'On ne choisit pas la femme que l'on doit aimer.'

I

The Rectory at Shagisham had the great charm of situation. In his study old Mr. Winfrith stood on the same level as the top of his church steeple, and his windows commanded wide views of the valley where lay the scattered houses composing his cure, of the low hills beyond, and of the sea. The best had been done that could be done with the steep, wind-swept garden, and the square, low rooms, which had seen little, if any, alteration in forty years, opened out upon a lawn kept green with constant watering.

To Cecily the old-fashioned house, with its curious air of austere, unfeminine refinement, was very interesting. She had never seen a country clergyman at home, and her imagination had formed a picture of Winfrith's father very different from the small, delicate-looking old man who welcomed her and Mrs. Robinson with great warmth of manner, while Winfrith himself showed almost boyish pleasure at the unexpected visit. 'They must be very lonely here sometimes,' was Cecily's unspoken thought, as the old clergyman ushered her with some ceremony into the drawing-room, which had the curious unlived-in look so often seen in a room associated, to those still living, with a dead woman's presence.

Before passing out on to the lawn Mr. Winfrith directed Cecily's attention to a portrait which hung over the mantelpiece. It was that of a brilliant-looking girl, dressed more or less gipsy-fashion, the colouring of her red cheeks, so bright as to give the impression that the sitter had rouged, being daringly repeated in a scarf twisted round her dark hair. 'David's mother,' he said proudly. 'Do you not think there is a great likeness between them?'

Cecily looked doubtfully at the picture. 'Of course he is not nearly so handsome'—Mr. Winfrith spoke rather plaintively—' but I assure you he is really very like her. This portrait was painted before our marriage. Lord Wantley—I mean Mrs. Robinson's father—thought it one of the best ever painted by the artist'—Mr. Winfrith looked puzzled—' I forget his name, though at one time I knew him quite well. I'm sure you would know it, for he's a great man. He was often at Monk's Eype, and painted Lady Wantley several times. But this was one of his early efforts, and I myself'—the old man lowered his voice, fearing lest the stricture should be overheard by his other guest—' much prefer his earlier manner.' And then he led her out into the garden, and handed her over to the care of his son, while he himself turned eagerly, confidingly, to Penelope.

David Winfrith at Shagisham, waiting on his old father, acting as courteous host to his own and that dear father's guest, seemed a very different person from the man who acted as mentor to the Melancthon Settlement.

Only the most unemotional, and, intellectually speaking, limited, human being is totally unaffected by environment. Winfrith, when at home, not only appeared another person to his London self, but he behaved, and even felt, differently. At Shagisham he came under the only influence to which he had ever consciously submitted himself—that of his simple and spiritually minded father, a man so much older than himself that he seemed a survival from a long-past generation.

Another cause, one known fully to very few beside himself, made him a different man when at home. There, at Shagisham, he never forgot certain facts connected with the early life of his parents—facts made known to him in a letter written by his mother before her death, and handed to him by his father when they had returned, forlornly enough, from her funeral. And after the boy—he was sixteen at the time—had read and burnt the letter, he had looked at the lovely valley, the beautiful old church, and the pretty rectory, with altered, alien eyes.

Had Winfrith followed his instinct he would never have come there again, but he had forced himself to keep this feeling hidden from his father, and many times, both when at college and, later, through his working year, he took long journeys in order to spend a few brief hours with the old man.

But he had no love for the place where he had spent his lonely childhood, and he did not like Shagisham any the better when he perceived that he had become in the opinion of the neighbourhood which had once looked askance at Mr. Winfrith and his only child, an important personage, able to influence the fate of lowly folk seeking a job, and that of younger sons of the great folk, bound, with less excuse, on the same errand.

Walking beside Penelope's young friend, he took pains to make himself pleasant, and, happily inspired, he at last observed: 'And so you have made friends with Lord Wantley? He's a very good fellow, and there's much more in him than Mrs. Robinson is ever willing to admit. He might be very useful to the Settlement.' Cecily said to herself that she had perhaps misjudged her companion, and she determined that she would henceforth listen to his criticisms of her schemes with more submission.

