The Heart of Penelope

Sir George Downing was back in London after an absence of twenty years from England. The circumstances which had led to his leaving his native country had been such that hecould not refer to them, even in his own mind, and even after so long an interval, withoutan inward wincing more poignant than that which could have been brought about by thetouching of any material wound. Born to the good fortune which usually attends the young Englishman of old lineage, a faircompetence and a traditional career-in his case the pleasant one of diplomacy-Downinghad himself brought all his chances to utter shipwreck. Even now, looking back with thedispassionate judgment automatically produced by the long lapse of time, and greater-ah, how much greater!-knowledge of the world, he decided that fate had used him hardly. What had really occurred was known to very few people, and these few had kept their ownand his counsel to an unusual degree. The world, or rather that kindly and indulgentsection of the world where young Downing had been regarded with liking, and even theaffection, so easily bestowed on a good-looking and good-natured youngster, said to standwell with his chiefs, took a lenient view of a case of which it knew little. The fact that a ladywas closely involved-further, that she was one of those fair strangers who in those daysplayed a far greater part in diplomacy than would now be possible-lent the requiredtouch of romance to the story. 'A Delilah brought to judgment' had been the comment ofone grim old woman, mindful that she had been compelled to meet, if not to receive, thestormy petrel whose departure from London had been too hurried to admit of the leavingof P. P. C. cards on the large circle which had entertained, and, in a less material sense, beenentertained by, her. As to her victim-only the very unkind ventured to use the word'tool'-his obliteration had been almost as sudden, almost as complete. Other men, more blamed, if not more stricken, than he had been, had elected to spend theirlives amid the ruins of their broken careers. More than one of his contemporaries hadtriumphantly lived down the memory of a more shameful record. Perhaps owing to hisyouth, he had followed his instinct-the natural instinct of a wounded creature whichcrawls away out of sight of its fellows-and now he had come back, having achieved, notonly rehabilitation, but something more-the gratitude, the substantially expressedgratitude, of the most important section of his countrymen, those to whom are confided thedestinies of an ever-increasing Empire. Even in these prosaic days an Englishman living in forced or voluntary exile sometimesachieves greater things for his country than can be so much as contemplated by the menwho, though backed by the power and prestige of the Foreign Office, are also tied by itsofficial limitations. His efforts thus being unofficial, the failure of them can be so regarded, and diplomacy can shrug its shoulders. But if they should be successful, as Downing's hadbeen, diplomacy, while pocketing the proceeds, is not so mean as to grudge a due rewar