I

Kingpole Farm was built at a time when loneliness was not feared, as it has come to be, by the poor and by the workers of rural England, and, if one can trust to outward signs, when country eyes were more alive than they are now to beauty of surroundings, and to the uplifting quality of wide, limitless expanses of land and sky.

Sir George Downing had now been there more than a week, a time of entire solitude, only broken by two long calls from David Winfrith. An old bedridden man and his widowed daughter were the only inmates of the farmhouse, and they troubled their lodger little. Accordingly, he had had plenty of time both to work and to think, and, during the long solitary walks which were his only recreation, he asked himself many searching questions compelling truthful answers.

Seeing Mrs. Robinson in her daily life at Monk's Eype had affected Downing with curious doubt and melancholy, and had given him his first feeling of uneasiness concerning their joint future. Till then he had not thought of her as the centre of a world, each member of which would be struck to the heart when they learnt what she was about to do. It was characteristic of the man that he gave no thought as to how the matter would affect himself. He conceived that each human being has a right to judge and decide for himself as to any given line of conduct, and he had long felt absolved from any personal duty as regarded his own wife. After their second parting he had offered her the entire freedom afforded by an American divorce, but she had refused to avail herself of it.

More, after leaving London, and before going to Monk's Eype, Downing had made a swift, secret journey to the place where he had learnt that Lady Downing was staying with some evangelical friends. The two had met in the parlour of a village inn, and each had been more amazed and moved than either would have thought possible by the physical changes time had wrought in the other.

With perhaps an unwise abruptness, he threw himself on her mercy, telling her the whole truth, and only concealing the name of the woman with whom he was about to form a new tie.

But Lady Downing had seen in his intention, in his proposed action, only an added reason for standing firm in the matter of a public divorce. She pointed out, in the gentle, reasonable tone which he felt was all that now remained of the Puritan girl he had once known, that Christian marriage is indissoluble. 'Your sin would be the same in either case,' she said; 'but if I consented to what you now desire, I should be a participant in your sin.'

As he had not told Penelope of his intention of seeking out his wife, there had been no reason to acquaint her with his failure.

But during those lonely days at Kingpole Farm Downing regretted, with bitter, voiceless lamentation, that he had failed in inducing his wife to consent to what would have so straightened the way before him. For the path which had seemed a few weeks before so clear and smooth, he now saw to be strewn with sharp stones and obstacles, which he knew would hurt and wound the creature he had come to love with so jealous and so absorbing a love, and who was about to give up so much for his sake.

II

On the afternoon of the tenth day of his stay at Kingpole Farm, and not long after he had seen the widowed daughter of his landlord go off for the afternoon to see one of her gossips at Burcombe, the little town which formed the only link between the farm and outer civilization, Sir George Downing, standing by the window of his sitting-room, suddenly saw the woman who now dwelt so constantly in his thoughts walking up the lonely road, and instinctively his eyes travelled past her, seeking the pony-cart and Cecily Wake.

But the rounded edges of the hill remained bare, and Downing looked at the advancing figure with longing eyes, with throbbing heart. It seemed an eternity since they two had been really alone together, free from probable interruption and from Mrs. Mote's suspicious, unfriendly eyes.

Turning quickly away, he walked with impatient steps up and down the old-fashioned farmhouse sitting-room, stifling the wish to go out and meet her, there, on the solitary road. But her coming had been unheralded. This was the first time she had come to him; hitherto it was always he who had gone to her, and he felt that even in the matter of moments she must choose that of their meeting.

Mrs. Robinson did not seem in any haste. Even when actually on her way up the prim flagged path, edged with wallflower, which led to the door of the farmhouse, she turned and looked long at the wonderful view spread out below the narrow ledge where wound the rough road above which she was standing.

Suddenly she put her hand to her breast; she had walked too quickly up the steep winding way from the hamlet where she had been compelled to leave her pony-cart; and as she stood, looking intently, with enraptured eyes, at the marvellous sight before her—for a great storm was gathering over the vast plain lying unrolled below—the man who watched her from the farmhouse windows likened her in his mind to Diana, weary for a moment of the chase.