But what mattered to David Winfrith the young girl's good opinion? Penelope's unexpected coming had put him in charity with all the world.

Certain men are instinctive monogamists. For this man the world held no woman but she whom he still thought of as Penelope Wantley. There had been times when he would willingly have let his fancy stray, but, unfortunately for himself, his fancy had ever refused to stray.

Of late years he had been often thrown with beautiful and clever women, some of whom had doubtless felt for him that passing, momentary attraction which to certain kinds of natures holds out so great an allurement. But Winfrith, in these matters, was wholly apart from most of those who composed the world in which he had to spend a certain portion of his time.

Even now, while making conversation with Cecily Wake, he was longing to hear what Penelope could be saying that appeared to interest his father so much. Mrs. Robinson had taken the arm of the little old clergyman; they had turned from the wide lawn and steep garden beyond, and were looking at the house, Penelope talking, the other listening silently. 'No doubt,' said Winfrith to himself, 'they are only discussing what sort of creeper ought to be added to the west wall this autumn!'

At last he and his father changed partners, and when the latter, taking charge of Cecily, had led her off to the sloping kitchen-garden, where stood the well, the boring of which had been the old man's one extravagance since he had first come to Shagisham, unnumbered years before, Mrs. Robinson said abruptly: 'Whenever I see your father, David, I can't help wishing that you were more like him! He is so much broader and more kindly than you are—in fact, there seems very little of him in you at all——'

'If you are so devoted to him,' he said, smiling, but rather nettled, 'I wish you would come and see him oftener. You know how fond he is of you.' He added, but in a tone which destroyed the sentiment conveyed in the phrase: 'In that one matter, at any rate, you must admit that he and I are very much alike!'

Something in the way he said the words displeased Mrs. Robinson. To her Winfrith's deep, voiceless affection was as much her own, to do what she willed with, as were any one of her rare physical attributes. The thought of this deep feeling lessening in depth or in extent was even now intolerable; and, while giving herself every licence, and arrogating every right to go her own way, it incensed her that he should, even to herself, allude lightly to his attachment. She answered obliquely, eager to punish him for the lightest deviation from his usual allegiance.

'I know I ought to come oftener,' she said coolly, 'but then, of course, you yourself hitherto have always been the magnet—not, to be sure, a very powerful magnet, for 'tis a long time since I've been here.'

Winfrith reddened. Try as he would—and as a younger man he had often tried—he could not cure himself of blushing when moved or angered. His mother, to the very end of her life, had been proud of a beautiful complexion.

'I was just telling your father'—she gave him a strange sideway glance—'the story of the traveller who, crossing the border of a strange country, came upon a magnificent building which seemed familiar, though he knew it to be impossible that he had ever seen it before. Then suddenly he realized that it was one of the castles he had built in Spain! Now, there, David,' said Mrs. Robinson, pointing with her parasol to the old-fashioned house before them, 'is the only castle I ever built in Spain, and I never come here without wondering what sort of dwelling I should have found it.' As he made no answer, she turned and drew nearer to him, exclaiming as she did so: 'Ah, que j'Étais heureuse, dans ces bons jours oÙ nous Étions si malheureux!'

French was to Winfrith not so much a language as a vocabulary for the fashioning of treaties and protocols, a collection of counters on whose painfully considered, often tortuous combinations the fate of men and nations constantly depended. It may be doubted therefore, whether, if uttered by any other voice, he would have understood the significance of the odd phrase in which his companion summed up the later philosophy of so many women's lives. As it was, its meaning found its way straight to his heart. He turned and looked at his companion fixedly—a long, searching look. He opened his lips——

But Penelope had said enough—had said, indeed, more than she had meant to say, and produced a far stronger effect than she had intended to produce.

Mentally and physically she drew back, and as she moved away, not very far, but still so as to be no longer almost touching him, 'You owe my visit to-day,' she cried quickly, and rather nervously, 'to the fact that Sir George Downing, the man they call Persian Downing, is anxious to make your acquaintance. He and Ludovic have made friends, and I think Ludovic wants to bring him over to see you.'

