diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-08 09:19:04 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-08 09:19:04 -0800 |
| commit | 8261ff2742470c0c6c917a76616304f400782229 (patch) | |
| tree | 97a3080156ea4b210fba603b383ba036e3c644af | |
| parent | 0d316a2a2e79b0c79c4dfa97848b5f1f4a573b9f (diff) | |
| -rw-r--r-- | 41917-0.txt | 385 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 41917-8.txt | 9273 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 41917-8.zip | bin | 175649 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 41917-h.zip | bin | 252598 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 41917.txt | 9273 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 41917.zip | bin | 175551 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/41917-8.txt | 9273 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/41917-8.zip | bin | 175649 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/41917-h.zip | bin | 252598 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/41917-h/41917-h.htm | 9277 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/41917-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 71349 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/41917.txt | 9273 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/41917.zip | bin | 175551 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/readme.htm | 13 |
14 files changed, 2 insertions, 46765 deletions
diff --git a/41917-0.txt b/41917-0.txt index 36739f4..54a1f2d 100644 --- a/41917-0.txt +++ b/41917-0.txt @@ -1,23 +1,4 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Confounding of Camelia, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Confounding of Camelia - -Author: Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Release Date: January 26, 2013 [EBook #41917] - -Language: English - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41917 *** Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was @@ -8906,366 +8887,4 @@ befere=> before {pg 274} End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Confounding of Camelia, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - -***** This file should be named 41917-8.txt or 41917-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/9/1/41917/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41917 *** diff --git a/41917-8.txt b/41917-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ee21247..0000000 --- a/41917-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9273 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Confounding of Camelia, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Confounding of Camelia - -Author: Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Release Date: January 26, 2013 [EBook #41917] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -The Confounding of -Camelia - -By -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Author of -"The Dull Miss Archinard," Etc. - -New York -Charles Scribner's Sons -1899 - -Copyright, 1899, by -Charles Scribner's Sons - -MANHATTAN PRESS -474 W. BROADWAY -NEW YORK - - -_TO - -"CHARLIE" AND "JIMMIE"_ - - - - -The Confounding of Camelia - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -When Camelia came down into the country after her second London season, -descended lightly upon the home of her forefathers, her coming -unannounced, and as much a matter of caprice as had been her long -absence, a slowly growing opinion, an opinion that had begun to form -itself during Camelia's most irresponsible girlhood, became clearly -defined, a judgment fixed and apparently irrevocable. The Patons had -always been good, quiet people; absolutely undistinguished, were it not -that the superlative quality of their tranquil excellence gave a certain -distinction. There were no black sheep in their annals, and a black -sheep gives, by contrast, a brilliancy lacking to unaccented bucolic -groupings, strikes a note of interest at any rate; but none of the Paton -sheep were even gray. They fed in pleasant, plenteous pastures, for it -was a wealthy, though not noticeably wealthy family, and perhaps a -rather sheep-like dulness, an unimaginative contentment not conducive to -adventurous strayings, accounted for the spotless fleeces. - -Their cupboards had never held a skeleton--nor so much as the bone of -one. The family portraits, none even pretending to be Sir Joshuas or -Vandycks, only presented a respectable number of generations, so that -the mellow perspective of old ancestry, remarkable at least for a -lengthy retrogression into antiquity, made no background to their -commonplace. Sir Charles, Camelia's father, was the first Paton weighted -with an individuality that entailed nonconformity, and since Sir -Charles's individuality had confused all anticipations, further -developments of the wild streak could not be unexpected. Many of the -quiet, conservative people, who had known Camelia, her father and -mother, and Patons of an earlier epoch, pronounced with emphasis that -Camelia was spoiled; there was a tenderness in the term, an implication -of might-have-beens; and other people, more bitter and perhaps more -sensitive, remarked that not her head-turning London successes, of which -big echoes had rolled down to Clievesbury, but the inherent, the no -doubt inherited defects of Miss Paton's character were responsible for -her noticeable variation from family traditions. Did not that portion of -Blankshire, which lay about the dim old village of Clievesbury, send up -to the capital every year its native offerings of maidenhood? A London -season had never induced in these well-balanced young ladies the merry -arrogance so provokingly apparent in Miss Paton. Old Mrs. Jedsley it -was, the last rector's widow, who most openly denounced Camelia, and -that, despite her long friendship for the Patons; denounced her -frivolity, her insincerity, her egotism, and her wonderful gowns--their -simplicity did not deceive Mrs. Jedsley's keen eye; the price of one -would keep the parish in flannel for a year she declared, and, no doubt, -include the school feast. Mrs. Jedsley prided herself on her impartial -faculty for seeing disagreeable truths clearly and for announcing them -unflinchingly. Her fondness for Lady Paton--"poor Lady Paton"--could not -blind or silence her. Poor Lady Paton was more than ever effaced, Mrs. -Jedsley said; one might have thought that Sir Charles had required as -much submission as a woman's life could well yield, but the daughter had -called forth further capabilities. - -"The very way in which she says 'Oh, Camelia!' is flattering to the -girl. Her mother's half-shocked admiration encourages her in the belief -that she is very naughty and very clever; and really while Camelia talks -Lady Paton looks like a hare under a bramble." - -The simile hit the mark so nicely that the alarmed retirement of Lady -Paton's attitude was pictorially apparent forthwith. And, "Ah, well!" -Mrs. Jedsley added, "What can one expect in the child of such a father! -The most gracefully selfish man who ever lived. Charles Paton would have -smiled you out of house and home, and left you to sit in the snow, while -he warmed himself at your fireplace." - -Indeed this application of the laws of heredity might have induced a -certain charitable philosophy on Camelia's behalf. The love of -adventure, of prowess, of power, had shown itself in Charles Paton; but -much had been forgiven--even admired--with a sense of breathlessness, in -a cloud-compelling younger son (his good looks had been altogether -supreme), which, when seen flaunting indecorously in the daughter, was -highly unpopular. Charles Paton at a very early age had found the family -traditions "devilish dull" (and, indeed, it could not be denied that -dull they were); he entered the army, kicked over the traces, and was -"wild" with all his might and main. Clievesbury disapproved, but at the -same time Clievesbury was dazzled. - -Surrounded by this naughty atmosphere, reverberating with racing and -betting, dare-devil big-game shooting, and the extreme fashion that is -supposed to reverse the "devilish dull" morality of tradition, Charles -Paton--like his daughter--returned to Clievesbury, and there fell most -magnanimously and becomingly in love with little Miss Fairleigh, the -eighth daughter of a country baronet--a softly pink and white -maiden--wooed and married her and settled down, after a fashion, to -carve out an army career for himself. He carved to good purpose, luck -giving him the opportunity. He carried his life as lightly and gallantly -as a flag; sought peril, and the tingling excitement of the strangest -feats. His reckless bravery won him a knighthood; his fame, his happy -good-nature, and extreme good looks, made him a hero wherever he went. -Charles Paton's yellow curls, his smile, the Apollo-like line of his -lips, were as well known as his martial exploits. - -He was vastly popular, and his little wife in the shadow by his side, -looked up, like the others, and adored where they admired. Sir Charles -liked a sunny atmosphere, and though the hearthstone flame in its steady -commonplace did not count for so much as the wider outdoor effulgence, -it was very cosy to come back to, when domesticity was a momentary -necessity. He would not have liked a change of temperature, and -tolerated the wifely worship very graciously. He was fond of her too; -she was very pretty, not clever--(an undesirable quality in a wife)--far -more of a help than a hindrance, though how much of a help he perhaps -never realized. That broad triumphal road down which the hero marched -was swept and garnished by the indefatigable wife. The dustiness and -thorniness of daily life were kept from him. Lady Paton packed and paid, -and dashed from post to pillar. She was a delicate woman who, petted and -made much of, might have allowed herself an occasional headache and a -tea-gown existence. The years in India were not easy years; through them -all she unwaveringly adored her husband, and in many phases of a varied -life showed the steely fibre so often and so unexpectedly displayed by -the most delicately inefficient looking women. - -Camelia was the fifth child; the others died, two in India and two in -England, away from the poor mother. This last one was little more than a -baby when ill-health and the death of his brother decided Sir Charles on -a return to England. Lady Paton rejoiced in the home-coming. With her -pretty baby--a girl, alas! but the estate was unentailed--and her great -and glorious husband by her side--the future seemed to open on an -unknown happiness. But Lady Paton was to know few compensations. Sir -Charles found the rôle of country gentleman very flavorless, and his -attempts to evade boredom left his wife more lonely--and too, more -conscious of loneliness, than in busier days. - -When Camelia was eight her father died. One saw then that Lady Paton was -supremely adapted to eternal mourning. As a widow, she reached a -black-encompassed repose, a broken-hearted finality of woe. Camelia was -the one reason for her life. The child had never to enforce her will, -her mother's devotion yielded to the slightest pressure. Camelia was -hardly conscious of ruling, nor the mother of being ruled. As the -stronger egoism, Camelia domineered inevitably. She was a gay, kind -child, happy in the unfettered expansion of her individuality; she -delighted in its exercise, and in all sorts of unconventional -acquirements. She read voraciously and loved travel. Lady Paton had by -no means reached the end of packing and paying days. Camelia hated -beaten tracks; the travelling must be different from other people's; she -managed in a tourist-ridden Europe to find the element of adventurous -experience. Camelia was keen on experiences. Lady Paton did not -appreciate them properly; but then Lady Paton saw life from no artistic -standpoint. She thought undiscovered Greece and Poland more trying than -the most trying places in India. The steppes depressed her; she dared -not mention wolves, but her mind dwelt dejectedly upon them. She could -hardly think of the cooking in certain out-of-the-way corners in Spain -without shuddering. But she bore all with apparent placidity, and her -helpful qualities won her daughter's approval just as they had won her -husband's. - -There was nothing rude or uncouth in Camelia's domineering spirit, it -was too happy, too spontaneous, too sure of its own right. Even after -these two years of London her severest detractors could not accuse her -of the grosser forms of vanity, nor of affectation, nor of the ugly -thing that goes by the name of "fastness." Her unerring sense of the -best possible taste made "fast" girls seem very tawdry, and her coolly -smiling eyes told them that she found them so. Even with the fact of her -serene indifference to them growing into the consciousnesses of the -people about Clievesbury, they still owned, generously, but perforce, -that she was neither strident nor slangy, nor given to any form of -posing. The change in Camelia, if change there were, was a mere -evolution. She had tasted the joys of a wide effectiveness. She was only -twenty-three, and more than once had been told that she was the only -woman in London fitted to hold a "salon," a "salon" that would be a -power social, artistic, and political. Authors talked to her about their -books, painters about their pictures; her presence at the opera was -recorded as having judicial importance; a new pianist was made if he -played at one of her musicals. She was a somebody to whom the -Clievesburyites were nobodies indeed. - -Camelia smiled at her own power. She did not think more highly of -herself, but less well of other people, for she measured at once the -comparative worth of her own attributes in a world of mediocrity. She -saw through the flattery, valued it at its proper rate, but enjoyed it, -and indulged in a little air of self-mockery that to appreciative minds -crowned her beauty irresistibly. But she was rather disappointed in -finding most people so stupid. It was difficult to hold to one's -standard in a world where the second-best passed so fluently. By those -standards Camelia saw herself very second-best; but were there then no -clever people to see it with her? She caught herself in a yawning -weariness of it all. A lazy month or so in the country appealed to her; -other motives, too, were perhaps not wanting. With a little retinue of -friends she reappeared at Clievesbury, and, by degrees, old neighbors -discovered that little Camelia had developed into a rather prickling -personality. On calling they found Lady Paton very much in the -background. Camelia seemed to make no claim, and yet she was the -important personage, and to ignore her prominence was to efface oneself -with her mother. It was thought--and hoped--that Lady Haversham, the -magnate of the county, would vanquish that complacent sweetness, the -aerial lightness of demeanor that glanced over one's head while one -spoke, and "positively" said Mrs. Jedsley "makes one feel like a cow -being looked at along with the landscape." - -But although Lady Haversham held rule in the country, in London she, -too, was a nobody, and Camelia very much the contrary. Lady Haversham -knew right well that in going to see her old friend Lady Paton, Camelia -was her objective point, and to try a fall with Camelia upon her native -heath, her intention. Lady Haversham knew that in the eyes of the -world--the world that counted--she was a mere country mouse creeping -into the radiant effulgence of the young beauty, and this unpleasant -consciousness gave her quite a drum-like sonority of manner--a fatal -manner, as she felt helplessly while she beat out her imposing phrases -beneath the clear smiling of Camelia's eyes. Lady Haversham tried in -the first place to exclude Camelia, and addressed herself with most -solicitous fondness to Lady Paton; but Camelia's silent placidity stung -her into self-betrayal. Camelia evidently cared nothing for Lady -Haversham's graciousness--or lack of it; seemed, indeed, unconscious of -the cold shoulder turned so emphatically upon her. Lady Haversham -thumped and rumbled, and knew herself worsted. - -"Manner! Unpleasant manner!" she said to Mrs. Jedsley later on in the -day, "the child has no manners at all! That takes in London nowadays, -you know. Anything in the shape of arrogant youth and prettiness is sure -of having its head turned. And as to prettiness, I should call her -curious-looking rather than pretty." And by this Mrs. Jedsley knew that -Camelia had snubbed Lady Haversham, without trying to--there was the -smart; Camelia was making no effort at all to be unpleasant, to impose -herself, but, unmistakably, she only thought of the good people about -her home as cows in the landscape. - -"I suppose she finds us all very provincial," said Mrs. Jedsley, not -averse to planting the shaft, for she had felt Lady Haversham's -graciousness to be rather rasping at times. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -On the sunny autumn day with which this story opens, Miss Paton was in -the morning room at Enthorpe Lodge, waiting for some one--a some one who -to her was not a nobody; and though her attitude hardly denoted much -anxiety, her mind was alert and very conscious of a pleasing and yet -exasperating suspense. Her friend Mrs. Fox-Darriel was with her. Miss -Paton leaned against the mantelpiece as she talked, her eyes often -swerving to the clock, but calmly, with no perceptible impatience, or -passing in a quiet glance over her hand, the falling folds of her white -dress, her friend's face and figure--figure and face equally artificial, -and perhaps affording to Miss Paton's mind a pleasing contrast to her -own distinctive elegance. - -There is in Florence a plaque by one of the della Robbia; a long -throated girl's head leans from it, serenely looking down upon the -world; a delicate head, with a clear brow, a pure cheek, a mouth of sad -enchanting loveliness; Camelia's head was like it; saint-like in -contour, but with an added air, an air of merry irresponsibility. The -outward corners of her eyes smiled into a long upward curve of shadow, -her brows above them made a wing-like line, wings hovering extended, and -a little raised. The upward tilt pervaded the corners of her mouth, a -sad mouth, yet even in repose it seemed just about to smile, and its -smile sliding to a laugh. The very moulding of her cheek and chin showed -a tender gaiety. As for coloring it might have been the coloring of a -pensive Madonna, so white was her skin, so palely gold her smooth thick -hair. She was slender too, with the long narrow hands and feet of an -Artemis, and on seeing her one thought of a maiden-goddess, of a St. -Cecilia, and, without surprise over the incongruity, of an intimately -modern young taster of life, whose look of pagan joyousness took neither -herself nor other people seriously, said "que voulez-vous," to all -blame, and gently mocked puritanical earnestness. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel was plunged into the depths of an easy-chair, a type -without hints and whispers to baffle and fascinate. She was thoroughly -conventional and not in the least perplexing. Her elaborate head, a -masterpiece of wave and coil and curl, rested against the high-chair -back, its lustre a trifle suspicious where the light caught too gold a -bronze on the sharp ripples. - -She was considered a beauty, and her steely, regular face looked at one -from every stationer's shop in London. Miss Paton's photographs were to -be procured at no stationer's, one among the many differences that -distinguished her from her friend. - -On Camelia's "coming-out" in all the dryad-like freshness of her one and -twenty years, Mrs. Fox-Darriel, smartest of the "smart," kindly -determined to "form" and "launch" her. She was very winning, and Camelia -seemed very willing. But Mrs. Fox-Darriel soon recognized that she was -being led--not leading, soon recognized that Camelia would never follow. -The first defeat was at the corsetière's visible symbol of the "forming" -process. Under Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye, Miss Paton's nymph-like slimness -was measured for stays of all sorts and descriptions; Camelia, when the -stays were done, surveyed her figure therein confined, with reflective -rather than submissive silence. - -The week after she went to Paris, and when she returned it was with a -stayless wardrobe. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was fairly quelled as Camelia swept -before her in these masterpieces of the Rue de la Paix. - -"They are not æsthetic," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel--"I own that--not a -greenery-yallery whiff about them; nor too self-conscious; but my dear, -why? Don't you like my figure?" - -Camelia turned candid eyes upon the accurate waist, the rigid curves and -right angles. "I can't say I do, Frances," she owned, wherewith Mrs. -Fox-Darriel winced a little. "I don't think it looks alive, you know," -said Miss Paton. "Of course one must know how to dress one's -nonconformity. I think I have succeeded." And Camelia went to court -looking like a glorified Romney, with hardly a whalebone about her. -Their future relationship was forecast by this declaration of -independence. The stayless protégée conferred, did not receive lustre. - -Inevitably Mrs. Fox-Darriel found herself revolving about the young -beauty--a satellite among the other satellites, and more than Camelia -herself was Mrs. Fox-Darriel impressed by Camelia's effectiveness. - -On this morning from the depth of her laziness she observed her young -friend's glances at the clock with some wondering curiosity; it was -difficult to imagine a cause for the stirring of Camelia's contemplative -quiescence under country influences, but Mrs. Fox-Darriel was quick to -see the faintest ripple of change, and to her well-sharpened acuteness -the ripple this morning was perceptible. - -"No new guests coming to-day?" she had asked, receiving a placid -negative. "And what are you going to do?" she pursued, patting the -regular outline of her fringe. - -"I thought of a ride with Mr. Merriman and Sir Harry. Do you care to -come?" - -"No, no, I have too much of Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman as it is." - -"It is dull down here, Frances. Perhaps you had best be off to Homburg. -I am bent on recuperative vegetating, you know." - -"Whom are you waiting for?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel asked, coming to the point -with a circumspection rendered rather ridiculous by the frank promptness -of Miss Paton's answer. - -"I'm waiting for Mr. Perior, Frances," and she laughed a little, -glancing at her friend with a rapid touch of ridicule, "and he is -half-an-hour late; and I want to see him very badly." - -"Mr. Perior?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel's vagueness was not affected. "One of the -vegetables, my dear? Has not the curiosity of the neighborhood exhausted -itself?" - -"Ah--this vegetable isn't curious, I fear, not a shoot shows at least. -If he is curious he will pretend not to be, and pretend very -successfully." - -"That is subtle for a vegetable. Perior, the name is familiar. Who is -this evasive person?" - -Miss Paton's serene eyes looked over her friend's head at the strip of -blue and green outside framed by the long window. She was asking herself -with an inward smile for her own perversity, whether she had not come -down into the country for the purpose of seeing the "evasive person." -She would not mind owning to it in the least. Pickles after sweets; she -anticipated the tart taste of disapproval pleasantly. - -"Who is he?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel repeated. - -"He is my oldest friend; he doesn't admire me in the least--so I am very -fond of him. I christened him 'Alceste,' and he retaliated with -'Célimène.' He is forty odd; a bachelor; he lives in a square stone -house, and taught me very nearly everything I know. My Greek is almost -as good as my skirt dancing." - -"The square-stone gentleman didn't teach you skirt-dancing, I suppose. I -begin to place him. The editor; the family friend; the misanthrope." - -"Yes, my 'Alceste.' He has reason for misanthropy. His life has been a -succession of disappointments. I am one of them, I fear." - -"Dear me, Camelia!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel sat upright, "have you ever dallied -with this provincial Diogenes?" - -Miss Paton smiled over the supposition. "His disappointments are moral, -not amorous. Why do I tell you this, I wonder?" - -"To show me that you don't care for him perhaps," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -who to tell the truth, was rather alarmed. Since she had resigned -herself to a planetary, a reflected brilliancy, her star at least must -never wane; its orbit must widen. Camelia's whole manner seemed suddenly -suspicious. She was evidently waiting for this person, pleased, -evidently, to talk of him, and though Camelia might be trusted for a -full appreciation of her future's possibilities, Mrs. Fox-Darriel was -hardly satisfied by the frankness of her "Oh! but I do care for him; he -preoccupies me." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflected for some moments on the dangers of -country-house propinquity and retrospective intimacy before saying -pleasantly-- - -"What does he look like?" - -Camelia laughed again, soothing Mrs. Fox-Darriel somewhat by the -good-humored glance which seemed to pierce with amusement the anxiety on -her behalf. - -"His eyes are thunderous; his lips pale with suppressed anger." - -"Dear me! I am really anxious to see this vial of wrath." - -"And since that is his footstep on the gravel, you shall see him -immediately," said Camelia. - -A moment after Mr. Perior was announced. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Mr. Perior was a tall man, well built, yet carrying himself with a -certain ungainliness. He had an air of eagerness reined back. His face -was at once severe and sensitive. - -He gave no notice to Mrs. Fox-Darriel, whose head twisted round to -observe his entrance, and walking up to Miss Paton he took her -hands--she had put out both her hands in welcome--and, looking at her -kindly, he said-- - -"Well, Célimène." - -"Well, Alceste." - -The smile that made of Camelia's face a changing loveliness seemed to -come and go, and come again while she looked at him, as a butterfly's -wings fold and open while it rests upon a flower. She rarely laughed -outright, but her face in gravity was unfamiliar; one could hardly -imagine it without the shifting charm. - -"You might have come before," she said--her hands in his, "and I -expected you." - -"I was away until yesterday." - -"You will come often now." - -"Yes, I will." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye--a none too friendly eye--travelled meanwhile up -and down the "vial of wrath." Clever, eccentric, he had evidently made -an impression upon the not easily impressed Camelia, and his -clean-shaved face, and the rough gray hair that gave his head a look of -shaggy heaviness, seemed to express both qualities significantly. - -"Did you ride over?" Camelia asked. "No? Hot for walking, isn't it? -Frances, my friend Mr. Perior." - -"You live near here, Mr. Perior?" said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, glancing at his -boots, which were peculiarly solid and very dusty. - -"Only five miles away," he said. Mr. Perior's very boots partook of -their wearer's expression of uningratiating self-reliance. - -"We have heard of you in London too, I believe. You are editor of--what -review is it, Camelia?" - -"I was the editor of the _Friday Review_, but I've given that up." - -"He quarrelled with everybody!" Camelia put in, "but you can hear him -once a week in the leading article--dealing hatchet-blows right and -left. They don't care to keep him at closer quarters." - -Mr. Perior looked at her, smiling but making no repartee. - -"And Camelia has been telling me that you are responsible for her -Greek." - -"Is Camelia ashamed of her Greek? She needn't be. She was quite a good -scholar." - -"But Greek! For Camelia! Don't you think it jars? To bind such dusty -laurels on that head!" - -"Laurels? Camelia can't boast of the adornment--dusty or otherwise." - -"Oh! leave me a leaf or two. You are disloyal. I am glad of my Greek. -When one is so frivolous the contrast is becoming. And every twig of -knowledge is useful nowadays in a woman's motley crown, provided she -wears it like a French bonnet." - -Perior observed her laughingly--Mrs. Fox-Darriel had as yet seen no -hatchets. - -"No danger of your being taken for a blue-stocking, Camelia." - -"No, indeed! I see to that!" - -"You little hypocrite," said Perior. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eyebrows arched into her fringe. She got out of her -chair trailingly. - -"I will go into the garden. Lady Paton is there, Camelia? I think so. I -know that you have reminiscences. I am in the way." - -"You are, rather," said Perior, when she had gone out. "A very -disagreeable face that, Camelia; how do the women manage to look so hard -nowadays?" - -"Thanks. She is a dear friend." - -"I am sorry for it. I hate to see eyes touched up; it gives me the -creeps. I am sorry she is a dear friend." - -"I am afraid I shall often give you cause for sorriness." Camelia stood -by the mantelpiece, smiling most winningly. "Come, now, let us -reminisce. I saw you last in London. Why didn't you stop there longer?" - -"I had enough of London to last me for a lifetime when I lived there," -said Perior. "I do go up for a bout of concerts now and then," he added, -and looking away from her he took up a large photograph that stood on -the table beside him. "Is this the latest?" - -"How do you like it?" she asked, leaning forward to look with him. - -"It makes a very saintly little personage of you; but it doesn't do you -justice. Your Whistler portrait--the portrait of a smile--is the best -likeness you'll ever get." - -Camelia looked pleased, and yet a trifle taken aback. - -"What a nice Alceste you are this morning!" she said. "Tell me, what are -you doing with yourself down here? Growing more and more of the stoic? I -expect some day to hear that you have left the Grange and moved into a -tub. How do you get on without your pupil?" and Camelia as she stood -before him made ever so faint a little dancing step backwards and -forwards, expressive of her question's merriment. - -"I have existed--more comfortably perhaps than when I had her." - -"Now tell me, be sincere," she came close to him, her own gay steadiness -of look exemplary in the quality she recommended, "_Are_ you crunchingly -disapproving? Ready to bite me? Have you heard dreadful tales of -frivolity and worldliness?" - -"Not more than are becoming to a pretty young woman with such capacities -for enjoyment." - -"You don't disapprove then?" - -"Of what, my dear Camelia?" - -"Of my determination to enjoy myself." - -"Why should I? Why shouldn't you have your try like the rest of us? I am -not going to throw cold water on your laudable aspirations." - -Camelia still looked at him steadily, smilingly, and a little -mockingly. Their eyes at these close quarters could but show a -consciousness of familiarity that made evasions funny. Camelia's eyes -were gray, the sunlit gray of a brook--reflecting broken browns and -greens, _yeux pailletés_, as changing as her smile; and Perior's eyes, -too, were gray, but the fixed, stony gray that is altogether another -color, and they contemplated her fluctuations with an apparently -unmoved, though smiling calm. - -She laughed outright, and then Perior permitted himself a dry little -responsive laugh that left his lips unparted. - -"What are you up to, Camelia?" he asked. - -"We _do_ see through one another, don't we?" she cried joyfully. "I see -you are going to pretend not to mind anything. 