'La Passion, c'est l'ascÉtisme profÂne, aussi rude que ascÉtisme religieux.'—Anatole France.

I

Within two hours of his curious conversation with his cousin, Wantley saw Mrs. Robinson and Cecily Wake start off, alone, for Shagisham.

With his hands in his pockets, his head slightly thrown back, standing in a characteristic attitude, the young man watched them drive away in the curious low dogcart which had been designed by Penelope for her own use. As he turned back into the hall an unaccountable depression seized on him. The memory of his cousin's words concerning Cecily was far from giving him pleasure. He felt as if in listening he had been treacherous, not so much to the girl as to their own ideal relation to one another.

It is surely a mistake to say, as is so often said, that uncertainty and doubt are the invariable accompaniments of the beginning of a great passion. Wantley had felt, almost from the first, as sure of her as he had felt of himself, and yet his reverence for Cecily was great, and his opinion of his own merits most modest.

Death might come, and now he had become strangely afraid of death, but Cecily, living, he knew would and must belong to him. He was so sure of this, and he loved her so well as she was, that he had no desire, as yet, to do that which would let all the world share his dear mysterious secret, become witness of his deep content. And so, though Penelope had been very gentle—indeed, save at one moment, very delicate in what she had implied rather than said—Wantley would have been better pleased had the words remained unuttered.

Then his mind went on to wonder why his cousin had seemed so distressed and so unlike her restrained and, with him, always wholly possessed self. What had signified her odd words, her pleading look, so full of unwonted humility? Things were not going well with Wantley to-day, and his vague discontent was suddenly increased by the recollection that George Downing was leaving Monk's Eype.

Since Downing's arrival Wantley had not once been down to the Beach Room. Mrs. Robinson knew how to insure that her wishes, whatever they might be, should be known and respected, and so, partly in obedience to a word said by her regarding her famous guest's dislike of interruption, partly because he had felt Downing's manner become more and more frigid during the brief moments when the two men were obliged to place themselves in the courteous juxtaposition of host and guest, the younger had studiously avoided forcing his company on the elder.

Now, remembering Penelope's words concerning the part he was to play in the matter of introducing Downing to David Winfrith, he felt that he might without indiscretion seek the other out.

Wantley was surprised by the warmth of his welcome. Downing seemed really glad to have his solitude invaded, and a moment later his visitor, sitting with his back to the broad window, at right angles to the older man's powerful figure, was realizing with some amusement and astonishment how carefully Penelope's old play-room had been arranged with a view to its present occupant's convenience and even comfort.

His cool, observant eyes first took note of the camp-bed, only partly hidden by the splendid Chinese screen, never before moved from its place in the great Picture Room of the villa; then of the strips of felt laid down over the oak floor; of the comfortable chair in which Downing was now leaning back—lastly, his glance rested on the wide writing-table, covered with papers, note-books, and a map held flatly to the wind-swept surface of the table by a small revolver.

Wantley also perceived a pile of rugs, generally kept in the hall of the villa, for which he had searched in vain a day or two before, when he wanted something to wrap about the knees of old Miss Wake. This, then, was where they had been spirited away!

He charitably reminded himself that Persian Downing, in spite of his straight, long figure, his keen eyes, his powerful chin and jaw, was no longer a young man, and with much living alone had doubtless found time to acquire the art of securing for himself the utmost physical comfort. Wantley's admiration for him somewhat unreasonably declined in consequence, and no suspicion that these little arrangements, these little luxuries, might be the sole fruit of another person's intelligent thoughtfulness even crossed his mind.

They were both smoking—Downing an old-fashioned pipe, and his visitor one of the small French cigarettes of which he always carried a store about with him, and which had been the most tangible sign of his release from thraldom, the great Lord Wantley's horror and contempt of smoking and of smokers having been only equalled by his abhorrence of drinking and of drunkards.

The early afternoon light, reflected from the sea and sand outside, flooded the curious cavernous room with radiance, throwing the upper half of Downing's broad, lean figure in high relief. Wantley, himself in shadow, looked at him with renewed interest and curiosity, and as he did so he realized that there must have been a time when the man before him would have been judged singularly handsome. Now the large features were thin to attenuation—the brown skin roughened by much exposure to heat and dust; the grey eyes, gleaming under the bushy eyebrows, sunken and tired; while the thick moustache, streaked with white, hid the firm, delicately modelled mouth, and gave an appearance of age to the face.

'If you do not find the farm comfortable,' said Wantley, breaking what had begun to be an oppressive silence, 'I hope you will return here for awhile. There won't be a soul in London yet.'

'Excepting my old friend, Mr. Julius Gumberg,' objected Downing. 'I believe he has not been out of town for years, and I sometimes think that in this, at any rate, he has proved himself wiser than some of his fellows.'