'Do you mean that Sir George Downing is actually staying with you?' he asked, with some astonishment. 'I had no idea that any of you knew him.'

'We met him abroad, and he has just been staying a few days at Monk's Eype. He wanted to finish an important paper or report, and we had the Beach Room arranged as a study for him. But he is rather peculiar, and he fancies he could work better in complete solitude, and so, on our way back from here, Cecily and I are going to see if we can get him lodgings at Kingpole Farm. But, David, he really is most anxious to meet you. He says you are the only man in the new Government who knows anything about Persia; one of the chapters in your book seems to have impressed him very much, and he wants to talk to you about it.'

As she spoke her eyes dropped. She avoided looking at his face. The bait was a gross one, but then the hand which held it was so delicate, so trusted, and so loved.

'A friend of Wantley's?' he repeated. 'I wish I had known that before.'

'I don't think the acquaintance has been a long one, but they seem to get on very well together.' The words were uttered hurriedly. Penelope was beginning to feel deeply ashamed of the part she was playing.

Winfrith went on, with some eagerness: 'How extraordinary that Persian Downing should find his way down here! He is one of the few people whom I have always wished to meet.'

Her task was becoming almost too easy, and with some perverseness she remarked coldly: 'And yet I believe your present chief—I mean Lord Rashleigh—refused to see him when he was in London?'

'Refused is not quite the word. Of course, such a man as Downing has the faults of his qualities. He arrived in town on a Tuesday, I believe; he requested an interview on the Wednesday; and then, while the chief was humming and hawing, and consulting the people who were up on the whole matter, and who could have told him what to say and how far he could go in meeting Downing—who, of course, has come back to England with his head packed full of schemes and projects—the man suddenly disappeared, leaving no address! Rashleigh was very much put out, the more so that, as you doubtless know, our people distrust Downing.'

Penelope was looking down, digging the point of her parasol into the soft turf at their feet. 'There was some story, wasn't there, when Sir George Downing was a young man? Some woman was mixed up with it. What was the truth of it all?'

He hesitated, then answered unwillingly: 'The draft of an important paper disappeared, and was practically traced from Downing's possession to that of a Russian woman with whom he was known to have been on friendly terms. But it's admitted now that he was very harshly treated over the whole affair. I believe he had actually met the lady at a F.O. reception! He may have been a fool—probably he was a fool—but even at the time no one suspected him of having been anything else. The woman simply and very cleverly stole the paper in question.'

'I am sure he ought to be very much obliged to you for this kind version of what took place.'

'Well,' he said good-humouredly, 'I happen to have taken some trouble to find out the truth, and I'm sorry if the story isn't sensational enough to please you. But the consequences were serious enough for Downing. He was treated with great severity, and finally went on to America. It was there, at Washington, that he became acquainted with my uncle, and, oddly enough, I have in my possession some of the letters written by him when first in Persia. I shall now have the opportunity of giving them back to him.'

'And out there—in Persia, I mean—did you never come across him?'

'Unfortunately, I just missed him. No one here understands the sort of position he has made for himself—and indeed, for us—out there. It was the one country, till he came on the scene, where we were not only lacking in influence, but so lacking in prestige that we were being perpetually outwitted. Downing, as I reminded Rashleigh the other day, has always been pulling our chestnuts out of the fire. Of course, you can't expect such a man to have the virtues of a Sunday-school teacher.'

Penelope still kept her eyes averted from Winfrith's face, still ruthlessly dug holes in her old friend's turf.

'And when in Persia, in Teheran, what sort of life does he lead there?' She tried to speak indifferently, but her heart was beating fast and irregularly.

But Winfrith, seeing nothing, answered willingly enough: 'Oh, a most extraordinary sort of life. One of amazing solitariness. He has always refused to mix with the social life of the Legations. Perhaps that's why he acquired such an influence elsewhere. Of course, I heard a great deal about him, and I'll tell you what impressed me most of the various things I learned. They say that no man—not even out there—has had his life attempted so often, and in such various ways, as has Persian Downing. All sorts of people, native and foreign, have an interest in his disappearance.'