'That will sting -her!--take down her conceit! I'll not flatter her by scoldings!' Eh! -Alceste?" - -"You little scamp!" he murmured, while Camelia, sitting down on the -sofa, swept her white draperies over her feet and motioned to the place -beside her. "You will not--no, you will not take me seriously." - -"If you see through me, Camelia," said Perior, taking the seat beside -her with a certain air of resignation, "you see that I am very sincere -in finding your behavior perfectly normal--not in the least surprising. -You are merely gay, and happy, and self-centred; and behaving as all -girls, who have the chance, behave," he added, putting his finger under -her chin with a paternal pat and a look of gentle ridicule. - -"Well done! That was very neat! Do you want me to show signs of -discomfiture. I won't. You know that I am quite individual, and that -for years you have thought me a selfish, hard-hearted little scoundrel." - -"Oh no; not so bad as that." - -"What have you thought, then?" she demanded. - -"I have thought that, like other girls, you can't evade that label----" - -"Oh, wretch!" Camelia interjected. - -"That, like other girls," Perior repeated with an unkind emphasis, "you -are going to try to make a 'good match.'" His face, for all its attempt -at lightness, took on a shade of irrepressible repugnance as he spoke. -"The accessories don't count for much. You may be quite individually -naughty, but in your motives I see only a very conventional conformity." - -"That's bad--bad and crude. The good match is, with me, the accessory; -therein lies my difference, and you know it. You know I am not like -other girls. You saw it in London. You saw," Camelia added, wrinkling up -her nose in a self-mockery that robbed the coming remark of fatuity, -"that I was a personage there." - -"As a noticeably pretty girl is a personage. You really are beating your -drum rather deafeningly, Camelia." - -"Yes; I'll shock you by mere noise. But, Alceste, I am not as conceited -as I seem; no, really, I am not," and with her change of tone her look -became humorously grave. "I know very well that the people who make much -of me--who think me a personage--are sillies. Still, in a world of -sillies, I am a personage. It does come round to that, you see." - -"Yes; I see." - -Camelia leaned back in her end of the little sofa, her arms folded, her -head bent in a light scrutiny of her companion's face. The warm quiet of -the summer day pervaded the peaceful room, a room with so many -associations for both of them. They had studied, read there together for -years; laughed, quarrelled, been the best of friends and the fondest of -enemies. Perior, as he looked about it, could call up a long vista of -Camelias, all gay, all attaching, all evasive, all culminating and -fulfilling themselves with an almost mathematical inevitableness, as was -now so apparent to him, in the long, slim "personage" beside him, her -eyes, as he knew, studying him, her mind amused with conjectures as to -what he really thought of her, she herself quite ready to display the -utmost sincerity in the attempt to elicit that thought. Oh no, Camelia -would keep up very few pretences with him. Perior, gazing placidly -enough at the sunlit green outside the morning-room, knew very well what -he thought of her. - -"Are you estimating the full extent of my folly," she asked presently, -"tempering your verdict by the consideration of extenuations?" - -This was so apt an exposition of his mental process that Perior smiled -rather helplessly. - -"See," she said, rising and going to the writing-table, "I'll help you -to leniency; show you some very evident extenuations." From a large -bundle of letters she selected two. "Weigh the extent of my influence, -and find it funny, if you like, as I do." - -"I wonder if you quite realize the ludicrous aspect of our -conversation," said Perior, taking a thick sheaf of paper from the first -letter. - -"Quite--quite. Only you push me to extremes. I must make you own my -importance--my individuality." - -"Ah, from Henge," said Perior, looking at the end of the letter. "He was -my fag at Eton, you know; dear old Arthur!" - -"Yes, and you quarrelled with him five years ago, about politics." - -"We didn't quarrel," said Perior, with a touch of asperity; "he was -quite big enough not to misunderstand my opposition. Must I read all -this, Camelia? It looks rather dry." - -"Well, I should like you to. He is one of the strongest men in the -government, you know." - -"Quite. He is the man for me, despite past differences of opinion. The -man for you, too, perhaps," he added, glancing sharply up at her from -the letter; "his devotion is public property, you know." - -"But my reception of his devotion isn't," laughed Camelia. - -"I am snubbed," said Perior, returning to the letter, and flushing a -little. Camelia noted the flush. Dear old Alceste! Shielding so -ineffectually, under his sharp blunt bearing, that quivering -sensitiveness. - -She put her hand through his arm, sinking down beside him, her eyes over -his shoulder following his, while he read her--certificate. Perior quite -understood the smooth making of amends. - -"Well, what do you say to that?" she asked when he had obediently read -to the very end. - -"I should say that he was a man very much in love," said Perior, folding -the letter. - -"You are subtle if you can trace an amorous influence in that letter." - -"It doesn't call for subtlety. Samson only abandons himself so -completely under amorous circumstances. I hope you are not going to -shear the poor fellow." - -"For shame," said Camelia, while Perior, looking at her reflectively, -softly slapped the palm of his hand with Arthur Henge's letter. "I am -his comrade. I help him; I am on his side, if you please, and against -the Philistines." - -"Oh, are you? And this? Ah! this is from the leader of the Philistines, -Rodrigg. Yes, I heard that Rodrigg was in the toils." Perior examined -the small, compact handwriting without much apparent curiosity. - -"That is simply nonsense. There was a time--but he soon saw the -hopelessness. He is my friend now; not that I am particularly fond of -him--the grain is rather coarse: but he is a good creature, far more -honest than he imagines, simple, after a clumsy fashion. He aims at -distinguished diplomatic complexity, I may tell you, and, I fancy, comes -to me for the necessary polishing. Read his letter." - -Perior had looked at her, still smiling, but more absently, while she -spoke. - -"Oh! Rodrigg is more cautious," he said glancing through the great man's -neatly constructed phrases. "You are not with the Philistines; he feels -that." - -"Politically no; but I have a good deal of influence with him. You see -those reviews he mentions; I went through a lot of heavy French and -Italian reading for him--sociology, industrialism--and saw the result in -his last speech." - -"Really." - -"Ah, really. Don't be sarcastic, Alceste, to me. One of those men will -probably be Prime Minister some day. You can't deny that they are -eminent men." - -"And therefore you are an eminent woman. Well, the logic isn't too lame. -I'll conclude, Camelia, that you may do quite a lot of harm in the -world." - -"You don't believe that a woman's influence in politics can be for -good?" - -"Not the influence of a woman like you--a--a _femme bibelot_." - -"Good!" cried Camelia, gently clapping her hands. - -"It is as that, you know, that these men court you. An _objet d'art_ for -their drawing-rooms." - -"You are mistaken, Alceste." - -"If I am mistaken--if they cherish ideals, they are unlucky devils." - -"No, Alceste, I am well justified in keeping my self-respect intact. It -is not for my _beaux yeux_ that I am courted--yes, yes--that wry look -isn't needed! I know in what hideously bad taste I am talking, but one -can't use artistic methods with you. As I say, I have my finger in any -number of pies besides the pie political. You should see the respect in -which I am held by the writers and painters. And I _have_ good taste; I -know that. You can't deny it, since you helped it to grow. What other -woman in London has a collection to equal mine? Dégas--Outamaro--Oh, -Alceste, don't look so funnily! Do you really imagine that I am not -conscious of the baldness of my exposition? But what is the good of -putting on a wig for you!" - -"And all this to convince me----" - -"Yes, to convince you." - -"Of what, pray?" - -"That I am not a little insignificance to be passed by with indulgence." - -"Should you prefer severity?" and Perior, conscious that she had -succeeded in "drawing" him, could not repress "You are an outrageous -little egotist, Camelia." - -Camelia, her hands clasped over her knee, contemplated him with more -gravity than he had expected. - -"No," she demurred, "selfish, but not egotistic. There is a difference, -isn't there? Egotism is subjective, selfishness objective. I wonder," -she added, "what you _do_ think of me. Not that I care--much! Am I not -frank? I must care, since I am shuffling about before you; getting a -cuffing for my pains!" She rose suddenly, laughing, not in the least -bitterly, and walked to the window. - -"Mamma and Mary," she announced. "Did Frances evade them? They disconcert -her. Frances, you know, goes in for knowingness--cleverness--the modern -vice. Don't you hate clever people? Frances doesn't dare talk epigrams -to me; I can't stand it. You saw a lot of Mamma and Mary last winter, -didn't you? Took Mary out riding. Now, come here, Mr. Perior, and tell -me _how_ she looked on horseback." - -Camelia was smiling irrepressibly as he joined her, and they watched the -approach of the two ladies across the lawn. Certainly the angular, -thick-set form of the younger gave no hint of pleasing possibilities -under circumstances so trying as the equestrian. - -"_I_ never could wheedle Mary into the saddle. I should like to see her -on horseback immensely." Camelia's eyes twinkled: "A sort of cowering -desperation, wasn't it?" - -"No, she rode rather nicely," said Perior concisely. There was something -rather brutal in Camelia's comments as she stood there with such -rhythmic loveliness of pose and contour. - -"I wish Mary did not look so much like a milk pudding," she went on; "a -raisinless milk pudding--so sane, so formless, so uneventful." - -Perior did not smile. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Lady Paton was a thin, graceful woman, her slenderness emphasized, like -her daughter's, by a very small head. Since her husband's death she had -worn black, and even now it seemed to invade her delicate whiteness -rather overwhelmingly, rising closely about her throat, falling over her -fragile hands, enfolding her with a soft solemnity. Her white hair was -smoothed thickly under the transparent cambrics of an exquisite cap, and -framed the sweetness of a faded face, in profile like Camelia's. -Camelia's eyes were her father's, and her smile; Lady Paton's eyes were -round like a child's, and her smile half-frightened, half-explanatory. -With all the gentlewoman's mild dignity, her look was timid, as though -it besought indulgence for a lifelong sense of insignificance, a look -that aroused in Perior his grimmest scorn for a world in which such -flower-like moral loveliness is inevitably victimized by garish -egotisms. He had known Sir Charles, a charming companion, a good -fellow--in the somewhat widely licensed sense the term implies, but not -fit to untie his wife's shoe-strings when it came to a comparison. -Camelia now had stepped upon her father's undeserved pedestal, and -Perior, watching the new epoch of incense-burning, had smiled more and -more grimly. He was devoted to Lady Paton, and had been so since the -days when a raw, sensitive, high-strung youth, fresh from college, her -Madonna head had roused in him poetical idealizations, and her husband's -gay indifference a chafing resentment. With years he had grown rather -fond of Sir Charles, could make allowances for him, and, too, had no -longer idealized Lady Paton; but though he now saw her, sweet but dull, -lovely in unselfishness, yet weak in all except a submission noble in -its own way, the fragrant charm still stirred him with an almost -paternal tenderness, a pity, even a reverence. She was too obtuse to see -her own cramped and imprisoned life, but he saw it, and her -unconsciousness was part of the pathos. He was very fond of her, and she -of him, so that with all his protective partisanship there was, too, a -willing filial deference. - -This little corner of appreciation and affection was the softest spot in -Perior's character. He took both her hands now and said, looking at her -with a whimsical gentleness, "So you are back at last! And glad to be -back, too, are you not?" - -"Oh, very. And Camelia seems to like it so much," she smiled round at -her daughter; "she was beginning to look quite fagged; already the -country has done her good." - -Camelia smiled back with a humoring lightness. - -Mary Fairleigh stood quietly behind her aunt. Her expressionless face -certainly did suggest a lacteal dulness. The Fairleighs were not -responsible for her short nose and clumsily-cut mouth. Impecunious -Maurice Fairleigh, third son, had "done for himself" when he married his -younger sisters' nursery governess. Maurice had no money--and not many -brains, and poor Miss Hockey had neither brains nor beauty, nor family -nor money. Her flaxen hair and vacant blue eyes captured Maurice's -vagrant fancy during a lazy summer. He was very young, that fact was the -only excuse possible; but, as the Fairleighs said, there was no -accounting for Maurice's folly. Maurice himself, after a very little -time, could no longer account for it. He was a good-natured fellow, and -his wonder at himself did not become too painfully apparent to his wife; -but the short years of their married life were by no means a success. -Maurice was very delicate, and the struggle to make both ends meet was -but grudgingly aided by disapproving relatives. Lady Paton, only, was -sympathetic, practically sympathetic too; but during the greater part of -Maurice's matrimonial venture she was in India, and, as the other -Fairleighs said, Angelica never had the wit to resent anything. Maurice -died at Davos-Platz, and Mrs. Fairleigh, when her daughter was sixteen, -departed her seemingly