“You don’t understand. We should never be happy.”
“One must not think too much of happiness in this world—only of what one can do for others.”
“I know that, but still—— Colin, do you mean to tell me that if you were married you wouldn’t want your wife to be happy?”
“That is different,” said Colin, flushing. “If she was not, I should fear it was my fault; but what has George done that you should not be happy with him? He is a splendid fellow—his good temper and rough kindness often make me ashamed of myself. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I suppose not, if he thought about it,” said Penelope doubtfully. “But oh, Colin, he doesn’t know when he hurts. You think only of him, and he thinks only of himself, and no one thinks of me—except Elma. I wish I had listened to her all along!”
“If you are determined to be so uncharitable,” said Colin gravely, “you had better break your promise, and send Ferrers about his business. I could not advise you to do such a thing, but I quite allow that my conscience is not a law for yours. I see no prospect of happiness for you, certainly, while you are in your present frame of mind. I think you have met with too much attention since you came to India, Pen, and it has warped your judgment. But, as I said, don’t let my opinion influence you.”
He stood before her in his unbending rectitude, rigid and sorrowful, and Penelope gave way. She could not add alienation from Colin to her other troubles, and how could she tell him that in addition to her personal distaste for Ferrers there was against him the insuperable bar that he was the wrong man?
“I can’t but be influenced by your opinion, Colin,” she said. “And I never meant to say all this. Don’t let us refer to it again, please; I shall not break my promise.”
CHAPTER IX.
COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION.
Ferrers was very well pleased with himself. He had done his duty, which had turned out, in a most unwonted manner, to be also his pleasure, and he felt justly entitled to enjoy his Christmas holiday to the full. It amused him immensely to see Lady Haigh forced to countenance his constant presence at the fort, and his attendance on Penelope whenever she went out. On learning the state of affairs, Sir Dugald had absolutely and categorically forbidden his wife to do anything that might lead to a second rupture of the engagement. Once was enough, he said grimly; and, fume as she might, Lady Haigh judged it well to obey. It could not be expected that the fact should improve her temper, but Ferrers was in too complacent a state of mind to be affected by her sharp speeches. He did not even fear that she would succeed in prejudicing Penelope against him a second time, guessing shrewdly that after one irrepressible outburst of disgust, she would prefer to maintain silence on the subject, and in this he judged correctly. Penelope’s anxious endeavours to do as he wished flattered him pleasantly, and he reciprocated her efforts with a kindness which had something of condescension in it. “Feeble as they are,” it seemed to say, “you want to please me, and I will be pleased,” and Penelope was too much broken in spirit to resent his attitude. She was not altogether unhappy. Even in Khemistan there were at this season bright bracing days, when a gallop over the desert could not but be a joy, even though an unwelcome lover and an uncomprehending brother were riding on either side of her. If at night she dedicated a few tears to the memory of that vain dream of hers, it was only because it returned to her in spite of her strenuous efforts to bury it. There was a kind of restfulness in feeling that her fate was fixed without reference to her own desires, and she was fervently anxious to be loyal to the two young men who were both so willing for her to be absolutely happy in their way.