Her tall figure was outlined against the lowering white and grey sky, the short dun-coloured skirt was blown about her knees by the high, stinging wind, while the closely buttoned jacket, reaching but just below the waist, revealed the exquisite arching lines of her shoulders and throat. Mercury, rather than Diana, was evoked by the winged, casque-like headgear which remained so firmly wedded, in spite of windy buffetings, to the broadly coiled hair.

Like all beautiful women who are also intelligent, Penelope's outward appearance—the very character of her beauty—changed and modified according to her mood. There were times when body was almost wholly subordinate to mind; days, again, when her physical loveliness had about it a mature, alluring quality, like to that of a ripe peach.

So perhaps had Downing envisaged her during those first days when he had been drawn out of his austere, watchful self by a charm Circe-like and compelling, when Mrs. Robinson had been engaged in the great feminine game at which she was so skilful a player—that of subduing a heart believed to be impregnable.

But her opponent himself had only caught fire, in any deep unchanging sense, when his Circe had suddenly revealed another and a very different side to her nature.

Just as an apparently trivial incident will often deflect the whole course of a human career, so, in the more complex and subtle life of the heart, a physical accident may quicken feeling into life, or destroy the nascent emotion. Downing had not been long at Pol les Thermes when he fell ill from a return of the fever which often attacks Europeans in Persia, and Mrs. Robinson, after two long, dull days, during which she had been bereft of the stimulating presence of her new friend—or prey—took on herself the office, not so much of nurse as of secretary, to the lonely man.

It was then, when her mere presence had seemed to lift him out of a pit of deep physical depression, that Downing had found her to be a far more enduringly attractive woman than the brilliant, seductive figure who had appeared before him as a ripe delicious fruit, with which he had known well enough he must never slake his thirst. Her he could have left, and gone on his way, sighing that such Hesperidean apples were not for him. It was the softer, and, it must be said, the more intelligent and companionable, woman who received, during those days when she was simply kind, confidences concerning his present ambitions, and his schemes for benefiting the country with which he had now so many links, as well as that which had given him birth, and which was about to welcome him back, him the prodigal, with high honour.

Mrs. Robinson would have been surprised indeed had she known how much more it cost this friend she longed to turn into a lover to tell her of the present fame than of the far-away disgrace. When he revealed to her something of his hopes, of his plans, of what he intended to do when in England, it meant that she had conquered a side of Downing's nature which had been wholly starved since the great trouble which had ruined his youth—that which longed for human intimacy and confidence.

As he stood to-day looking at her from his window he felt a certain surprise. Never had he seen her look quite as she did now—so girlish, so virginal, so young, in spite of her thirty years of life. And truly Penelope's present outward appearance—that of embodied chastity—reflected, to quite a singular degree, her inward, instant mood. For, though this visit to Kingpole Farm had been the outcome of an intense longing to see Downing, and to be once more with him, she had yet feared that seeking him out like this might seem overbold. Still she had a good excuse, and one she could offer even to herself, namely, that all manner of material matters had to be settled between them, especially concerning her renouncement of the Robinson fortune.

And yet, had Penelope believed in omens, she would surely have turned back, for the few miles' drive had not been free of disagreeable incident.

First she had met the Winfriths, father and son, and she had been forced to allow them to believe a lie, for she could not tell them whither she was bound. Then, when some two miles from Kingpole Farm, and, fortunately, not far from a blacksmith's forge, had come a mishap to one of the wheels of her pony-cart, making further driving impossible, and so she had gone on up the steep hill on foot, feeling perhaps unreasonably ruffled and disturbed.

At last Downing saw her turn and walk up to the front-door. There was a pause, and then she came in through the open door of his room, and somewhat stiffly offered him her hand, still encased in a stout driving-glove.

So scrupulously did her host respect Mrs. Robinson's obvious wish to be treated as a stranger, that he even avoided looking into her face as they both instinctively walked over to where it was lightest—close to the curtainless open window.

Penelope had brought a packet of letters from Monk's Eype. 'I thought they might be important. Pray read them now,' she said.