Penelope's hand trembled. The colour left her cheek.

'How does he escape?' she asked. 'Has he any special way of guarding himself from attack?'

'If he has, no one knows what it is. He has never asked for official protection, but it seems that from that point of view his G.C.B. has been quite useful, for now there's a sort of idea that his body and soul possess a British official value, which before they lacked. He's been "minted" so to speak.'

But Mrs. Robinson hardly heard him. She was following her own trend of thought. There was a question she longed, yet feared, to ask, and though desperately ashamed at what she was about to do, she made up her mind that she could not let pass this rare, this unique, opportunity of learning what she craved to know. 'I suppose that he really has lived alone?' she asked insistently. And then, seeing that she must speak yet more plainly: 'I suppose—I mean, was there anything against his private character, out there, in Teheran?'

A look of annoyance crossed Winfrith's face. He was old-fashioned enough to consider such questions unseemly, especially when asked by a woman. 'Certainly not,' he replied rather stiffly. 'I heard no whisper of such a thing. Had there been anything of the kind, I should, of course, have heard it. Teheran is full of petty gossip, as are all those sorts of places.'

As they turned to meet old Mr. Winfrith and Cecily Wake, Penelope thought, with mingled feelings of relief and pain, of how easy it had all been, and yet how painful—at moments, how agonizing—to herself.

The father and son were loth to let them go, and even after the old man had parted from his guests David Winfrith walked on by the side of the low cart, leading the pony down the steep, stone-strewn hill which led to the village, set, as is so often the way in Dorset, in an oasis of trees. As they rounded a sharp corner and came in sight of a large house standing within high walls, surrounded on three sides by elms, but on one side bare and very near to the lonely road, he suddenly said 'Good-bye,' and, turning on his heel, did not stay a moment to gaze after them, as Cecily, looking round, had thought he would.

II

Penelope checked the pony's inclination to gallop along the short, smooth piece of road which lay before them, and, when actually passing the large house which stood at the beginning of the village, she almost brought him to a standstill.

Cecily then saw that the blinds, bright red in colour, of the long row of upper windows—in fact, all those that could be seen above the high wall—were drawn down.

'Look well at that place,' said her companion suddenly, 'and I will tell you why David Winfrith never willingly passes by here when he is staying at Shagisham.'

Till that moment Mrs. Robinson had had no intention of telling Cecily anything about this place, or of Winfrith's connection with its solitary occupant, but she wished to escape from her own thoughts, to forget for a moment certain passages in a conversation, the memory of which distressed and shamed her.

To attain this end she went further on the road of betrayal, telling that which should not have been told. 'It's a very curious story,' she said, 'and David will never know that I have told it to you.'

As she spoke she shook the reins more loosely through her hand, and gave the pony his head.

'I must begin by telling you that Mrs. Winfrith, David's mother, was much younger than her husband, and in every way utterly unlike him. Before her marriage she had been something of a beauty, a spoilt, headstrong girl, engaged to some man of whom her people had not approved, and who finally jilted her. She came down here on a visit, met Mr. Winfrith, flirted with him, and finally married him. For a time all seemed to go very well: they had no children, and as he was very indulgent she often went away and stayed with her own people, who were rich and of the world worldly. It was from one of them, by the way—from a brother of hers, a diplomatist—that David got his nice little fortune. But at the time I am telling you of there was no thought of David. Not long after Mr. and Mrs. Winfrith's marriage, another couple came to Shagisham, and took Shagisham House, the place we have just passed. Their name was Mason, and they were very well off. But soon it became known that the wife was practically insane—in fact, that she had to have nurses and keepers. One of her crazes was that of having everything about her red; the furniture was all upholstered in bright-red silk, the woodwork was all painted red, and people even said she slept in red linen sheets! Mrs. Winfrith became quite intimate with these people. She was there constantly, and she was supposed to have a soothing effect on Mrs. Mason. In time—in fact, in a very short time—she showed her sympathy with the husband in the most practical manner, for one day they both disappeared from Shagisham together.'

