Читать книгу The Heart of Penelope - Marie Belloc Lowndes - Страница 23

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Mrs. Robinson was also in a softened mood, and when she found David Winfrith waiting for her in the library of the old house in Cavendish Square which had been her father's, and which had seen the coming and going of so many famous people, she greeted him with a gaiety, an intimate warmth of manner, which quickened his pulses, and almost caused him to say words he had made up his mind never again to utter.

Soon she was kneeling by the fire warming her hands, talking eagerly, looking up, smiling into the plain, clean-shaven face, of which she knew every turn and expression. 'You must forgive and approve me for being late,' she exclaimed. 'I have spent my afternoon exactly as you would always have me do! Firstly, I fulfilled my social dooty, as Mr. Gumberg would say, by going to the Walberton wedding'—a slight grimace defaced for a moment her charming eyes and mouth—'enough to put one out of love for ever with matrimony; but, then, my ideal still remains in those matters what it always was.' In answer to a questioning look her eyelids flickered as she said two words, 'Gretna Green!' and an almost imperceptible quiver also passed over Winfrith's face.

She went on eagerly, pleased with the betrayal of feeling her words had evoked: 'Then I drove to the Settlement, where I listened patiently while Philip Hammond and Mrs. Pomfret poured their woes into my ears.'

'That I'm sure they did not,' he interrupted good-humouredly.

'Oh yes, they did! They don't keep everything for you. Well, Daphne Purdon is leaving—not, of course, of her own free will. You were right and I was wrong in that matter. But I think I've found just the right person to replace her.'

'H'm,' said he.

'Someone who will be quite ideal, whom even Mrs. Pomfret liked at first sight! But don't let's talk of the Settlement any more. Listen, rather, to my further good deeds. I am going to Brighton, a place I detest, in order to give pleasure to a good, kind little girl who is just now having a very bad time.'

'That,' he said,'is really meritorious. And when, may I ask, is this work of mercy to take place?'

'Next week; I shall be away for at least four days.'

'Well, perhaps I shall be in Brighton for a night,'—Winfrith brushed an invisible speck off his sleeve—'Wednesday night, myself. I do not share your dislike to the place. We can talk over Settlement affairs there, if we meet, as I suppose we shall?'

Penelope hesitated. 'Yes,' she said at last, rather absently. 'We can talk over things there better than here. I expect to go abroad rather earlier this spring.'

'Why that?' He could not keep the dismay out of his voice. 'I thought you were so fond of the spring in London?'

She stood up, and they faced one another, each resting a hand on the high marble mantelpiece. 'I love London at all times of the year,' she said, 'but I am a nomad, a wanderer, by instinct. Perhaps mamma's mother, before she "got religion," was a gipsy. I have always known there was some mystery about her.' She spoke lightly, but Winfrith's lips closed, one of his hands made a sudden arresting movement, and then fell down again by his side, as she went on unheeding, looking, not at him, but down into the fire. 'Why don't you take a holiday, David—even you are entitled to a holiday sometimes—and come with me where I am going—down to the South, west of Marseilles, where ordinary people never, never go?'

'My dear Penelope, how utterly absurd!' But there was a thrill in the quiet, measured voice.

She looked up eagerly, moved a little nearer to him. 'Do!' she cried—'please do! Motey would be ample chaperon.' She added unguardedly, 'she is used to that ungrateful rôle.'

'Is she?' he asked sharply. 'Has she often had occasion to chaperon you, and—and—a friend, on a similar excursion?'

Penelope bit her lip. 'I think you are very rude,' she said. 'Why, of course she has! Every man I know, half your acquaintances, have had the privilege of travelling with me across the world. When one of your trusted members goes off on a mysterious holiday, you can always in future say to yourself, "He has paired with Penelope!"'

He looked at her, perplexed, a little suspicious, but he was utterly disarmed by her next words. 'David?'—she spoke softly—'how can you be so foolish? I have never, never, never made such a proposal to any one but you! Now that your mind is set at rest, now that you know you will be a unique instance'—she could not keep the laughter out of her voice—'will you consent to honour me with your company? It could all be done in a fortnight.'

'No.' He spoke with an effort, and hesitated perceptibly. But again he said, 'No. I can't get away now—'tis impossible. Perhaps later—at Easter.'

But Mrs. Robinson had turned away. Mechanically she tore a paper spill into small pieces. 'At Easter,' she said with a complete change of tone, 'I shall be in Paris, and every soul we know will be there, too, and I certainly shall not want you.'

'Well, now I must be going.' He spoke rather heavily, and, as she still held her head averted, he added hurriedly, in a low tone, 'You know how gladly I would come if I could.'

'I know,' she said sharply, 'how easily you could come if you would! But never mind, I am quite used to be alone—with Motey.'

In spite of her anger and disappointment, she was loth to let him go. Together they walked through the sombre, old-fashioned hall, of which the walls were hung with engravings of men who had been her father's early contemporaries and friends, and to which she had ever been unwilling to make the slightest alteration. Every lozenge of the black and white marble floor recalled her singularly happy, eager childhood, and Mrs. Robinson would have missed the ugliest of the frock-coated philanthropists and statesmen who looked at her so gravely from their tarnished frames.

She went with him through into the small glazed vestibule which gave access to the square. Herself she opened the mahogany door, and looked out, shivering, into the foggy darkness which lay beyond.

Then came a murmured word or two—a pause—and Winfrith was gone, shutting the door as he went, leaving her alone.

As Mrs. Robinson was again crossing the hall she suddenly stayed her steps, pushed her hair off her forehead with a gesture familiar to her when perplexed, and pressed her cold hands against her face, now red with one of her rare, painful blushes.

She saw, as in a vision, a strange little scene. In her ears echoed fragments of a conversation, so amazing, so unlikely to have taken place, that she wondered whether the words could have been really uttered.

A man, whose tall, thick-set, and rather ungainly figure she knew familiarly well, seemed to be standing close to a tall, slight woman, with whose appearance Penelope felt herself to be at once less and more intimate. She doubted her knowledge of the voice which uttered the curious, ill-sounding words: 'You may kiss me if you like, David.' Not doubtful, alas! her recognition of the quick, hoarse accents in which had come the man's answer: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!'

Could such a scene have ever taken place? Could such an invitation have been made—and refused?

Mrs. Robinson walked on slowly. She went again into the library; once more she knelt down before the fire, and held out her chill hands to the blaze.

That any woman should have said, even to her oldest—ay, even to her dearest friend,'You may kiss me if you like,' was certainly unconventional, perhaps even a little absurd. But amazing, and almost incredible in such a case, would surely be the answer she still heard, so clearly uttered: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!' Then came the reflection, at once mortifying and consoling, that many would give—what?—well, anything even to unreason, to have had this same permission extended to themselves.

She tried to place herself outside—wholly outside—the abominable little scene.

Supposing a woman—the foolish woman who had acted on so strange an impulse—now came in, and telling her what had occurred, asked her advice, how would she, Penelope, make answer to such a one?