehad been arranged between Mrs. Robinson and the man with whom he was beginning to believe his cousin was indeed more closely connected than he liked to think possible. But at once he had seen that Downing knew nothing—that he, Wantley, had not been expected, indeed, was not welcome. Downing struck him as aged, sombre, perhaps even defiant, as he held out his lean brown hand for Penelope's note. While reading it he had turned away, treating his visitor with scant ceremony, then had said briefly, 'I understand I am to come back with you—now—to-day?' And Wantley had as shortly assented.

Perforce—this also he later remembered time and again—Wantley was present at the meeting of Penelope and Downing.

The two men found her standing by the open door, her tall figure outlined against the hall, the sunny terrace, the belt of blue sea beyond. She was looking out landward, shading her eyes—sunken, grey-lidded with much sleeplessness, perhaps with tears—from the bright light.

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 todinner—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 Roomall 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.

At half-past eleven Wantley heard that which he had feared to hear, the sound of steps coming down the marble staircase. He got up from his chair, very slowly, very reluctantly. There came the murmur of low voices, and the listener's ear caught Cecily's low, even tones answering Penelope's eager, whispering voice.

'What a relief,' the voice was saying—'what a relief to get away from upstairs—from Motey next door! Here we shall be quite alone——' Then, with surprise, but no annoyance: 'Why, there's a light in Ludovic's smoking-room! But he's very discreet. He would never intrude on a dressing-gown conference.'

And the voices swept on, past the door ajar, on into the short passage which led to the studio.

Wantley sat down again with a very altered feeling. He was ashamed of his former fears, and at that moment begged his cousin's pardon for suspicions which he trusted she would never know he had entertained.

Cecily asleep, dreaming sad dreams, had suddenlywakened to see Penelope standing by the side of her bed.

The tall, ghostlike figure, clad in a long pale-grey dressing-gown, held a small lamp in her hand; and, as the girl opened her eyes, bent down and whispered, 'I could not sleep, and so I thought we might have one last talk. Not here—for we might wake Cousin Theresa; not in my room—for there Motey can hear every word—but downstairs in the studio, if you are not afraid of the cold.'

And so they had made their way through the unlighted house, Cecily's smaller figure wrapped in pale blue and white, her fair hair spread over her shoulders, looking, so her companion in tender mood assured her, like one of Fra Angelico's heavenly visitants.

When in the studio, Penelope put the lamp down on her painting-table and drew the girl over to the broad couch where Cecily had sat down and waited for her, just a month ago, on the afternoon of her first day at Monk's Eype. The knowledge of how happy she had then been, of how beautiful she had thought this room, now full of dim, mysterious sadness, came back to the girl with a pang of pain. She looked round with troubled eyes, but Mrs. Robinson, an elbow on her knee, her chin resting in her left hand, caught nothing of this look, for she was staring out through the dark uncurtained window, absorbed in her own thoughts.

At last she slowly turned her head.

'Cecily,' she said, and her voice sounded curiously strained, 'you must have thought me odd of late, and even sometimes not kind. And yet, my dear, I love you very well.'

'I know,' said Cecily, speaking with difficulty; 'I have understood.'

'You have understood?' Mrs. Robinson looked at her with quick suspicion, and her face hardened. 'Do you mean that my affairs have been discussed?What have you heard? What have you understood?'

'Your feeling as to Lord Wantley—and myself.' Cecily's voice sank, but she spoke very steadily, a little coldly. Surely Penelope might have spared her this utterance.

But the other had heard the slow, reluctant words with a feeling of remorse and relief.

'Why, Cecily!' she cried, and as she spoke she put her arm round the girl's shoulders, 'did you think—did you believe, that I could feel anything but glad? Why, when I first saw how things were going, I could hardly believe in Ludovic's good fortune.' She added, half to herself, 'in his good taste! You are a thousand times too good for him; but he knows that well enough. Of course, I knew he had spoken to you; but as you did not tell me——' There was a note of reproach in Penelope's voice. 'How strange, how amazing, that you should have understood me so little! For the last few days,' she sighed a sharp, short sigh, 'my only really happy, comfortable moments have been spent in thinking of you and of Ludovic.'

She stopped speaking abruptly, but kept her arm round the girl's shoulder. Cecily had time to wonder why she herself felt so far from content; surely the kind words just uttered should have filled her with joy and peace?

'Tell me,' she said, and as she spoke she fixed her eyes imploringly on her companion's face, taking unconscious note of Penelope's rigid mouth and stern, contracted brows—'do tell me why you are so unhappy! I would not ask you if I did not care for you so much.'

