“Penelope!” he cried, aghast. “You would like him to disappear, perhaps to be killed, like poor Whybrow?”
“No, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. But if he would only fall in love with some one else, and never come back here!”
“I don’t think you are at all in a right state of mind, Penelope.” Colin’s didactic instincts were roused by this heartless speech.
“Nor do I,” she answered promptly. “I have known it for a long time. The best that can be said of it is that I am forcing myself to do evil that good may come—or that you are forcing me.”
“I?” cried Colin indignantly. “You know I want nothing but your happiness.”
“You don’t think of my happiness at all. You think of me merely as a means of reclaiming George, not as a person to be considered separately.”
“I hope you are not going to adopt Lady Haigh’s jargon, Pen. It doesn’t sound nice from a young lady’s lips.”
“Do you think that what I have gone through since Christmas has been nice to feel?” she demanded hotly, then broke down and fell upon her knees by his couch in tears. “Oh, Colin, I am very miserable. I can’t bear it. Help me. Be kind as you used to be. Think of me a little, not only of George. He has come between us ever since we came to India. I can’t marry him—I can’t!”
Colin put out a shaking hand to touch hers. He had honestly thought he was doing the best both for his sister and his friend in bringing about a marriage between them, and the sudden revelation of Penelope’s state of feeling came upon him with a shock. “Don’t, Pen,” he said feebly. “I didn’t know you felt like this about it. I’ll speak to George—awful blow—poor fellow——” his voice failed, and Penelope sprang up in alarm.
“Oh, I have made you ill again! You are faint!” she cried in terror. “Oh, Colin, don’t. I will marry him—it was always to please you.”