Downing, eager to obey her, did so, while she, apparently absorbed in watching the flying storm-clouds scurrying over the broad valleys below, was yet intensely conscious of his presence, and of how strangely young he looked to-day—how straight, how lean, how strong, how much more a man, in the same sense that David Winfrith was a man, than he had appeared to be at Monk's Eype, pitted against the shadowless youth of Cecily Wake, and even of Wantley.

Suddenly, having slightly turned her head, thinking to see Downing without appearing to do so, Penelope became aware that he was watching her with a melancholy, intense look.

Her heart began to beat unaccountably fast. She turned away hurriedly, and again looked out over the vast panorama of land and sky lying unrolled before them. Then she began talking quickly, and not very coherently, of the matters about which she had come to consult him. Had he anything to suggest, for instance, concerning the money arrangements which must now be made about the Melancthon Settlement?

'The Melancthon Settlement?'

Downing concentrated his mind on the problems now confronting his companion. He rose suddenly to look for a book of reference which he knew contained details of the working of similar philanthropic schemes, and which he had procured when in London. But Mrs. Robinson also sprang to her feet, and with a nervous gesture put her hand on the back of her chair.

She watched his coming and going, and when he brought back the book, and handed her a pencil and some sheets of paper, she again sat down.

But a grim look had come over Downing's face. He came and stood by her, for the first time that day he touched her, and she felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder as he said quietly: 'Are you afraid of me, Penelope?'

She looked up quickly, furtively. How strange to hear him thus pronounce her name! Like that Prince and Princess in the French fairy tale, who only called each other mon coeur and ma mie, such familiarities as 'George' and 'Penelope' had not yet been theirs.

'Oh no!' she cried, and inconsequently added: 'I only thought that you might consider my coming here to-day odd, uncalled for——'

But actions speak louder than words. Downing felt cut to the heart. He knew that he had deserved better things of her than that she should leap to her feet in fear if he did but move. But as he turned away, perplexed and angered, Mrs. Robinson was bent on showing her repentance. She came near to him, and even took his hand. 'I have been so unhappy,' she said simply, 'since you went away. Believe me, I am only content when we are together.'

Downing still looked at her with troubled eyes.

Drawing his hand out of hers, he set himself to discuss the various business arrangements connected with her renouncement of the great fortune she was giving up for the sake of his good name and repute; and, listening to all he had to say, Penelope was impressed by his conscientiousness, by his feeling that she would of course feel bound to see that no portion of the large sum in question should slip into unworthy hands.

'I am sure,' he said at last, 'that your friend Mr. Winfrith will advise better than I, in my ignorance of the actual working of the Melancthon Settlement, can hope to do.' He unfortunately added: 'Since I have seen him, I have wondered whether he will stand our friend?'

Mrs. Robinson looked up quickly. 'No,' she answered very deliberately, and Downing thought her oddly indifferent. 'I do not think David Winfrith will have the slightest sympathy with me—with us. He is exceedingly conventional.'

All at once a discussion, provoked by her, seemed to make the future intimately near, especially to the man who suddenly found himself answering questions, some childish and very frank in their expression, about the life led by Europeans in Persia. Penelope, for the moment, seemed to be looking forward to their joint existence as to a series of exciting and romantic adventures.

'Boxes not too large to go on mules? I thought camels always carried one's luggage!' There was a touch of disappointment in her voice, but before he could answer with the promise that she should have camels and to spare—in fact, anything and everything she wanted, she had added: 'Two good English saddles,' and made a pencil note.

'Nay, I will see to that!' said Downing quickly.

Some of her questions were difficult to answer, for the questioner seemed to forget—and, seeing this, Downing's heart grew heavy within him—that her position among the other women of her own kind and race out there would be one full of ambiguity.

Not even his great power, the fear with which he was regarded, could save her, were she to put herself in the way of it, from miserable and petty insult.

Hastily he turned the talk to his own house in Teheran. He had made no attempt, as do so many Europeans, to alter the essentially Persian character of his dwelling, and he lingered over the description of his beautiful garden, fragrant with roses and violets, traversed by flowing rivulets, cooled by leaping fountains. Penelope's face darkened when a word was said concerning Mrs. Mote, or, rather, of the native badgee, or ayah, who would, for a while at least, take her old nurse's place. 'I am sure,' said he, rather awkwardly, 'that in time you will want an English maid, especially at Laar'; and then he told her, not for the first time, of the life they would lead when summer came, in tents, Persian fashion, far above the pleasant hill villages, always avoided by Downing, where the British, Russian, and French colonies have their gossip-haunted retreats near the city.

