“Do you think you are an encouraging person to tell things to?” demanded Penelope, still unreconciled. “No, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to say that. It was my promise, Colin. You were so shocked at the idea of my breaking it, I thought I would sooner die. And so I tried to forget the—the other, and to like George, but I couldn’t make myself feel as I ought. I don’t want to hurt you—I know how fond you are of George—but it was the difference, the dreadful difference between the two men. I couldn’t help seeing it more and more.”
“And so you were very miserable?” She was beside him again now, with her face buried in his cushions, and his tone was tender.
“So miserable. And I have felt so wicked, Colin. It was almost a relief when you were so ill, and I couldn’t think of any one but you. When Elma came and made me go and rest, I couldn’t sleep, because the thought of George used to seize me like a terror. It was horrible to think of his coming back.”
Colin was stroking her hair, but there was a little bitterness in his voice as he said, “I seem to have been making a mistake all along. If I had guessed there was another man it would have been different; but I thought a girl could not want anything more than a kind husband, whom she might hope to help by her companionship. I knew Lady Haigh had prejudiced you against poor George——”
“No, that is not fair. I was quite willing to believe in George again on your word, but he never took the slightest trouble to show me that he cared for me. Even when I told him that before Christmas, he only made a kind of pretence, as if he knew I should have to marry him whether I liked him or not. I know I have been very wrong, Colin, but it was in listening to George at all, when I knew I didn’t care for him. It isn’t fickleness, really. I have tried hard to like him.”
“And now I must tell him that you prefer some one else, and want him to release you?”
“No, tell him that I can’t marry him.”
“That is not enough. Do you think it is a pleasant thing for me to have to confess that my sister has made a promise she cannot keep, and that I must throw myself on his mercy to set her free? And poor George himself! You may tell me I know nothing about this sort of thing, but it will be a terrible blow to him. No, it is not your fault, Pen—altogether. You should have spoken before, but I am to blame too. I will undertake to settle the matter with George, and I only trust that I may be mistaken in thinking how much he will feel it.”
“He won’t release me,” she said hopelessly. “I asked him myself.”
“Without giving any reason? Of course he thought it was merely girlish fickleness or a love of teasing.” Penelope moved her head unrepentantly. “Pen, you talk of my being unjust to you, but you are frightfully unjust to George. As if any gentleman would keep a girl bound when he knew she cared for some one else! You try to excuse yourself by making him out a blackguard.”