'Together?' repeated Cecily, bewildered. 'How do you mean?'

'I mean'—Penelope was looking straight before her, urging the pony to go yet faster, although they were beginning to mount the interminable hill leading to Kingpole Farm—'I mean that Mrs. Winfrith ran away from her husband, and that Mr. Mason left his mad wife to take care of herself. Of course, as an actual fact, there were plenty of people to look after her, and I don't suppose she ever understood what had taken place. But you can imagine how the affair affected the neighbourhood, and the kind of insulting pity which was lavished on Mr. Winfrith. My father, who at that time only knew him slightly, tried to induce him to leave Shagisham, and even offered to get him another living. But he refused to stir, and so he and Mrs. Mason both stayed on here, while Mrs. Winfrith and Mr. Mason were heard of at intervals as being in Italy, apparently quite happy in each other's society, and quite unrepentant.'

'Poor Mr. Winfrith!' said Cecily slowly. But she was thinking of David, not of the placid old man who seemed so proud of his flowers and of his garden.

'Yes, indeed, poor Mr. Winfrith! But in a way the worst for him was yet to come. One winter day a lawyer's clerk came down to Shagisham House to tell the housekeeper and Mrs. Mason's attendants that their master was dead. He had died of typhoid fever at Pisa, leaving no will, and having made no arrangements either for his own wife, or for the lady who, in Italy, had of course passed as his wife. Well, Mr. Winfrith started off that same night for Pisa, and about a fortnight later he brought Mrs. Winfrith back to Shagisham.'

Penelope waited awhile, but Cecily made no comment.

'For a time,' Mrs. Robinson went on, 'I believe they lived like lepers. The farmers made it an excuse to drop coming to church, and only one woman belonging to their own class ever went near them.'

'I know who that was,' said Cecily, breaking her long silence—'at least, I think it must have been your mother.'

'Yes,' said Penelope, 'yes, it was my mother. How clever of you to guess! Mamma used to go and see her regularly. And one day, finding how unhappy the poor woman seemed to be, she asked my father to allow her to ask her to come and stay at Monk's Eype. Very characteristically, as I think, he let mamma have her way in the matter; but during Mrs. Winfrith's visit he himself went away, otherwise people might have thought that he had condoned her behaviour.'

She paused for a moment.

'Something so strange happened during that first stay of Mrs. Winfrith's at Monk's Eype. Mamma found out, or rather Mrs. Winfrith confided to her, that she had fallen in love, rather late in the day, with Mr. Winfrith, and that she could not bear the gentle, cold, distant way in which he treated her. Then mamma did what I have always thought was a very brave thing. She went over to Shagisham, all by herself, and spoke to him, telling him that if he had really forgiven his wife he ought to treat her differently.'

'And then?' asked Cecily.

'And then'—Penelope very shortly ended the story—'she—mamma, I mean—persuaded him to go away for six months with Mrs. Winfrith. They spent the time in America, where her brother was living as attachÉ to the British Legation. After that they came home, and about five years before I made my appearance, David was born.'

'And Mrs. Mason?' asked Cecily.

'Mrs. Mason has lived on all these years in the house we passed just now. I have myself seen her several times peeping out of one of the windows. She has a thin, rather clever-looking face, and long grey curls. She was probably out just now, for she takes a drive every afternoon; but she never leaves her closed carriage, and, though she can walk quite well, they have to carry her out to it. She is intensely interested in weddings and funerals, and, on the very rare occasions when there is anything of the sort going on at Shagisham, her carriage is always drawn up close to the gate of the churchyard. She was there the day Mrs. Winfrith was buried. My father, who came down from London to be present, was very much shocked, and thought someone ought to have told the coachman to drive on; but of course no one liked to do it, and so Mrs. Mason saw the last of the woman who had been her rival.'