very pointless existence. Her last years had been -sweetened by Lady Paton's devoted kindness, and she left Mary to this -guardian angel. Since that time Mary had lived at Enthorpe Lodge; a -grave, good little girl, solemnly submissive to her cousin, painstaking -in dutiful gratitude toward her aunt. Camelia had always found this -gratitude irritating, and Mary's manner--as of one on whom Providence -had laid the patiently-borne burden of obscurity and dependence, very -vexing. Camelia intended as little as her mother to recognize a -difference, and did not realize that her own dominant characteristics -necessitated Mary's non-resistance. - -She laughed at Mary's gravity, tried to tease her out of her stolid -acceptance of the rôle of poor relation, but, inevitably, she came to -treat Mary with the tolerant carelessness she seemed only to expect. As -for Lady Paton, she never surmised about Mary, nor analyzed her. Lady -Paton accepted people and things as they appeared, and without -conjecture. Mary was a dear, good girl. It was indeed impossible that -her uninteresting virtues should arouse enthusiasm, and her aunt's -appreciation from its very fulness was calmly unemotional. - -Lady Paton having become in these latter days a sort of decorative -adjunct to her daughter--for Camelia used her mother to the very best -advantage,--lace caps, sweetness and all,--it was upon Mary that the -duller duties fell. Mary managed bills and servants, and household -matters; wrote little notes, ran little errands, chose embroidery silks, -and sent for the books to Mudie's,--the tender books with happy -matrimonial endings that Lady Paton liked. She read these books aloud, -and talked to her aunt--as Camelia never did, never could. Lady Paton -listened to her daughter, but she and Mary talked about her. Mary's -conversation required no adjustment of amazed faculties, no quelling of -old-fashioned alarms, nor acceptance of a wondering incompetence. - -The little prattle of gardening and gowns, and Camelia's doings went on -happily, unless hushed in an absorbed observance of that young heroine -herself,--flinging pretty missiles of speech far above the heads of her -mother and cousin. - -Both dull dears; such was Camelia's realistic inner comment, but Mary -was an earthenware dear, and Mamma translucent porcelain. Camelia, who -appreciated and loved all dainty perfection, appreciated and loved her -mother, with much the same love that she would have given a slender -white vase of priceless ware, displayed on a stand of honor in her -knowingly grouped drawing-room. She was a distinctly creditable and -decorative Mamma. As for Mary, she was not decorative; a harmless, -necessary hot water jug. - -Camelia, now, as her mother spoke to Perior, went to her side and gave -the muslin that fell over her shoulder a little touch and settling. - -"You have had a nice walk round the garden?" she said, smiling, "your -cheek is just the pink of a sweet-pea." - -"And how are you, Mary?" Perior asked, turning to Miss Fairleigh. "You -might have more color I think." - -"Mary has a headache," said Lady Paton, the fluttering smile with which -she had received her daughter's commendation fading, "I think she often -has them and says nothing." - -"You must play tennis with the Mappuck girls. You need more exercise," -Perior continued. "They are at it vigorously from morning till night." - -"Oh--really," Mary protested, "it is only Aunt Angelica's kindness--I am -quite well." - -"And no one must dare be otherwise in this house," Camelia added. "Go -and play tennis at once, Mary. I don't approve of headaches." Mary -smiled a modest, decorous little smile. - -"Nor do I," said Perior, and then as Lady Paton had taken a chair near -her work-table, he sat down beside her, while Mary sank from her -temporary prominence, and, near the window, took up some sewing. Camelia -remained near her, looking out at the smooth green stretches of the -lawn, lending half an ear to the talk behind her, but keeping up at the -same time a kindly little flow of question and reply with her cousin. -How were the flowers getting on? and the hay making? Had she seen that -morning her poor village people? The questions were rather perfunctory; -and while she spoke Camelia aided the faltering march of a burnished -little beetle up the window, and helped him out on to the fragrant -branch of syringa that brushed the pane. - -"I hear that you are embarked on a season of parties," said Perior to -Lady Paton. - -"Yes, Camelia has so many friends. She thought she would like it here if -she could keep it gay with people." - -"You will like it too. You were lonely last winter." - -"Ah, Camelia was not here; but I was not lonely, Michael; you were too -kind for that; and I had Mary. You don't think Camelia looks thin, -Michael?" She had always called the family friend by his Christian name. -Perior had Irish ancestry. "She has been doing so much all spring--all -winter too; I can't understand how a delicate girl can press so many -things into her life--and studying with it too; she must keep up with -everything." - -"Ahead of everything," Perior smiled. - -"Yes, she is really so intellectual, Michael. You don't think she looks -badly?" - -"She is as pretty a little pagan as ever," said Perior, glancing at Miss -Paton. - -"A pagan!" Lady Paton looked rather alarmed. "You mean it, Michael? I -have been troubled, but Camelia comes to church with me. It is you who -are the pagan, Michael," she added, finding the gentle retort with -evident relief. - -"Oh, I wasn't speaking literally. I have no doubt that Camelia is a -staunch church-woman," he smiled to himself. Camelia was a brazen little -conformist, when conformity was of service. - -"No, not that. I don't quite know. I have heard her talk of religion, -with Mr. Ballenden, who writes those books, you know, scientific, -atheistic books, and Camelia seemed quite to overpower him; the -illusions of science, the claims of authority." Lady Paton spoke with -some little vagueness. "I did not quite follow it all; but he became -very much excited. Controversial religion does not interest me, it -confuses me. It is the inner change of heart, Michael," she added with a -mild glance of affection, "the reliance on the higher will that guides -us, that has revealed itself to us." - -Perior looked somewhat gloomily on the ground. The thought of Lady -Paton's religion, and Camelia's deft juggling with negatives, jarred -upon him. - -"You don't agree with me, Michael?" Lady Paton asked timidly. - -"Of course I do," he said, looking up at her, "that is the only -definition needful. We may interpret differently, from different points -of view." - -"You would find, I think, greater peace in mine, Michael. May you come -to it in time!" - -They were both silent for a moment, and both looked presently at -Camelia. - -"She is so much admired, and so unspoiled by it. So frank, so -unaffected. She is found so clever." - -"So she tells me," Perior could not repress. - -"And so humorous," Lady Paton added, taking his smile in its kindest -sense, "she says the most amusing things." - -"Mr. Perior," said Camelia, turning rather abruptly, "if Mamma is -singing my praises I give you leave to repress her sternly." She joined -them, standing behind Lady Paton's chair, and, over her head, looking at -Perior. "I know how trying such praises are, heard outside the family -circle." - -"In which I hope I may include myself. I enjoy Lady Paton's -interpretation." - -"Mamma would not believe the biting intention of that speech. Cuff! -cuff! cuff! _Il me fait des misères_, Mamma!" - -Lady Paton's smile went from one to the other. - -"You have always teased Michael, Camelia, and he has always been so -patient with you." - -"Every one is patient with me, because I am a good girl. 'Be good, sweet -maid--' I believe in a moral universe," and Camelia over her mother's -head wrinkled up her nose roguishly as she made the edifying statement. -"Mamma," she added, "where is my flock this morning? I fancied that you -were shepherding some of them. I want to trot them out before Mr. -Perior. I want to study his expression as Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman -present themselves. Sir Harry the mere superlative of Mr. Merriman's -fatuity. I imagine that by some biological adaptation of function they -use their brains for digestive purposes, since I am sure they never -think with them." - -Lady Paton took refuge from a painful recognition of the inhospitable -nature of these remarks in a vague smile. Lady Paton had a faculty for -misunderstanding when either misunderstanding or disapproval was -necessary. If Camelia hoped by her brisk personalities to shock her -former preceptor she failed signally, for laughing appreciatively he -asked, "And for what purpose were these latest sports of evolution -imported?" - -"Purpose! Could one pin a purpose to such aimless beings? They came -because I like to have beautiful things about me, and, in their way, -they are beautiful. Then, too, with a plant-like persistency they turn -to the sun, and I do not flatter myself in owning that I am their sun. -It would have been cruel to deny them the opportunity of basking." - -"The hunting, dancing, yachting species, I suppose." - -"Yes; their lives comprise a few more movements, but very few. It is a -mere sort of rhythmic necessity." - -Perior laughed again, and his eyes met hers, as she leaned above her -mother's chair, in quite a twinkling mood. - -Mary, near the window, paused in her stitching to look at them both with -a seemingly bovine contemplation. - -"And who are your other specimens?" asked Perior, less conscious -perhaps than was Camelia of the purely dual nature of the conversation. -She enjoyed this little display before him, and her enjoyment was -emphasized by the presence of two alien listeners, it defined so well -the fundamental intellectual sympathy. - -Her smile rested on him as she replied, "You saw Mrs. Fox-Darriel." - -"Yes." - -"My only other guest just now is Gwendolen Holt, in appearance a -youthful replica of Mrs. Fox-Darriel, but in character very embryotic." - -"A very pretty girl," said Lady Paton, finding at last her little -foothold. - -"A spice of ugliness--just a something to jar the insignificant -regularity of her face, would make her charming. As it is, her -prettiness is a bore. You will stay to lunch, Alceste, and see these -people?" - -"I can't say that you have made me anxious to see them." - -"Have you no taste for sociology?" - -"You will stay and see _us_, however, will you not?" said Lady Paton, -advancing now in happy security. "I want a long talk with you." - -"Then I stay." - -"His majesty stays!" Camelia murmured. - -"How are the tenants getting on?" asked Lady Paton, taking from the -table a soft mass of white wool, and beginning to knit. She was one of -those women whose hands are always uselessly and prettily busy. - -"Mary and I drove past the cottages yesterday--I wish you had come, -dear--you would have liked to see them. So pretty they are, among their -orchards, with such beautiful gardens full of flowers." - -"Yes, don't they look well?" said Perior, much pleased. "I am trying to -get the people to devote themselves to fruit and flower growing. It pays -well." - -"And do the cottages themselves pay?" Camelia inquired mischievously. "I -hear that, asking the ridiculous rents you do, you need never expect to -make the smallest profit--or even get back the capital expended." - -"Thank Heaven the money-making epoch of my life is over," said Perior, -folding his arms and looking at her rather defiantly. - -"But what blasphemy against political economy! Cottages that don't pay! -It's very immoral, Alceste. It is feminine. You are pauperizing your -tenants." - -"I don't at all disbelieve that a little infusion of femininity into -political economy would be a very good thing. Besides, the cottages will -pay in the end." - -"The rents are lower than the lowest in the village. Lord Haversham was -telling me about it yesterday." - -"Oh, Haversham!" laughed Perior. - -"He was very plaintive. Said that times were hard enough for landlords -as it was, without your charitable visionaries and your socialistic -theories." - -"The two accusations don't fit; but of the two I prefer the latter." - -"It is a mere egotistic diversion then?" - -"Yes, a purely scientific experiment." - -"And your tenants have bath-tubs, I hear. Do they use them with Pears' -soap every morning?" - -"I flatter myself that they are fairly clean. That alone is an -interesting experiment. Dirt, I firmly believe to be the root of all -evil." - -"Ah, we come down to the bed-rock of ethics at last, don't we? Well, how -is the laboratory getting on? Have you found traces of original sin in -protoplasm?" - -"I think I have spotted perverse tendencies," Perior smiled. - -"What a Calvinist you are!" - -"Michael a Calvinist, my dear child!" Lady Paton looked up from her -knitting in amazement. - -"An illogical Calvinist. Instead of burning sinners he washes them! and -I've no doubt that to some of them the latter form of purification is as -disagreeable as the former. He puts them into model cottages, with -Morris wall-papers." - -"I beg your pardon. No Morris wall-papers." - -"Camelia, my dear, how extravagantly you talk," said Lady Paton, her -smile reflecting happily Perior's good-humor. Michael did not mind the -teasing--liked it perhaps; and though she did not understand she smiled. -Camelia sank down to a low chair beside her mother's, and taking her -mother's hand she held it up solemnly, saying, "Mamma, Mr. Perior is a -tissue of inconsistencies. He despises humanity; and he works for it -like a nigger." - -"You are an impressionist, Camelia. Don't lay on your primaries so -glaringly." - -"Confess that you are a philanthropist, though an unwilling one." - -"I confess nothing," said Perior, looking across the room at Mary with a -smile that seemed to invite her participation in his well-borne baiting. - -"Is not your life one long effort to help humanity--not _la sainte -canaille_ with you--but, and hence your inconsistency, the gross -_canaille_, the dull, treacherous, diabolical _canaille_?" - -"Not to hurt it, rather; and as one is oneself gross, dull, treacherous, -and diabolical, that may well engage one's energies. There would be less -cant and more comfort in the world if we would merely avoid treading -upon our neighbor's corns. Let us cultivate the negative virtues. What -do you say, Mary? You have a right to a strong opinion, since I never -saw you hurt anybody." - -Mary, thus unexpectedly appealed to, started, grew red, and laughed an -embarrassed and apprehensive laugh. Camelia cast a glance upon the long -strip of rather foolish embroidery lengthening under her cousin's -fingers. - -"My philosophy!" she declared. "People who make a row about things are -such bores." - -Lady Paton, still smiling, quite at sea, but conscious of a pleasant -atmosphere, bent her eyes upon an intricate turn in the futile garment -upon which she was engaged. - -"Do you avoid your neighbor's corns, my young lady?" Perior inquired. - -"I never think of such unpleasantnesses," Camelia replied lightly. "As I -haven't any corns myself, I proceed upon the supposition that other -people enjoy my immunity. If they don't, why, that is their own -fault--let them cut them and give up tight boots." - -Perior, looking on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his hands -clasped, laughed again. - -"Little pagan!" he said. - -"Frank, healthy paganism, an excellent thing. I don't own to it, mind; -but is not the soul in our modern sense a disease of the body?" - -"Oh, Camelia!" said Lady Paton, looking up with eyes rounded. Camelia's -smile reassured her somewhat, and she glanced for its confirmation at -Perior. - -Mary Fairleigh, in her distant seat, carefully drew her silk about the -contour of an alarming flower. - -"Never mind, Lady Paton, she doesn't shock me at all," said Perior. - -"I am glad of that, Michael; she will make herself misunderstood. -Camelia dear, it is one o'clock. The others must be in the drawing-room. -Shall we go there?" - -"Willingly, Mamma. I'm very hungry. Did you order a _good_ lunch, Mary?" - -"I hope you will like it." Mary paused in the act of neatly rolling up -her work. "Fowls, asparagus----" - -"_Don't_," Camelia interposed in mock horror; "the nicest part of a meal -is unexpectedness!" She laughed at her cousin; but Mary, securing her -work with a pin, murmured solemnly, "I am so sorry." - -"Mary, you are as silly as your own fowls!" cried Camelia; she gave her -cousin's flaxen head a pat, and then, as Lady Paton had taken Perior's -arm and led the way, she drew herself up in a mimicry of their stately -progress, and followed them demurely. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Michael Perior was an unfortunate man; unfortunate in his temperament, -which was enthusiastic, sensitive, and idealistic; unfortunate in the -circumstances with which that temperament found itself called upon to do -battle. To a man who had expected less of life the circumstances might -have been more amenable and far more endurable, but Perior had the -ill-luck to be born with an unmanageable instinct for the best, with an -untamable scorn for the second-best. It is not necessary to go into the -details of a life which had not spared these qualities nor improved -while disillusionizing him. Two blinding buffets met him at its -threshold. His father was ruined in a lawsuit, which by every ethical -standard he should have won, and Perior was in consequence jilted by the -girl whom he had enshrined in his heart as the perfect star of his -existence. At twenty-three he found himself under a starless sky, with a -heart stupefied at its own emptiness, and in a world of thieves and -murderers--for his father died under the shock of disaster, and Perior -did not pick his phrases. - -The abject common-sense of his ex-_fiancée_ could be borne with perhaps -more philosophy. He accepted the starlessness as in the nature of -things, and his own brief belief in stars as typifying the ignorance of -youth; but his father's death--the crushing out of life rather than its -departure--was tragedy, and it was with the sense of inevitable and -irretrievable tragedy that he began life. He had been thought clever at -Oxford, and had considered himself destined for Parliament. With a huge -load of debts upon his back, and an unresigned mother to support, all -thoughts of the career for which he had fitted himself were out of the -question. He turned to its only equivalent, and took up journalism. He -was much in earnest; he believed in a right and in a wrong, and was -intolerant of expediency. In a world of interested motives he bore -himself with unflinching disapproval. He would limit his freedom by no -party partiality, and in the laxity of public life his keen -individuality made itself felt like a knife cutting through cheese. At -the end of years of very bitter struggle he found himself in a position -of some eminence, editor of a courteous, caustic review, whose chief -characteristics were a stubborn isolation and a telling of truths that -made both friends and foes blink. No half-measures, no half-truths. -Conformity with the faintest taint upon it was intolerable to him. His -idealism had not evaporated in the storm and stress, it had condensed, -rather, into a steely resistance to ugly reality. Insincerity, -injustice, meanness, hurt him as badly in middle-age as they had at -twenty-five, but he now expected them, and by a stoical presage braced -himself against disappointment. The stoicism was only a rather brittle -crust, hastily improvised by Nature's kindly adaptation; he was soured, -but his heart was still soft; he expected nothing, and yet he was hurt -by everything. It was now some time since he had promised himself that -Camelia should never hurt him. Camelia had occupied his thoughts for a -good many years. The pretty child, with her face of subdued saint-like -curves, and her smile of frank unsaintliness, had seemed to claim him -from the very first home-coming. By a final irony of fate poor Mrs. -Perior died only a few months before the Grange was freed from its last -encumbrances. She had not made life easier for her son. She had always -refused to believe in the necessity for letting the Grange, had always -resented the lodgings in South Kensington, had always considered herself -injured, and had not been chary in demonstrations of injury. Perior had -looked forward with pride to the time when he should reinstate her in -her own home, and her death made a mockery of his own home-coming. - -It was in Camelia's early girlhood that ill-health, overwork, and a -violent row with the powers of political darkness, made this home-coming -definite. The battered idealist sought rather sulkily a retreat from the -intolerable contemplation of a wider world's misdeeds. Young Camelia, so -different from her dully worthy ancestors, so different even from her -dashing but not intellectual papa, charmed him as the woods and flowers -of spring charm eyes weary with city winter. She was too young to be -taken seriously; that was a lifted weight, in the first place. The -joyous receptivity of her mind afforded to his scholarly instincts just -the foothold he required to excuse to himself an indulgent and -thoughtless affection. As friend and adviser of Lady Paton, he drifted -easily into a paternal attitude towards the fatherless Camelia; he was -over twenty years her senior, and her eagerness for knowledge appealed -to him. As she had said, he taught her nearly everything she knew; she -rebelled against other methods, and Perior himself would have felt -robbed had governess or tutor supplanted him. During those quiet and -pleasant years he felt that on a melancholy walk he had picked a handful -of primroses--their pale young gold irradiated his solitude. He did not -say to himself that Camelia would never disappoint him, nor own that the -handful of primroses meant much in his life, but hopefulness seemed to -emanate from her, and insensibly he lived in the sunny impression. Her -very defects were charming, the mere superfluity of exuberant vitality, -and with this conviction he observed her happy, youthful selfishness as -one observes a kitten's antics, and treated her claims for dominion with -gentle ridicule. Camelia laughed with him at herself, and this gave them -an irresistible sense of companionship; consoling too, since no defect -so humorously recognized could be deep; his primroses still kept their -dew. But as she grew older, Perior began to realize uncomfortably that -Camelia could laugh at the deepest defect, recognize it, analyze it, and -stick to it--a deft combination. This faculty for firm sticking despite -obstacles gave the paternal Perior food for reflection, and, as he -reflected, he felt with a sudden little turn of terror that he was in a -fair way to take Camelia seriously after all. His terror struck him as -very cowardly, a shrinking from responsibilities--his, of a truth, to a -certain extent. That lightly assumed guardianship meant much in her -life. Had he failed in some essential? Was she not the product of her -training? He owned with a sigh that the note of true authority it had -not been his right to emphasize; yet in defending himself from the -probable pain of a deep affection, had he not weakened his claim to a -moral influence? And had he defended himself? Perior turned from the -question. Camelia respected him, he knew that; and yet his very -frankness with her--he, too, had laughed at himself for her benefit--had -given her a power over him. He was not at all afraid of seeming -priggish, but he was shy before certain contingencies; he knew that he -should blunder if he preached, and that Camelia would force him to smile -at the blunder and to blur the sermon. - -At the age of eighteen he caught her more than once managing, -manipulating the plastic elements about her with a skill approaching -deceit. The very absence of a necessity for deceit alarmed him; she had -so few temptations, there was no way of testing her, yet, that once or -twice, when circumstances by a little twist or turn opposed her, he had -caught her--too dexterous. Perior had not controlled himself, nor taken -the advantage he might have seized. He had immediately lost his balance, -exaggerated what Camelia regarded as a quite permissible and pretty -compromise into a fault worthy of biting denunciation, and in so doing -had given her a point of vantage from which she laughed--not even -angrily. Perior for many years had thought most goodness negative, and -preferred to see it tested before admiring, but he had forgotten to -apply his philosophy in this case. He lost his temper, and Camelia kept -hers, kept hers to the extent of soothing him by a smiling confession of -her misdoing, an affectionate declaration that she was wrong and he -quite right--"But don't be cross, dear Mr. Perior." What was he to do? -She did not care if she were wrong. Perior thought he would be wiser in -the future; he would give Camelia no further opportunity for facile -confession; but though the first sting of unexpected disappointment was -over, many unmerited aches were still reserved to him--all the more -painful from the fact that he had never intended to ache for Camelia. -Mary Fairleigh had come to the Patons when Camelia was sixteen, and -Camelia's treatment of her cousin was another and more constant cause -for growing discontent. Perior could not define the discomfort with -which he watched Camelia's indifferent kindness, or, worse still, an -unkindness as unintentional. He assumed by degrees an attitude of -compensatory gentleness towards poor Mary; it held, however, no sting -for Camelia; she seemed to watch his doing of the things she left undone -very complacently. It was by degrees that his dismay took refuge in a -manner of unshocked indifference which he hoped would prove salutary. It -did seem to irk and perplex her somewhat, and he had the consolation of -thinking that many of her perversities might be intentionally engineered -for his benefit. Perior, too, had learned to smile, and Camelia was -baffled. He would not scold her. After all, he counted for very little, -so Camelia assured herself as she entered upon her London life, and he -should see that she could be indifferent with far more effectiveness. -Perior saw little of her during those years. The little he saw on his -rare visits to London confirmed his grim conviction. She was a pretty, -clever, foolish, worthless creature; her frankness threw no dust into -his eyes. She might own herself a self-seeking worldling, and she did -not overshoot the mark. Many were the corns she danced over in her quest -of power and happiness. Her sincerity was insincere--it adapted itself -too cleverly. Perior had seen her flatter, when only he and she knew -that she was flattering; had seen her make her effect by pliancy or by -resistance; had watched her smile light for those who could serve her, -or stiffen to a sweet blankness for the incompetent. He recognized in -her his own scorn for the world without his ideal, which would not -permit him to stoop and use it; but, so Perior thought, Camelia knew no -ideals; reality did not hurt her--she met it with its own weapons. One -did not conquer an immoral world by moral methods; and if one lived in -it, not to conquer it would be intolerable. The scorn no doubt excused -her to herself, but it hedged her round with a sort of stupidity from -which Perior's quick recognition of moral beauty preserved him. Ethical -worth had come to be everything to him. Camelia simply did not see it. -He himself had armed her with that scientific impartiality before which -he felt himself rather helpless, before which good and bad resolved -themselves into very evasive elements. She told him that her science was -more logical than his, it had made her charitable to the whole world, -herself included, whereas he was hard on the world and hard on himself. -His very kindness lacked grace, while her unkindness wore a flower-like -color. He was sorry for people, not fond of them--but Camelia was -neither fond nor sorry. They were shadows woven into the web of her -experience, her business was to make that experience pleasant, to see it -beautifully. It was this love of beauty--beauty in the pagan sense--that -baffled him in her. She had put appreciation and an exquisite good taste -in the place of morality. Life to her was a game, to him a tragic, -insistent conundrum. These, at least, were Perior's reluctant -conclusions. - -When he walked away from Enthorpe Lodge his mind was to a certain extent -already reverting to the daily preoccupations of cottages, perverse -protoplasm, and his weekly article for the _Friday Review;_ but also -dwelling with the dual peculiarity observable in our meditations, upon -the people he had just left, Lady Paton, Mary, Camelia's guests, and -Camelia herself. It seemed really unnecessary to remind himself of that -promise he had made himself some time ago; Camelia could not disappoint -him; he knew just what to expect from her; she could not hurt him. Yet -the promise had been made at a time when she was hurting him very badly, -and even now, while he recalled it with some vehemence, he was feeling a -most illogical smart. - -The country road wound among dusty hedges and through the little -village. About half a mile beyond it lay a remnant of the Perior estate, -once large, second only in importance to the Haversham's, now sadly -shrunken and dislocated. By degrees, and during years of only meagre -competence, he had built upon this pretty bit of land a cluster of -cottages, his playthings; to make them unnecessarily delightful was his -perverse pleasure. - -Perior was by no means a paternal landlord; the lucky occupants of the -cottages were never reminded of the propriety of gratitude. Indeed -Perior had enraged neighboring landowners by remarking that the cottages -were none too good for the rent--a saying big with implications, and -perhaps intentionally spiteful. Indeed intentional spite was attributed -to many of his actions. It was a great fox-hunting country; and one of -the finest coverts, rich in foxes lovingly preserved by Perior's -forefathers, lay on his estate. Now it was currently reported that -Perior had had all the foxes shot! A murder would have made him less -unpopular. Malicious insanity seemed the only explanation. - -He did not scruple to proclaim his blasphemous heresies on the sacred -sport. He grew angry, said he abominated it, would do all in his power -to stamp it out, and at least would see that no animal should be -"tortured" on his property. The foxes had certainly disappeared from -Mandelly Woods, and good, honest sportsmen could hardly trust themselves -to