'Mr. Julius Gumberg,' said the other, smiling, 'has always seemed to me, since I first had the honour of his acquaintance, to be the ideal Epicurean—the man who has mastered the art of selecting his pleasures.'

'True!' cried Downing abruptly. 'But you must admit that not the least of his pleasures has always been that of benefiting his friends.'

'But that, after all, is only a refined form of self-indulgence,' objected Wantley, who had never been in a position so to indulge himself.

An amused smile broke over the other's stern mouth and jaw. 'That theory embodies the ethical nihilism of the old Utilitarians. Of course you are not serious; if you were, your position would be akin to that of the Persian mystics who teach the utter renunciation of self, the sinking of the ego in the divine whole. But then,' added Downing, fixing his eyes on his companion, and speaking as if to himself—'but then comes the question, What is renunciation? The Persian philosopher would give an answer very different from that offered by the Christian.'

'Renunciation is surely the carrying out of the ascetic ideal—something more actively painful than the mere doing without.' Wantley spoke diffidently.

'Undoubtedly that is what the Christian means by the word, but is there not the higher degree of perfection involved in the French saint's dictum?' Downing stopped short; then, with very fair, albeit old-fashioned, accent, he uttered the phrase, 'Rien demander et rien refuser. Of course, the greatest difference between the point of view held by the Persian sages and, say, the old monkish theologians is that concerning human love.'

Wantley leaned forward; he threw his cigarette out of the window. 'Ah,' he said, 'that interests me! My own father became a Roman Catholic, an act on his part, by the way, of supreme renunciation. I myself can see no possible hope of finality anywhere else; but I think that, as regards human love, I should be Persian rather than monkish.' He added, smiling a little: 'I suppose the Persian theory of love is summed up by FitzGerald;' and diffidently he quoted the most famous of the quatrains, lingering over the beautiful words, for, as he uttered them, he applied them, quite consciously, to himself and Cecily Wake. What wilderness with her but would be Paradise?

Her face rose up before him as he had seen it for a moment the day before, when, coming suddenly upon her in the little wood, her honest childish eyes had shone out welcome.

Downing looked at him thoughtfully. 'Ah, no; the Persian mystic of to-day would by no means assent to such simplicity of outlook. Jami rather than Omar summed up the national philosophy. The translation is not comparable, but, still, 'twill serve to explain to you the Persian belief that renunciation of self may be acquired through the medium of a merely human love;' and he repeated the lines:

'That,' cried Wantley eagerly, 'absolutely satisfies me, and strikes me as being the highest truth!'

Downing again smiled—a quick, humorous smile. 'No doubt,' he said rather dryly, 'so thought the student who, seeking a great sage in order to be shown the way of spiritual perfection, received for answer: "If your steps have not yet trod the pathway of love, go hence, seek love, and, having met it, then return to me." The theory that true love, even if ill-bestowed, partakes of the Divine, is an essential part of the Sufi philosophy.'

'And yet,' objected Wantley, 'there are times when love, even if well bestowed, may have to be withdrawn, lest it should injure the creature beloved.'

'So I should once have said,' answered Downing, leaning forward and straightening himself in his chair; 'but now I am inclined to think that that theory has been responsible for much wrong and pain. I myself, as a young man, was greatly injured by holding for a time this very view. I was attracted to a married woman, who soon obtained over me an extraordinary and wholly pure influence. But you know what the world is like; I cannot suppose that in these matters it has altered since my day. It came to my knowledge that our friendship was arousing a certain amount of comment, and so, after much painful thought and discussion with myself, I made up my mind—wrongly, as I now believe—to withdraw myself from the connection.' He added with a certain effort: 'To this determination—come to, I can assure you and myself, from the highest motives—I trace, in looking back, some unhappiness to her, and to me the utter shipwreck of what were then my worldly chances. My withdrawal from this lady's influence brought me into contact with another and a very evil personality. Now, had I been then, as I now am, a student of Persian philosophy, I might be——'

Downing stopped speaking abruptly. As he threw himself back, his great powerful figure seemed to collapse. Wantley looked at him, surprised and greatly touched by the confidence.

'I will tell you,' resumed Downing, after a long pause, 'of another Persian belief, to which I now fully adhere. The sages say that as God is, of course, wholly lacking in bukhl—that is, stinginess or meanness—it is impossible for him to withhold from any man the thing for which he strives with sufficient earnestness; and this,' he added, looking at his companion, 'I have myself found to be true. If a man devotes all his energies to the pursuit of spiritual knowledge, he becomes in time——'

'Automatically holy,' suggested Wantley, smiling.

'And capable,' concluded Downing, 'of accomplishing what we call miracles.'

'But to such a one surely human love would be denied, even in Persia?'

