Most quiet need; by sun and candle-light,”
must be a rare thing, and precious as rare.
“I think I never saw such a Christmas-eve. Look, Dora, the sky is blue as June. How sharp and clear the reflection of those branches in the river. Heigho! this is a lovely place. What a difference it would have made to me if Sir William had never married, and I had been heir to Treherne Court.”
“No difference to you in yourself,” said I, stoutly. “Penelope would not have loved you one whit the more, only you would have been married a little sooner, which might have been the better for both parties.”
“Heaven knows—yes,” muttered he, in such anguish of regret, that I felt sorry for him. Then, suddenly: “Do you think your sister is tired of waiting? Would she wish the—our engagement broken?”
“Not at all. Indeed, I meant not to vex you. Penelope wishes no such thing.”
“If she did,” and he looked more vexed still, “it would be quite natural.”
“No, indeed,” I cried, in some indignation, “it would not be natural. Do you suppose we women are in such a frightful hurry to be married, that love promised and sure, such as Penelope has—or ought to have—is not sufficient to make us happy for any number of years? If you doubt it, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You don't know women; least of all such women as my sister Penelope.”
“Ay, she has been a good, faithful girl,” said he, again sighing. “Poor Penelope.”
And then he recurred to the beautiful scenery which I, feeling that extreme want of topics of conversation which always appals me in tete-â-tetes with Francis Charteris—gladly accepted. It lasted till we re-entered the house, and, not unwillingly, parted company.