The thought of her old nurse reminded Mrs. Robinson that it was growing late. She explained that at Burcombe she would be able to hire some kind of conveyance to take her back to Monk's Eype, and as she watched Downing preparing for the two-mile walk, she said solicitously: 'I wonder if I ought to let you come with me? The rain may keep off till we get down there, but you may have a terribly wet walk back, and, if you fall ill here, I cannot come and be with you as I was at Pol les Thermes.'

As she spoke she looked at him, and her look, even more than her words, moved Downing as a man is wont to be moved when the woman he loves becomes suddenly and unexpectedly tender. 'Is it likely that I should let you go alone?' he said, rather gruffly. 'You told me once you are afraid of thunder. Well, I think we are going to have thunder, and very soon.'

But now his visitor seemed in no hurry to leave the curious, rather dark room, with its old-fashioned furnishings. 'I wonder when we shall meet again,' she said a little plaintively.

But Downing made no answer. Instead, he flung open the door, preceded her down the darkened passage, and then, or so it seemed to Penelope, almost thrust her out on to the flagged path.

Why this great haste, this sudden hurry to be quit of the farmhouse? As yet there was no rain, and doubtless the high wind would keep off the storm till night. In the last hour—nay, it was not even an hour since she had felt the weight of Downing's hand laid in reproach on her shoulder—her mood had indeed changed. Mrs. Robinson had been reluctant to come in, but now she was very loth to go.

There came a time in Penelope's life when every feeling she had ever possessed for Downing—and, looking back, she had to tell herself that she had loved him with every kind of love a woman may give a man—became merged in boundless and awed gratitude, and when her thoughts would especially single out this storm-driven afternoon and evening. But now Mrs. Robinson felt aggrieved by his reserve, surprised at his coldness, and, standing there on the flagged path, waiting while her companion spent what seemed to her much unnecessary time in securely fastening the door behind them, she felt very sore, and inclined to linger unduly.

And so, as he came quickly towards her, Downing saw a curious look on her face that caused his own expression suddenly to change. A light leapt into his grey eyes, but Mrs. Robinson had turned pettishly away. 'I must stop a moment,' she said; 'the laces of my shoe have come untied.'

The wind was rising swirling clouds of dust below, but Downing caught her words, and understood the mingled feelings which had prompted their utterance. Quickly passing her, he knelt on the lowest of the steps which led from the flagged path to the road, tied her shoe-laces, and then, after glancing up and down the deserted road, he bent over and kissed lingeringly, first one and then the other, of the wearer's feet.

Then he sprang up, and, for a moment, he looked at her deprecatingly, but Penelope, mollified by what she took to be an act of unwonted humility and homage, laughed and blushed as she let him put her hand through his arm.

They walked down the hill in silence. The wind was still rising, large drops of rain began to fall at intervals, and yet, for the first time that afternoon, Mrs. Robinson felt wholly content. There was something in her nature which responded to wild weather, and, but for the lateness of the hour, she would have liked so to make her way through wind and beating rain back to Monk's Eype.

At last they found themselves on a level, monotonous stretch of road. To the right, rising beyond a piece of rough, untilled ground, in the centre of which stood a grove of high trees, lay the straggling little town of Burcombe, and Mrs. Robinson looked doubtfully at the long, rain-flecked road before them. 'If we make our way across, and go through the grounds of Burcombe Abbey,' she said, indicating the grove of trees, 'we should get to the town far sooner than by going round this way. I think the place is let this summer, but if the storm becomes worse, we might take shelter in one of the out-buildings, and send some one for a carriage.'

The first flash of lightning, the first real rush of rain, hastened their decision. Downing looked down with a feeling of exultation at his companion; her face was bent before the wind, but her voice was full of strength and a certain joyous cheer. Still, when the lightning lit up for a moment the lonely expanse of brown heath and rough ground about them, he felt her involuntary shudder, and she held closer to him.