'Undoubtedly, yes. But the man who has striven successfully on a lower plane, whose object has been to compass worldly power and the defeat of his enemies—to him human love is not only not denied, but may, as we have seen, bring him nearer to the Divine.'

'But meanwhile,' objected Wantley, 'love, and especially the pursuit of the beloved, must surely stay his ambition, and even interfere with his success?'

'Only inasmuch as it may render him more sensitive to physical danger and less defiant of death.'

The young man had expected a very different answer. 'Yes,' he said tentatively; 'you mean that a soldier, if a lover, is less inclined to display reckless bravery than those among his comrades who have not the same motive for self-preservation?'

'No, no!' exclaimed Downing impatiently; 'I do not mean that at all! All history is there to prove the contrary. I was not thinking of straightforward death in any shape, but of treachery, of assassination. The man who loves'—he hesitated, his voice softened, altered in quality—'above all, the man who knows himself to be beloved, is more alive, more sensitive to the fear of annihilation, than he who only lives to accomplish certain objects. The knowledge that this is so might well make a man pause—during the brief moments when pausing is possible—and it has undoubtedly led many a one to put deliberately from himself all thought of love.'

Wantley looked at him with some curiosity, wondering whether his words had a personal application.

'Now, take my own case,' continued Downing gravely. 'I am in quite perpetual danger of assassination, and in this one matter, at any rate, I am a fatalist. But should I have the right to ask a woman to share, not only the actual risk, but also the mental strain? I once should have said no; I now say yes.'

Wantley was too surprised to speak.

There was a pause, then Downing spoke again, but in a different tone: 'Oddly enough, the first time was the most nearly successful. In fact, the person who had me drugged—perhaps I should say poisoned—succeeded in his object, which was to obtain a paper which I had on my person. Papers, letters, documents of every kind, are associated in my mind with mischief, and I always get rid of them as soon as possible. Mr. Gumberg has boxes full of papers I have sent him at intervals from Persia. I have arranged with him that if anything happens to me they are to be sent off to the Foreign Office. Once there'—he threw his head back and laughed grimly—'they would probably never be looked at again. In no case have I ever about me any papers or letters; everything of the kind is locked away.'

'Yes; but you have to carry a key,' objected Wantley.

'There you have me! I do carry a key. One is driven to trust either a human being or a lock. I prefer the lock.'

Wantley, as he left the Beach Room, felt decidedly more cheerful. The conversation had interested and amused him. Above all, he had been moved by the recital of Downing's early romance, and he wondered idly who the lady in question could have been, whether she was still living, and whether Downing ever had news of her.

During the whole of their talk there had been no word, no hint, of the existence of the other's wife, who, as Wantley, by a mere chance word uttered in his presence in the house where he had recently been staying, happened to know, was even now in England, the honoured guest of one of his uncle's old fellow-workers.

He said to himself that there was a fascination about Downing, a something which might even now make him beloved by the type of woman—Wantley imagined the meek, affectionate, and intensely feminine type of woman—who is attracted by that air of physical strength which is so often allied, in Englishmen, to mental power. He felt that the man he had just left, sitting solitary, had in his nature the capacity of enjoying ideal love and companionship, and the young man, regarding himself as so blessed, regretted that this good thing had been denied to the man who had spoken of it with so much comprehension.

Slowly making his way upwards from the shore, Wantley turned aside, and lingered a few moments on the second of the three terraces. Here, in this still, remote place, on this natural ledge of the cliff, guarded by a stone balustrade which terminated at intervals with fantastic urns, now gay with geranium blossoms, gaining intensity of colour by the background of blue sky and bluer waters, he had only the day before, for a delicious hour, read aloud to Cecily Wake.

From his father Wantley had inherited, and as a boy acquired, an exceptional love and knowledge of old English poetry, and, giving but grudging and unwilling praise to modern verse, he had been whimsically pleased to discover that to the girl Chaucer and La Fontaine were more familiar names than Browning and Tennyson, of whose works, indeed, she had been ignorant till she went to the Settlement, where, however, Philip Hammond had soon made her feel terribly ashamed of her ignorance.

Standing there, his thoughts of Cecily, of Downing, of Persian mysticism, chasing one another through his mind, Wantley suddenly remembered Miss Theresa Wake, doubtless still sitting solitary in her hooded chair.

II

Cecily's aunt, whom he himself already secretly regarded with the not altogether uncritical eye of a relation, was to Wantley a new and amusing variety of old lady. Miss Theresa Wake had the appearance, common to so many women of her generation, of having been petrified in early middle age. A brown hair front lent spurious youth to the thin, delicate face, and her slight, elegant figure was only now becoming bent. It was impossible to imagine her young, but equally difficult to believe that she would ever grow really old.

