'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.'

I

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 agonizing interview 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 take place, 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, Cousin Theresa, 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.'

II

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 episode had 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 to dinner—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 Room all 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.

III

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 suddenly wakened 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 even promised 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 we knew one 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.