Soon they had passed through a broken palisade into the comparative shelter afforded by the high trees which surrounded and embowered the remains of what had once been a famous Cistercian monastery. It was good to be out of the storm, under one of the arched avenues which bordered a straight dark pool, covered with still duck-weed, stretching before them.

As yet the rain had not had time to penetrate the canopy of green leaves shutting out the grey sky, but the path along which Downing was hurrying Penelope was already strewn with branches, some of dangerous size, and, had he not held her strongly, more than once she would have slipped and fallen. He saw that their wisest course would be to return to the open ground they had left, but the knowledge that some kind of shelter lay before them, if they could only reach it safely, made him keep the thought to himself.

If—if indeed! For there came a sudden rending, as it were, of earth and water, an awful blinding flash; and then—in the interval between the lightning and the crash of thunder—one of the tall trees on the opposite side of the now rain-swept water fell with a heavy thud right across the pool, its green apex settling down but a few yards in front of the wayfarers.

With a wholly instinctive gesture Downing flung both arms round his companion, and in the face of each the other read the unspoken, anguished question, 'Is this, then, to be the end, the solution, of our strange romance, of our difficult problem?' But Mrs. Robinson shook her head, with a sudden gesture signifying no surrender, and they pushed blindly on, treading on and over the wood and leaves carpeting the way before them.

The avenue ended abruptly with a flight of steps cut in the steep green bank of what at first Downing took to be another deep pool, dark with weeds and studded with strange rocks. So vivid was this impression that he stayed his own and Penelope's feet, while his eyes sought for a way round to a curious building, not unlike the remains of an old mill, which he saw opposite, and which promised the looked-for shelter.

But gradually, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the twilight, he saw that what he had taken for a sheet of still water was a stretch of grass, smooth as a bowling-green, from which rose jagged pillars, and uncouth, green-draped ruins, portions of the foundations of the old abbey, while to the right, bordered by gaunt trees, a bare space surrounded by low walls showed the site of what had been a vast medieval church.

The two, standing there, were struck by the look of dreadful desolation presented by the scene, the more desolate, the more God-forsaken, by reason of the fantastic-looking house which stood the other side of the deep depression containing the abbey ruins. Silently, no longer arm in arm, they went down the green steps, and made their way through what had been the cells and spacious chambers, the guest-rooms and the broad refectory, of the great monastery.

III

Mrs. Robinson and Downing had sheltered but a moment in the porch of the old-fashioned house, which doubtless incorporated some portion of the monastic buildings, when the heavy, nail-studded door suddenly opened, revealing a roomy vaulted hall.

An old man, evidently a self-respecting and respected butler, stood peering out into the semi-darkness, and as he did so invited them rather crossly to come in.

Mrs. Robinson stepped back into the wind and rain, for she felt in no mood to confront a stranger. But the man repeated with some asperity: 'You are, please, to come in. Those are my mistress's orders. Now, don't be keeping me in this draught!'

At last, very reluctantly, they accepted his rather tart invitation, but when they stood side by side in the lamplight before him, the old manservant's tone altered at once. 'I beg your pardon, sir, but we do get such tramps about here, and my mistress, she's that kind! One of the maids saw you and the lady just after we thought one of the ruins had been struck by lightning——'

'I think the storm is dying down. If we may sit here in the hall for a few moments, I am sure we could then go on quite well.' Mrs. Robinson spoke with a touch of impatience. She felt greatly annoyed, and looked at Downing imploringly. Surely he must realize how unpleasant it would be if she were suddenly brought face to face with some London acquaintance. But Downing seemed for the moment to have no thought of her: he stood looking fixedly at the old man, trying to remember if he could ever have been here before. The atmosphere of the house, even the butler's impassive face, seemed familiar; but since he had been in England his memory had played him many queer tricks.

He sighed heavily, and the words Penelope had uttered a few moments before at last penetrated his brain. 'Yes,' he said, rousing himself, 'the storm is passing by, and we must go on to Burcombe without delay.'

'But my mistress particularly wished to speak to whoever it was, sir.' The man spoke urgently.