The young man who aspired to the honour of becoming in due course her kinsman, found a constant source of amusement in the fact that her sincere, unaffected piety was joined to a keen, almost morbid, interest in any worldly matter affecting her acquaintances. When with Miss Wake it was positively difficult for a sympathetic person to keep from mentioning people, and so, 'I think we shall have David Winfrith here in a few minutes,' he said, when, having sought her out, he was anxious to make amends for his neglect. 'Penelope and your niece will probably bring him back. My cousin is very anxious that he should meet Sir George Downing, who is leaving soon.'

'Leaving soon? He will be greatly missed.'

The remark was uttered primly, and yet, as Wantley felt, with some significance. The phrase diverted him, it seemed so absurdly inappropriate; for Downing had stood, and that to a singular degree, apart from the ordinary life of the villa.

But the old spinster lady was pursuing her own line of thought. 'I suppose,' she said hesitatingly, 'that the Settlement would not be affected should Penelope marry again? Of course, I am interested in the matter on account of my niece.'

Wantley looked at her, surprised. 'I don't see why it should make the slightest difference, the more so that David Winfrith has of late years taken a great part in the management of the Melancthon Settlement—in fact, the place has been the great tie between them. I should not care myself to spend the money of a man to whom my wife had once been married, but I am sure Winfrith will feel no such scruple, and the possession of the Robinson fortune might make years of difference to him in attaining what is, I suppose, his supreme ambition. After all, and of course you must not think that I am for a moment comparing the two men, where would Dizzy have been without Mrs. Lewis?'

'But what would Mr. Winfrith have to do with it?' inquired Miss Wake. 'Was he a friend of Penelope's husband? How could he influence the disposal of the Robinson fortune?'

It was Wantley's turn to look, and to be, astonished. 'I understood we were speaking of Penelope's marrying again,' he said quickly, 'and I thought that you, like myself, had come to the conclusion that she would in time make up her mind to marry Winfrith. He's been devoted to her ever since she can remember. Why, they were once actually engaged, and I should never be surprised any time, any moment—to-day, for instance—were she to tell us that they were to be married.'

The old lady remained silent, but he realized that her silence was not one of consent. 'Surely you were thinking of David Winfrith?' he repeated. 'There has never been, in a serious sense, anyone else.'

A little colour came to Miss Wake's thin, wrinkled cheeks, and she began to look very uncomfortable. 'I was thinking of someone very different,' she said at last, 'but you have made me feel that I was quite wrong.'

An odious suspicion darted into the young man's mind. He suddenly felt both angry and disgusted. After all this constant dwelling on other people and their affairs must often lead to ridiculous and painful mistakes, to unwarrantable suspicions. 'You surely cannot mean——' he began rather sternly, and waited for her to speak.

'I was thinking of Sir George Downing,' she answered, meeting his perturbed look with one of calm confidence. 'Surely, Lord Wantley, now that I have suggested the idea, you must admit that they are greatly interested in one another? At no time of my life have I seen much of lovers; but, though I have not wished in any way to watch Penelope and this gentleman, and though I have, of course, said nothing to my niece Cecily, it has seemed to me quite dear that there is an attachment. In fact'—she spoke with growing courage, emboldened by his silence—'I have no doubt about my cousin's feelings. Would not the marriage be a suitable one? Of course there must be a certain difference of age between them, but she seems, indeed I am sure she is, so very devoted to him.'

'I confess the thought of such a thing never occurred to me.'

Wantley spoke slowly, unwillingly; and even while he uttered the words there came to him, as in an unbroken, confirmatory chain, the memory of little incidents, words spoken by Penelope, others left unsaid, her altered manner to himself—much unwelcomed evidence that Miss Wake had been perhaps clear-sighted when they had all been blind. He felt a sudden pang of pity for his cousin, a feeling as if he had suddenly seen, through an open door, a sight not meant for his eyes. For a moment he deliberated as to whether he should tell Miss Wake of the one fact which made impossible any happy ending to what she believed was true of the relations between Mrs. Robinson and Sir George Downing.

'I think I ought to tell you,' he said at length, 'that a marriage between them is out of the question. Sir George Downing has a wife living. They are separated, but not divorced.' There was a painful moment of silence; then he added hastily: 'I know that my cousin is fully aware of the fact.'

Then, to his relief, Miss Wake spoke as he would have had her speak. 'If that is so,' she cried,' I have been utterly mistaken, and I beg your and Penelope's pardon. It is easy to make mistakes of the kind. You see, I have lived so long out of the world.'

There was a note of appeal in the thin, high voice.

'But indeed,' said Wantley quickly, 'my cousin is very unconventional, and your mistake was a natural one. I myself, had I not known the circumstances, would probably have come to the same conclusion.'

Their eyes met, and for a brief moment unguarded glances gave the lie to their spoken words.