'Am I unhappy? Do I seem unhappy?' Mrs. Robinson looked fixedly at the questioner as if really seeking an answer. She got up suddenly, walked to the end of the long room and back, then came and stood before Cecily.

'Well, Cecily, I will tell you, for you deserve to know the truth. I am unhappy, if indeed I am so, because I am about to do a thing of which almost everyone who knows me—in fact, I might say everyone who knows me—will disapprove. Also, it is a thing which will separate me from all those I love and esteem, both in a material sense—for I am going very far away—and in a spiritual sense.'

Penelope sank down on her knees, and placed her hands so that they clasped and covered those of Cecily Wake. 'In your heaven, my dear, there may be found a place for me—after a long stay, I imagine, in purgatory; but there will be no room in mamma's heaven, especially not in that where she believes my father to be. David Winfrith also will consign me to outer darkness, and that of a very horrible kind. Still I would give up willingly all hope of future heaven, Cecily, if only I could conciliate them here—if only they would sympathize with what I am about to do.'

Cecily looked down on the lovely face turned up to hers with a feeling of pity and terror. 'What do you mean?' she said. 'I am sure you would never do anything which would make your mother love you less.'

'I believe there are people'—Penelope was speaking quietly, as if to herself—'to whom what I am going to do would appear to be perfectly right, and, indeed, commendable. But then, you see, I do not know those people, so the thought of them brings no comfort.'

She waited a moment, rose from her knees, and again sat down on the couch. She felt ashamed of her emotion, and forced herself into calmness, her voice into measured tones: 'I am going away with Sir George Downing, back with him to Persia, to Teheran. We hope to be always together, never apart till death takes one of us. I have evenpromised him that I will not return to England, excepting, of course, with him.'

'But I thought, I understood——' Cecily looked anxiously at her friend.

'You think rightly, you have understood the truth. Sir George Downing has a wife. They have been married many years, and separated almost as many.'

'But if he is married,' said Cecily slowly, 'how can you go away with him like that?'

Mrs. Robinson thought Cecily strangely dull of understanding. 'Surely you have heard of such occurrences?' she said impatiently.

'Oh, yes,' answered the girl, and her eyes filled with tears, which ran down her cheeks unheeded. 'You mean St. Mary Magdalen, Penelope? And others, later——'

Mrs. Robinson again got up. 'Surely,' she cried, 'you can understand how it is with me? You love Ludovic—supposing that you suddenly heard, now, that he was married—what would you do?—how would you feel?'

But Cecily, looking at her in dumb, agonized distress, made no answer.

'You are too kind to say so, but I know quite well what you would do. You would go away, and never see him again. It might kill you, but you would never do what you believed to be wrong.'

'Wrong for him, too,' the girl said, with difficulty.

'Well, I am not good, like you. If I had hesitated—and Cecily, believe me, I never did so, not for a moment—it would have been owing to mean, worldly considerations——'

'Do you, then, love him so very much?'

'Ah, my dear! Listen, Cecily, and I will tell you of our first meeting. It was in the Gare de Lyon, when we—Motey and I—were on our way to Pol les Thermes. I lost my purse, and he came forward, offered to lend me what I needed. Should I'—Penelope's voice altered, became curiously introspective, questioning—'should I have taken money from a stranger?' And then as Cecily looked at her, amazed, 'I tell you that from the moment our eyes met weknewone another in a more real sense than many lovers do after years of communion. My unhappiness the last few days has come from his absence, from the knowledge, too, that we are both to be tormented, as I am now being tormented—by you.' And, as Cecily made a gesture of protest, 'Yes, my dear, by you! Why, he has also been attacked by old Mr. Gumberg, of all people in the world!'

Penelope laughed nervously. She took the girl by the arm, and silently they retraced their footsteps through the quiet house—the silence broken at intervals by Cecily's long sighing sobs.

Some moments later, Wantley, going up to bed with uneasy mind, for he had heard the sound of Cecily's distress, met his cousin face to face. A white cloak concealed her figure, and a black silk hood her resplendent hair.

They looked at one another for a moment. Then very deliberately he spread out his arms, barring the way. 'You cannot, shall not go down to the Beach Room!' he whispered.

'I must, and shall!' she said. 'You do not understand, I must see him—you can come and wait for me if you like.'

But Wantley was merciless. He looked at her till her eyes fell before his—till she turned and slowly went up before him, back into her room.

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