'This is intolerable,' muttered Penelope; then aloud: 'But we are neither of us fit to be seen by anybody. I am sure your mistress will excuse us.'

'My mistress will not see you, ma'am'—the old man's tone was a rebuke—'for she is blind.'

He did not wait to hear any more objections, but turning, suddenly opened a door on his right.

Penelope shrugged her shoulders. What an unsatisfactory, odious day this had been! But even so she motioned Downing to take off his old rain-sodden cloak, anxious that he at least should look well before this strange woman. Ah! but she was blind!

The door which the old man had just opened, and as he thought carefully closed, swung back, and the two standing outside saw into a pretty room, of which the uneven oak floor was sunk below the level of the hall. They heard, with some discomfort, the murmur of voices, and then the words, uttered in the clear, rather mincing intonation affected by a certain type of old-fashioned servant: 'But I'm quite positive that it is, ma'am. The minute the gentleman stept in with the young lady I said to myself, "Why, surely this is our Mr. Downing!" When he went away I'd already been some years in Mr. Delacour's service, ma'am, and of course I knew him quite well. I don't say he's not changed——'

But as Penelope was looking for a way of escape, if not for Downing, then most certainly for herself, the open door of the bright, gay little sitting-room suddenly framed a slight, almost shadowy, figure of which even Mrs. Robinson, standing there at bay, felt the disarming, pathetic charm.

There is often about a blind woman, especially about one who was not born blind, a ghost-like serenity of manner, and even of appearance.

Mrs. Delacour's voice still had its soothing, rather anxious quality, but she spoke with restraint and dignified simplicity to the two strangers, concerning one of whom she had just been told such an amazing, and to her most moving, fact. 'Will you come in and rest?' she said; 'I fear you must have gone through a terrible experience.'

As they were entering the room, Downing suddenly stumbled—he always so adroit, so easy in his movements—and Penelope, herself no longer afraid, but feeling curiously soothed and comforted in this quiet, gentle atmosphere, saw that he was terribly moved, his face ravaged with contending feelings to which she had no clue. She looked away quickly, but Downing seemed unaware of her presence, incapable of speaking.

The two women talked together. Mrs. Robinson told of the tree struck by lightning, of their danger, and still Downing did not, could not, speak.

'Tell me,' said Mrs. Delacour at last—and her voice, in spite of her determination, of her prayer, that it should not be so, trembled a little—'is it true that George Downing is here? We once had a friend, a very dear friend, of that name, and my old servant is convinced that it was he who came in just now out of the storm.'

Again there was silence. Mrs. Robinson looked at him reproachfully. Why did he keep this gentle, kindly woman in suspense? Could it be for her, Penelope's sake? But Downing suddenly held up his hand; he did not wish the answer to come from any lips but his own—'Yes,' he said hoarsely, 'I am George Downing, come back, as you said I should come back, Mrs. Delacour!'

And then, or so it appeared to Penelope, a strange desire seized the other two to make her go away, to leave them to themselves. No word was said revealing Mrs. Robinson's identity, but there was a question of the long drive to Wyke Regis. Mrs. Delacour offered her carriage, Downing went to order it, and so for a moment the other two were left alone together. Penelope tried to speak indifferently, but failed; she felt a wild, an unreasoning jealousy of this sightless, white-haired woman with whom she was leaving the man she loved.

Did Mrs. Delacour, with the strange prescience of the blind, divine something of what was passing in the other's mind? All she said was, 'Mr. Downing—or is it not Sir George now?—was with my husband, one of his younger colleagues, at the Foreign Office, and we saw him constantly. I fear this meeting must recall to him many painful circumstances.'

A moment later, as Downing was putting her into the carriage, unmindful of the old man standing just inside the hall, Penelope drew him with her into the darkness: 'Say that you love me!' she whispered, and he felt her tears on his lips; 'say that you cannot bear to let me go!'

And then she was comforted, for 'Shall I come with you?' he asked urgently, no lack of longing now in his low, deep voice; 'let me go back and tell her that I cannot let you go alone!'

But again Penelope felt suddenly afraid—of herself, perhaps, rather than of him. 'No, no!' she said hurriedly; 'it would be wrong, unkind, to your old friend—to Mrs. Delacour.'