mention the criminal fanatic's name. It must be owned that Perior's -love of animals approached the grotesque. He entertained at the Manor a -retinue of battered cats and outcast dogs, many garnered from London -streets. He could hardly bear to have surplus kittens drowned, and only -by the firmness of the housekeeper was the necessary severity -accomplished. He was exaggerated, peculiar, unpractical; the kindest -said it of him. He had sent two clever village boys to the University, -one the son of the village poacher and ne'er-do-weel, a handsome lad -with a Burns-like streak of genius, who had distinguished himself at -Oxford, and disappointed many pessimistic prophecies by turning out more -than creditably. At the present moment the son of one of Perior's -field-laborers came every day to the Grange for a coaching in the -humanities. Perior was a fine master, and Camelia was none too well -pleased when she heard of her successor. These experiments in sociology -aroused only less hostile comment than the black affair of the foxes. - -Our misanthropic gentleman paused at an angle of the road to survey his -cottages, each set in its own happy acres, stretching flower-beds and -young orchards into the sunny country. His tenants all had a pleasant -look of successful adaptation. One was a cobbler, and made most of -Perior's boots; a fact rather apparent. - -It was evening by the time he reached the tall gates through which the -roadway led up to the Grange, a high-standing, unpretentious, gray stone -house, rather bleakly situated on its height, but backed by a further -rise of wood, and, despite its vineless severity of outline, gravely -cheerful in aspect. An immaculately-kept lawn stretched in a gradual -slope before it, shaded by two yew trees, and the light grace of -beeches. Under the windows of the ground floor were beds of white and -purple pansies, and at one side, near the shrubberies, were long rows of -irises, also purple and white. From the other side of the house the -ground descended very abruptly, giving one the realization of height, -and a long view over woods, hills, and valleys to the distant sunset. - -The house within carried out consistently the first impression of -pleasant bareness. The wainscotted walls were reflected in the gleaming -floors. No tenderness of draperies, no futile ornament. In the -drawing-room three old portraits of three dead Mrs. Periors looked -quietly from the walls; some good porcelain was on shelves where there -was no danger of its breaking; the faded brocade of the furniture was -covered with white chintz sprigged with green. The library, where the -light came serenely through high windows, was lined with books; here and -there on the peaceful spaces a good engraving or etching; philosophical -bronzes above the shelves. The writing-table was spacious; opposite it -was Perior's piano--he played well. This was the room he lived in. Now, -when he entered, an old setter, glossily well-groomed, looked up with an -emotional thudding of the tail, and of two cats curled exquisitely in -the easy-chair, one only opened placid eyes, while the other, after -arching itself in a yawn, advanced towards him with a soundless mew. - -Perior was devoted to his cats, and adored his dogs. After stooping to -pat these animals, he took up a letter from the table. Arthur Henge's -writing was familiar, though of late years Perior had rarely seen it. -The old friendship had borne pretty sharp twinges--had survived even -Perior's ruthless handling of Henge's pet measure some years ago: Henge -had believed ardently in the bill, and thought Perior responsible to a -certain extent for its failure. That Henge had not been embittered by -this political antagonism had deeply touched Perior. He always -remembered the fact with a delightful, glowing comfort. His respect and -fondness for Henge were a staff to him. The two men were intrinsically -sympathetic, though they had hardly an opinion in common. Arthur Henge -was an optimist, and deeply religious, his wide humanism going hand in -hand with a fervent churchmanship. He was aided towards a happy view of -things by happy circumstances. He was one of the richest men in England, -and one of the most powerful; he held a high place in the present -Government. No sword of Damocles in the shape of a peerage hung over his -career in the Lower House, and at the same time the baronetcy, hoary -with an honorable antiquity, had the consequence and standing of many -greater but less significant titles. He was young, handsome, and -serious. Above all small cynicisms and hardness, his experience of life -seemed only to have taught him a wise, fine trust, and, perhaps in -consequence of this attitude of mind, it was impossible not to trust -him. - -This was the man who had fallen in love with Camelia Paton. The fact was -town talk, though it was surmised that despite his evident absorption he -had not yet given her occasion to accept him. That he was courting her -was not yet apparent, but his devotion remained gravely steady. Lady -Henge was supposed to be the cause of this adjournment of decisive -measures. Lady Henge was even more serious than her son, and her -influence over him was paramount. - -Now with all her ready qualities Camelia seldom pretended to -seriousness. To Perior there was something highly distasteful in the -whole matter. That Camelia should be the object of such comment, that -her achievement of the "good match" should be canvassed, infuriated him. -No blame could attach itself to Arthur's reticence; if reticence there -were it was on the highest grounds. It was the world's base, -materialistic chatter that jarred, its weighing of her charm and -loveliness against his wealth and prominence merely. Perior weighed -Camelia's merits against Arthur's. In his heart of hearts he did not -consider Camelia fitted to make a high-minded man happy--and some dim -foreboding of this fact no doubt chilled her lover's resolution. Perior, -however, was not logical. He might not approve of Camelia, but that Lady -Henge should disapprove nettled him. Arthur no doubt was a fool in -loving Camelia, but Perior wished to be alone in that knowledge. As for -the world's gross view of Henge as one of the greatest "catches" in -England, of Camelia as lucky if she got him, Perior's blood boiled when -he thought of it,--and that Camelia, with all her reliance on her own -attractions, was quite aware of the world's opinion and was not angered -by it. - -She, too, thought Henge a great "catch," no doubt; a great catch even -for Camelia Paton. - -Perior read the letter now, standing near the window and frowning very -gloomily. It was natural that Henge should write to him in this strain -of only thinly-veiled confidence. - -Henge knew of the long paternal intimacy with Camelia, and relied -perhaps too much on a paternal sympathy. Henge and his mother were -coming down to Clievesbury to spend some weeks at Enthorpe. He avowed -no intention, but the whole note, its very restraint, was big with -intention. He seemed, too, to emphasize his mother's pleasure in coming, -and Perior felt in the emphasis a touch of triumph. He hoped to see a -great deal of Perior, there was in the concluding passages of the note -quite a prophecy of future relationship, nearer than any they had known. -But through it all Perior fancied just the hint of an appeal--a quite -unconscious appeal, none the less significant for that. - -Camelia was to be put on trial before Lady Henge, and to Arthur the -process would be painful. The Henges had stately requirements; and -although Perior imagined that, were these requirements not satisfied, -Arthur had almost determined to overlook them, he felt the keenness of -the hope that all would be satisfactory, the support that the hope found -in Perior's intimacy with Camelia. - -Lady Henge shared her son's respect for Perior, and to her Perior's -friendship could interpret many phases in Camelia's charming character -perplexing to the anxious mother's unaided vision. - -"I am glad my mother is to know her better; she has seen only the -surface as yet," wrote Arthur. Arthur's love was a surety not quite -trustworthy, but the lifelong friendship of a man like Perior must -convince grave Lady Henge of many depths. Perior felt that his rigidity -was to be made use of. His well-known earnestness was to vouch for -Camelia's. His brow was very black as he finished the letter. He was -nearly angry with Arthur. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -"Mrs. Jedsley is in the drawing-room," Camelia announced, "so I ran -away. I am really afraid of her." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel laughed slightly; she put down the book with which she -was solacing a lazy afternoon on the sofa, and, looking at Camelia's -cloth dress and sailor hat, asked her if she had been out again. - -"Yes, just back. I only stayed in the drawing-room long enough to show -Mrs. Jedsley that she scared me. It's those eyebrows, you know, that -lack of eyebrow rather, emphasized by an angry redness in the place -where they should be. No, I cannot face her." - -"She is rather _épatante_. I suppose you were walking with your brace of -suitors." - -"No, I don't know where they are. I was walking by myself. I think I -must have walked eight miles," Camelia added, stretching out her feet to -look at her dusty shoes. - -"You certainly are an unsociable hostess, but those boys are becoming -bores. Whom do you expect next week? You must have something to leaven -the lump of pining youthful masculinity." - -"That poet is coming--the one who writes the virile poems, you know, and -whose article of faith is the _joie de vivre;_ and Lady Tramley, dear -creature, Lord Tramley, and--would you specify Sir Arthur as leaven?" - -"Do you mean to imply that he _isn't_ pining?" - -"I imply nothing so evident." - -"Wriggling, then--that you must own." - -Camelia was sitting near the window, opened on its framing magnolia -leaves, and said rather coolly as she took off her hat-- - -"No, _I_ am wriggling. _I_ must decide now." - -This was a masterly assurance. Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflecting that nothing -succeeds like unruffled self-confidence, and that Camelia's had never -shown a ripple of doubt, owned to herself that her slightly stinging -question was well answered. - -"Don't wriggle, my dear; decide," she said, accepting the restatement -very placidly, "you could not do better. To speak vulgarly--the man is -rich beyond the dreams of avarice." - -"Beautifully rich," Camelia assented. - -"Ah--indeed he is." - -"And he himself is wise and excellent," Camelia added; "I like him very -much." - -"He is coming alone?" - -"No, Lady Henge comes too." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel gave her friend a sharp glance. - -"That's very serious, you know, Camelia. I think you must have -decided--to suit Lady Henge." - -Camelia smiled good-humoredly. "I will suit her--and then see if he -suits me." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel lay reflecting on the sofa. Camelia accepted frankness -to a certain point, beyond that point she repulsed it. It was rather sly -of her, Mrs. Fox-Darriel thought, to keep up these needless pretences. -Camelia must be anxious for the match--anxious to a certain degree, and -her careful preservation of the false dignity of her position was really -rather mean. As for Mrs. Fox-Darriel, she desired the match with a -really disinterested fervor. She felt a certain personal pride in -Camelia's success; she had resigned supremacy, and only asked Camelia to -uphold her own. Camelia as Lady Henge would, from a very charming -person, have become a very important personage, a truly momentous -friend. Her fondness for the child would ensure the child's loyalty. A -near friend of the Prime Minister's wife--who knew? The thought flitted -pleasantly through Mrs. Fox-Darriel's mind, and the thought, too, of all -that Camelia, in an even less exalted position, could do for the -impecunious Hon. Charlie, Mrs. Fox-Darriel's husband. There was really -no possibility of a doubt in Camelia's mind. Mrs. Fox-Darriel simply did -not believe her, and regretted her lack of candor; but at the same time -she felt a little anxiety. There were certain phases in Camelia that had -always baffled her investigations, an unexpectedness that Mrs. -Fox-Darriel had encountered more than once. - -"It is really the very best thing you could do," she observed now, "and -I wouldn't play with him if I were you. I know that he is the image of -fidelity, and yet the Duchess of Amshire is very anxious for him to -marry her girl, that ugly Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Henge favors that -match, and he really is under his mother's thumb." - -"Decidedly I must waste no time," said Camelia, laughing, "and decidedly -it would be the best thing I could do, since the Marquis was snapped up -by the American girl--swarming with millions. I think I should have been -a Marchioness, Frances, had not that strange look, between a squint and -a goggle, in his eyes made me hesitate." - -"Oh, the Marquis! You know that this is far better. This man means a -lot." - -"He swarms with millions too," said Camelia. "Come, Frances, preach me a -nice little worldly sermon on the supreme utility of riches--without the -gloves now." - -"I usually remove them when I approach the subject," Mrs. Fox-Darriel -sighed with much sincerity. "My poor Charlie! How we keep our heads -above water I really don't know, and, as it is, the sharks are nibbling -at our toes! Supreme! Money, my dear, is the only thing! Once you've -that foundation you may begin to erect your sentiments, your -moralities." - -"And how few people are honest enough to say so. You and I are honest, -Frances; it buys everything, of course." - -"Well, almost everything. One must thank Nature for beauty and -cleverness." - -"Beauty and cleverness in rags have a sorry time of it in this world. -But money, of course, especially if not too new, buys friends, power, -good taste, morality. Poverty makes people base and cringing--makes -criminals. One is jumped on in this world, scrunched into the earth, -into the dirt, if one hasn't money, and yet the hypocrites talk of -compensation! Of all the sloppy, canting optimism with which people try -to make themselves comfortable that is the sorriest! And while they -talk they go on scrambling and scrunching for all they are worth; nasty -beasts! They kick a man on the head, and say 'the stupor compensates for -the pain.' That is the current theory about the lower classes." - -"Yet you enjoy the world, Camelia." - -"I am not jumped on." - -"You jump on other people, then?" - -"Not in a sordid manner; I don't have to soil my feet. Why shouldn't I -enjoy it?" - -"And you think that Sir Arthur's millions would emphasize the -enjoyment?" - -"Widen it, certainly. But don't be gross, Frances. A great deal depends -on him. I am not offering myself for sale, you know." - -"No, I don't think you would. You have no need to." - -"He would really be glaringly golden, wouldn't he, were he not draped -with the mossy antiquity of his name?" said Camelia, drawing a white -magnolia flower within the window frame, and bending her head to the -scented cup. - -"An ideal husband, from every point of view," Mrs. Fox-Darriel resumed; -"clever, very clever, and very good--rather overpoweringly good, -Camelia." - -"I think goodness a most charming phenomenon, I shouldn't mind studying -it in a husband." - -"Mrs. Jedsley is good. Why don't you study her?" - -"There is nothing phenomenal in her goodness, it is a product of -circumstance only. There is Mary," Camelia added, tipping her chair a -little towards the window for a clearer view of the lawn below. "Mary -in a Liberty silk, of yellow-green, and smocked. Why, Mary, why wear a -Liberty gown, especially smocked?" - -"I have sometimes suspected that your colorless little cousin is here to -play the part of a discord that resolves into and heightens your -harmony," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel; "or is it the post of whipping-boy that -she fills?" - -Camelia continued to look from the window placidly, only raising her -eyebrows a little. - -"No, Mary never gets a whipping, not even when I deserve one. Mamma is -very fond of Mary; so am I," she added. Mrs. Fox-Darriel took up her -book with a little yawn that Camelia for all her placidity resented. - -"How can you read that garbage?" she inquired smilingly, glancing at the -title. - -"The _bête humaine_ rather interests me." - -"Even interpreted by another? The man is far more insupportable than -Zola, inasmuch as he is clever, and an artist." - -"That's why I read him. You seem to know a good deal about garbage, my -dear." - -"I know a good deal about everything, I fancy!" said Camelia, with her -gayest laugh. "I took a course of garbage once, just enough to make up -my mind that I did not care for the flavor. We have a right to choose -the phases of life we want to see represented." - -"I like garbage," Mrs. Fox-Darriel said stubbornly. - -"Yes, you are very catholic, I know. I am more limited." Camelia still -eyed the lawn, sniffing at the magnolia. Now she rose suddenly and went -to the mirror. - -"Mary puts on a sailor hat--so," she said gravely, setting hers far back -at a ludicrous angle. "Poor Mary!" She tilted the hat forward again, and -briskly put the pin through it. "I am going down to harry Mrs. Jedsley. -Good-bye, Frances." - -"Good-bye. I shall be down to tea presently." - -"The _bête humaine_ will spoil your appetite!" laughed Camelia as she -went out. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel heard her running down the corridor and the light -rhythm of her feet on the stairs. - -"Pretty little minx!" she said good-humoredly; and her thoughts turned -to Sir Arthur. What a lucky girl was Camelia! It was rather tiresome, -perhaps, to sit by and watch her triumphs. Mrs. Fox-Darriel found the -rôle of second-fiddle a little dull; still, it was well worth while to -play it. She got up and went to the window, where the magnolia still -swayed faintly from the suddenness of Camelia's departure. Tapping the -sill lightly with her finger-tips, Mrs. Fox-Darriel looked out, yawning -once more, at the translucent blue of the sky, the still shining of the -little lake beyond the trees, the sun-dappled lawn, and at Mary -Fairleigh on the lawn in the funny Liberty dress. Mr. Perior was walking -beside her, in riding costume, a whip in his hand. Mrs. Fox-Darriel -surveyed them as they walked slowly away from the house. He had -evidently just joined Mary; and as Camelia herself appeared on the lawn -her departure took on an amusing aspect. - -Now it really was too bad of Camelia, she could have no use for him -herself. The sun flashed from her hair as she bounded gaily across the -turf and caught Perior's arm with a schoolgirl familiarity. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel drew back sharply, but still observed from the screen of -magnolia leaves Mary's slow return to the house, and Camelia's skipping -step as she led Mr. Perior towards the garden. He held the whip clasped -in his hand behind his back, and, as he walked, switched his calf in its -leather gaiter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel fancied some temper in the action. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -When Mrs. Fox-Darriel descended to the drawing-room a quarter of an hour -later, she found Lady Paton and Mary alone with Mrs. Jedsley, who as yet -showed no intention of departing. Mrs. Jedsley was very stout, but of a -vigorous bearing. Her firm, wide face was dashed with rather choleric -notes of red on cheeks, chin, and eyebrows. Her eyes were witty and -humorous. Mrs. Fox-Darriel, very indifferently, felt these quickly -travelling eyes taking in every gleam and glitter of her tea-gown. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel always jingled a little as she walked; she was one of those -women who dangle lorgnettes at the ends of swaying neck-chains, and -circle their wrists with a multitude of bangles, and now, as she sank -into a chair beside Lady Paton, and smiled a languid acceptance of tea, -the infinity of pendent jewels and the linked gold that draped her -person, chimed out quite a harmonious clatter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel always -gave Lady Paton a fluttered look, the look of a child shrinking from a -too persistently obtrusive rattle, and she handed her the tea and bread -and butter with gently scared glances. - -"What delicious tea," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel affably, "and the pouring of -tea is an art in its decadence. Really, dear Lady Paton, you have -spoiled me for all cups poured by other hands. Your aunt's hands add a -distinct charm, do they not?" she added, looking at Mary,--"and her -cap." Indeed Lady Paton's caps and hands resembled one another in -blanched delicacy. - -"Oh yes," Mary replied hastily; she was not accustomed to this suave -mode of address from Mrs. Fox-Darriel. - -"I saw you walking in the garden just now," pursued that glittering -personage; "you made quite a picture in your pretty dress, I assure -you." - -"Oh! do you like it?" Mary's face was transfused by a blush of surprised -pleasure. - -"It is really charming," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel unblinkingly, while Mrs. -Jedsley's eyes travelled up and down poor Mary's ungainliness. - -"Against the deeper shades of green, you know, and with your golden -hair, you looked quite--quite like an Albert Moore. Has your friend, Mr. -Perior, gone? I saw him with you." There was a subtly delightful -intimation in this question that filled Mary with a half painful, half -delicious embarrassment. - -"Mr. Perior is with Camelia," she said, the crude fact hardly jarring on -the dulcet echo of Mrs. Fox-Darriel's question. He was her friend, Mary -knew, felt it with a wave of gratitude that quieted many aches, but was -it then so evident--so noticeable? - -"Ah yes! Camelia is rather fond of teasing him, I am afraid," said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, observing Mary's flush, and noting as an unkindness of -nature that her hair, the only grace she possessed, should grow so -thickly at the back and with such unbecoming scantiness around the high -brow. Mary's whole being had been quivering with the pain of her -dispossession, but a grateful warmth now stole through the chill of -bereavement. - -Her flush had not died when Camelia came in, Perior following her. -Camelia's face was imperturbably gay, but from a certain severity and -tension in Perior's expression, Mrs. Fox-Darriel surmised that the -pastoral promenade had not been altogether peaceful. - -It was hardly possible, of course, that the indifference of this stiff -provincial should pique Camelia into an attitude that might compromise -real interests; no, hardly possible; yet Mrs. Fox-Darriel, with some -acuteness, determined that all her efforts should tend to make such an -absurdity impossible indeed. - -Ugly Mary was evidently in love with the unattractive Diogenes; but -Camelia need not know that. Mrs. Fox-Darriel almost laughed at herself -while she meditated; Camelia could hardly intend more than the -purposeless capturing of Diogenes; Camelia's head was perfectly sound -when it came to decisive extremes. Only--well--women, all women, were -such _fools_ sometimes. That bounding, pursuing step across the lawn had -given Mrs. Fox-Darriel a new impression of Camelia. - -"Look, Mamma, is not this beautiful? Look, Frances." Camelia held out a -branch of white roses, buds and leaves climbing on lovely curves to a -heavy, swaying flower;--"it is such a perfect spray that I am going to -attempt a Japanese arrangement with this bit of pine. Mary, will you -fetch me that bronze vase out of the morning room--with its little -stand, you know--and have it filled with water; and, Mary,--" Mary was -departing obediently, "a pair of scissors--don't forget. If there is -anything I dislike," Camelia went on, hers was always a temperate manner -of speech, "it is a heavy mass of flowers bunched together with all the -individuality, all the form and vitality, of line quite lost." - -She smiled at Mrs. Jedsley as she spoke, skimming caressing finger-tips -over her rose branch, and adding, "You may see me at your place -to-morrow, Mrs. Jedsley. Mr. Perior has been giving me a dreadful -scolding on my neighborly deficiencies. To-morrow I make a conscientious -round of calls--and pour balm into all the wounded bosoms." Mrs. -Fox-Darriel glanced quickly at Perior to see how he relished this -offensive obedience; Perior, as he stood before the fireplace, was -looking at his boots. Mrs. Jedsley's eyebrows grew very red. - -"I won't be at home to-morrow," she said decidedly, "and if I were -conscious of wounds I'd keep at a good distance from you, Camelia." Lady -Paton looked from her daughter to Perior, an alarmed appeal, but he did -not raise his eyes nor seem to notice Camelia's graceful promises. - -"Mrs. Jedsley, _why_ are you always so unkind to me?" Camelia asked, -laughing. "I assure you that you may trust my balms. Mrs. Jedsley, I -will wager you--do you ever bet?--that by to-morrow night the whole -county-side will be singing my praises. I like people to sing my -praises--I like to feel affection and sympathy about me; now Mr. Perior -has been telling me that there is a distinct absence of these elements -in my atmosphere. I begin to feel the vacuum myself. Won't you help me -to fill it--help my regeneration?--No, Mary, that is the wrong vase--how -could I arrange flowers in that? On the stand, was it? The house-maid's -stupidity, then; and I bought together the stand and the proper vase to -go with it. No; don't take the _stand_ back with you, you goosie! put it -here. Now, Mrs. Jedsley," she added, when Mary had once more departed, -Perior having relieved her of the stand and carried it, not at all -graciously, to Camelia, "tell me how I can best please every one most? -You know them all so well--their pet pursuits, their pet hobbies. Mrs. -Harley has orchids, of course; I shall immediately ask her to take me to -the conservatory. And Mrs. Grier--that pensive little woman with the -long, long nose--has she not a son at Oxford, a boy she dotes on? Isn't -she very fond of music?" - -Mrs. Jedsley was stirring her third cup of tea with an entirely -recovered composure. "Yes, Mrs. Grier plays the violin, and has a son -she dotes on; if you flatter her nicely enough, she will certainly join -in the 'Hallelujah.'" - -"Well, that is nice to know." Mary had now brought the correct Japanese -vase, and Camelia neatly trimmed from her branch while she spoke a few -superfluous leaves and twigs. - -"Is not Mrs. Grier a dear friend of Lady Henge's?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel -asked in an aside to Lady Paton--to the latter a very welcome aside, as -in murmured acquiescence she found a momentary refuge from the -bewildered sensations her daughter's projects gave her. - -Yes, Lady Henge and Mrs. Grier were great friends, both musical, both -deeply interested in charitable work. Mrs. Grier, a sweet woman,--"and -you know," said Lady Paton, bending gently towards her guest, "her nose -is not so long. That is only Camelia's droll way of putting things, you -know." - -"Oh, yes,"--Mrs. Fox-Darriel's smile was very reassuring--"you and I -understand Camelia, Lady Paton. It doesn't do to take her _au grand -sérieux_." Indeed, Mrs. Fox-Darriel smiled inwardly, feeling that all -disquiet on Camelia's account was very unnecessary, and convinced that -she knew her very thoroughly. - -"You won't be at home to-morrow, then?" asked Camelia, looking around -from her vase as Mrs. Jedsley rose to go. - -"No, my dear; and I'm afraid you won't find me of use at any time. I -haven't any particular foibles. You won't discover a handle about me by -which to wind me up to the required musical pitch." - -"You traduce yourself, Mrs. Jedsley; with your charitable heart, do you -mean to tell me that, were I to wrap Clievesbury in red flannel, fill it -with buns and broth, you wouldn't think me charming, and make sweet -music in my ears?" - -"I never denied that you were charming, balefully charming, you naughty -girl," said Mrs. Jedsley with a good humor that implied no submission. - -"Here is a rose for you. May it give you kind thoughts of me." Camelia -fastened one of the rejected buds in the lady's portly bosom, and when -she was gone, Lady Paton, leaving the room with her, she added, "Mary, -is the piano tuned?" - -Mary went to the Steinway. "Lady Henge is a composer, as you know." She -turned a face sparkling with mischief to Perior, who maintained his -silence beside the mantelpiece. - -"You have heard her? Yes? Well, you shall hear her again. That's enough, -Mary," she added, lightly; "we hear that the piano needs tuning." - -Now Mary had a certain little pride in the neat execution of Beethoven's -Sonatas, that many hours of faithful practice had seemed to justify, and -while Camelia stood back to admire her flower arrangement, both Perior -and Mrs. Fox-Darriel noticed the flush that swept over Mary's face. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -By the time Sir Arthur and Lady Henge arrived, Camelia had fulfilled her -prophecy and become a popular person. Under the blighting indifference -of her first appearance Clievesbury had naturally retaliated with -severity, but that the first impression had been erroneous the most -severe owned--after Camelia had called on them. Camelia found the -process of winning the whole neighborhood great fun, and its success -gave her a delicious sense of efficiency. She cared nothing, absolutely -nothing, for her neighbors, but once she determined to be cared for by -them she found the facility of the task highly flattering to -self-esteem. - -She drove from place to place, sweet, modest, adaptable. She dispensed -pretty compliments with a grace that disarmed the grimmest suspicion. -She showed a pretty interest in every one. Indeed why should they not -like her? Camelia thought she really deserved liking; and though she -laughed at herself a little for the complimentary conclusion, her -kindness struck her as rather nice. It was motiveless, was it not? -almost motiveless, a game that it pleased her to play. Certainly she did -not care to appear before Lady Henge on a background of unpopularity; -the background must harmonize, become her; she would see to that. At -the bottom of her heart Camelia cared very little for Lady Henge's -approval or disapproval; Lady Henge was part of the game; but Camelia -had determined that the game required Lady Henge, like everybody else, -to find her charming; the game required Arthur Henge to propose--then -she might accept him; but she must make quite secure the possibility of -refusing him. So Camelia aimed steadily at one result, and was not at -all sure of her own decision once the result was reached, and this -indecision gave her a happy sense of freedom. - -She must capture Sir Arthur; this visit was definite, the last test; but -once captured, Camelia wondered if she would care to keep. Theoretically -she owned to a hard common-sense ambition that would make rejection -doubtful; but when the moment for decision finally arrived, Camelia felt -that this trait in her character might fail her; she did not really -believe in it, though she paraded it, flaunted it. Every one might think -her a hard-headed, hard-hearted little worldling--as far as practice -went they were right, no doubt, in all honesty she must own that she -gave them no occasion to think anything else; but she reserved a warm -corner of unrevealed ideals--ideals she never herself looked at, where a -purring self-content sat cosily. - -Lady Henge and her son arrived on a Monday. Lady Henge was nervous, -though her massive personality concealed the tremor, and unhappy--for -she felt Arthur's fate to be a foregone conclusion. She was not a clever -but an immensely conscientious woman. She lived up to all her -principles, and she took only the highest view of everything. Her son's -love for the pretty Miss Paton, who meddled frivolously with politics -(Lady Henge meddled ponderously), and made collections of Japanese -pictures, had thrown her into a dismal perturbation. She could not like -Miss Paton; her cleverness was not disinterested; her sense of duty was -less than dubious, she lived for pleasure, for admiration; she was no -fit wife for a Henge. - -The most imperative of the Henges' stately requirements was that solemn -sense of duty which Lady Henge embodied so conclusively. - -She felt the tremor quieted, the unhappiness soothed, however, on seeing -Camelia in her home. Indeed, Camelia's background was masterly. By the -end of the first day Lady Henge was owning to herself that the glare of -London had perhaps been responsible for her former unfavorable -impression. Camelia's manner was perfect; she was quiet and gentle; her -wish to please was frank but very dignified. Lady Henge felt that in no -way was her favor being courted, and she was quite clever enough to -appreciate that. Lady Paton was left to take all the initiatives, and -behind her mother Camelia smiled with an air of happy obscurity. - -The following days emphasized the initial approval. The image of the -excellent Lady Elizabeth faded by degrees from Lady Henge's mind, and -the ache of disappointment with it. She wonderingly expanded into -confidence under Camelia's gentle influence. - -She was a shy woman; she had been afraid of Camelia; but with tender -touches the shyness and the fear seemed to be pressed away. There was -nothing to be afraid of. Was it possible? She doubted sometimes, when -alone and deeply thoughtful; but with Camelia quiet satisfaction was -irresistible. - -Perior watched the little comedy, convinced of its artificiality. That -doubt of her final choice which preserved for Camelia her sense of -independent pride free from all tarnish of self-interested scheming, he -could not have believed in. Her motives were, he thought, very clear to -him--as they must be to everybody else. He could not credit her with -love; a girl so dexterously managing her hand was held by no compulsory -force of real feeling. She was going to marry Arthur Henge, because he -was a good match, not because she loved him; any girl might have loved -him certainly, but Camelia was capable of loving no one. He was very -sore, very angry, very moody. Lady Henge's transparent bids to him for -sympathy in irritating his scorn for Camelia irritated him, too, against -her, against Arthur even. Why couldn't they let him alone? They should -get neither yea or nay from him, for, after all, Perior was -inconsistent; the scorn did not shake his rather negative loyalty to his -pupil, and beneath that there lay another and a deeper feeling, the -feeling that made it possible for Camelia to hurt him. - -"I was talking to her--to Miss Paton--about Woman's Suffrage to-day," so -Lady Henge would start a conversation, "she seems to have thought rather -deeply on the subject of a widened life for women--the development of -character by responsibility--the democratic ideal, is it not?" Lady -Henge combined staunch conservatism with a devout belief in Humanity. - -Perior answered "Yes, I suppose so," to the question. - -"She has, I see, a great deal of influence down here in the -country--more than I could have expected in such a gay young creature. -Mrs. Grier spoke to me of her good-heartedness, her generous help in -charitable matters. Mrs. Grier, as you know, is deeply interested in the -improvement of the condition of the laboring classes. I shall count upon -Miss Paton next year; her aid would be very effective; she could help me -with some of my clubs--a pretty face, a witty tongue, popularize one; -she has promised to address the Shirt Makers' Union. She takes so much -interest in all these absorbing social problems,--interest so -unassuming, so free from all self-reference." - -They were in the drawing-room after dinner. Perior seemed, in watching -Camelia fulfil herself, to find a searing fascination, for he was often -at Enthorpe Lodge of late. The faint flavor of inquiry in Lady Henge's -assertions only elicitated, "I'm sure she'd be popular." No; he would -not be held responsible for Camelia; and again he determined that Lady -Henge should on the subject of Camelia's full fitness get from him -neither a yea or a nay. - -Lady Henge's clear brown eyes had turned contemplatively upon her son -and Camelia, who were sitting on an isolated sofa in a frank -_tête-à-tête_. - -Perior's glance followed hers, and while she read in Arthur's absorbed -attitude and expression the wisdom of submissive partisanship--the utter -futility of further resistance, Perior studied the half grave, half -playful smile with which Camelia received her lover's utterances. She -seemed to feel Perior's scrutiny, for her eyes swerved suddenly and met -his, and the smile hardened a little as she looked at him. - -"She is very lovely," Lady Henge said with an irrepressible sigh. "It is -a very unusual type of loveliness," at which Perior looked away from -Camelia and back at his companion. "He is very fond of her," Lady Henge -added--a little tearfully, Perior suspected. - -"He has taken it seriously for quite a while, I believe." - -"Oh yes, yes indeed," Lady Henge, conscious of having herself made the -only barrier to an earlier declaration, spoke a little vaguely. -"Arthur's wife will have many responsibilities," she went on; "I think -that--if she accepts Arthur--Miss Paton will prove equal to them." The -"if she accepts Arthur" Perior thought rather noble, "and her gaiety -will be good for him, he needs such sunshine. I must not be so selfish -as to think that _I_ could give it him. And then--with all her gaiety," -here a recrudescence of the vein of urgency crept once more into Lady -Henge's voice, "she has depths, Mr. Perior--great depths, has she not? -Neither Arthur nor I take life lightly, you know," and Lady Henge held -him with a waiting pause of silence. - -"Yes, I know you don't," he said, and then found himself forced to add, -"there are many possibilities in Camelia." - -At all events, he might have said much more. Again he looked across at -Camelia as he spoke, and again her eyes met his. She rose abruptly, and -crossed the room. - -"Lady Henge," she said, standing before her guest in an attitude of -delicate request, "won't you play for us? We all want to hear you--and -not as mere interpreter, you know--one of your own compositions, -please." - -If there were a vulnerable spot in Lady Henge's indisputable array of -virtues it was a touching egotism in regard to her musical capabilities. -She fancied herself the pioneer of a new school, and hoped for a rather -shallow smattering of form and polyphony to more than atone by an -immense amount of feeling. She smiled now, drawing off her gloves -immediately, even while saying, with the diffidence of a master-- - -"I am afraid my _poèmes symphoniques_ are not quite on the after-dinner -level, my dear. You know I can't promise a comfortable accompaniment to -conversation." - -"Don't degrade us by the implication," smiled Camelia; "we are at least -appreciative." - -"My music is emotionally exhaustive," said Lady Henge, shaking her head -and rising massively. "In my humbler way I have tried to do for the -abstract what Wagner did for the concrete. I do not depict the sea, but -the psychological sensations the sea arouses in us." Lady Henge was -moving towards the piano, her very back, with its serene, brocaded -breadth, imposing by its air of large self-confidence a hush upon the -babble of drawing-room flippancy. - -"Oh, good gracious!" Gwendolen Holt ejaculated in an alarmed whisper to -her neighbor Mr. Merriman. - -"Poor dear Lady Henge," murmured Lady Tramley, leaning back in her -delicate thinness, and fixing sad eyes upon her musical friend. - -"Awfully bad, is it?" Mr. Merriman inquired. - -"Awfully," said Gwendolen. - -"Well, it's all one to me," said Mr. Merriman jocosely. - -"I paint the soul of man, as influenced by the forces of nature," still -delivering explanatory comments, Lady Henge had seated herself at the -piano. "My symphonic poem--'Thalassa,' shall I give you that?" and from -a careful adjustment of the piano-stool, she looked up at Camelia, who -had followed her. - -Sir Arthur, on his solitary sofa, showed some dismay at the imminence of -his mother's performance. Perior, who had heard Lady Henge play, fixed -enduring eyes on the cornice. Camelia dropped into the vacant seat -beside him. - -"Hold your breath, Alceste," she murmured, her smiling eyes still gently -observant of Lady Henge, who, after a majestic turn up and down the -key-board, had paused in a menacing attitude, one hand lifted in a -heavily pouncing position. - -"She'll have our heads under water in a minute. Ah! here comes the -splash!" The very walls quivered as that fierce hand fell. A volcanic, -incoherent volume of sound hurtled forth upon the stillness. From -thenceforward they might have been sitting amidst the clamorous -concussions of a thunder-storm, Lady Henge, high priestess of terrified -humanity, making valiant warfare with the angry gods. The wind, or -rather the effect of the wind upon the shrinking mind of man, shrieked -in long sweeps down the key-board--Lady Henge's execution with the flat -of her hand being boldly impressionistic; the waves beat out their -stormy rhythm in crashing chords of very feeble construction, but in -noisiness immensely effective, leaping, bounding, shouldering, -swallowing one another with a splendid inconsequence as to time or key. -A chaos of stammering phrases cried out fitfully above the steady -bellowing of the bass. - -Physically the composition was most certainly exhausting. Lady Henge's -fine, flushed profile, bent with brooding intensity above the key-board, -evinced a panting effort to cope with the mighty requirements of her -creation. - -"It sounds as if she were being tossed in her cabin, doesn't it?" -Camelia's soft voice murmured under the safe cover of the tumult, her -face keeping the expression of grave attention, "and horribly seasick. -One hears the bottles breaking, and the basins clashing, and the boots -being hurled from side to side. Anything but abstract. Intimately -descriptive rather--don't you think?" A side glint of her eye evidently -twinkled for sympathy; but Perior solemnly stared at the ceiling. - -"The construction too," Camelia said more soberly, "she plunged us into -the free fantasia--and perhaps at the end she may fish us out with the -dominant phrase--but I haven't caught it yet; ah, this thudding finale -announces the journey's end." And she jumped up as Lady Henge, with a -fine, tense look of soul-experience, rose from the piano. The dazed and -wilted listeners chimed out the polite chorus usual on such occasions. -Camelia led Lady Henge to her chair. "Thank you--so much," she said. -Lady Henge smiled dimly, her eyes fixed on vacancy. - -"It was like a glorious wind blowing about one. It made me think of -Wordsworth's sonnets--of the soul in nature," said Camelia. Perior still -looked stolidly at the ceiling, and she felt his silence to be ominous. - -"Such music," she added, "gives one courage for life." She was angry -with Perior. Lady Henge pressed her hand. - -"Thanks, my dear. Yes--you _felt_. One must hear, of course, a -composition many times before entering into the sanctuary of the -artist's meaning." Camelia's mouth retained its sympathetic gravity. -Perior said nothing; and faint, relieved little groups of talk twittered -like birds after a storm. - -"And you, Mr. Perior," Lady Henge, fanning herself largely turned to -this silent critic. "You, too, are a musician as I know, a musician at -least in appreciation. What do you think of my 'Thalassa'? Frankly -now--as one artist to another." Perior moved his eyes slowly from the -ceiling, and dropped them to Camelia's face. He grew very red. - -"Frankly now," Lady Henge reiterated with genial urgency. - -"I think it is very bad," said Perior. The sentence fell with a thud, -like a stone. - -Lady Henge flushed, and her fan fluttered to stillness; Camelia, her -eyebrows lightly lifted, met Perior's square look. - -"Bad," Lady Henge repeated, with a pathetic mingling of deprecating -pride and pain, "really bad, Mr. Perior?" - -"Very bad," said Perior. - -The unmitigated sentence reduced her to feeble plaintiveness. - -"But why? This is really savage, you know." - -"Excuse me, I know I seem rude," he looked at her now with something of -an effort. "You see I tell you the uncompromising truth. Your piece is -weak, and crude, and incoherent!" - -Now that she met his eyes, Lady Henge saw that it gave him pain to speak -so. Camelia standing over them smiled unruffled. - -"It is a case of Berlioz and the Conservatoire, Schumann and the -Philistines, Lady Henge. Mr. Perior is an old classicist--understands -nothing outside strictest adherence to form. Your more modern march of -the _Davidsbündler_ could say nothing to him." Perior did not look at -her. - -"If you will allow me, Lady Henge, I will come some day and go over a -lot of Schumann with you. I think you will recognize the difference. His -power and genuineness are apparent. And Schumann has a great deal to -say." - -He smiled at her as he spoke, a very sweet smile--asking tolerance for -the friend in spite of the critic's unwilling arrogance. Lady Henge was -soothed, though decidedly shaken. - -"You are severe, you know." - -"But you prefer severity to silly fibs." - -"I may be silly," Camelia here put in with a touch of coldness, "if so, -I stand convicted with you, Lady Henge, for I found your 'Thalassa' -neither crude, nor weak, nor incoherent; but I can't be accused of -fibbing. You will play your symphonic poem to me again, won't you? and -we will leave Mr. Perior to the pleasures of iconoclastic conservatism." -After so speaking, Camelia went back to her seat beside Sir Arthur. - -He had a book in his hand, and was turning the leaves vaguely, he put it -down as he looked up at her. For a man well over thirty, Sir Arthur had -certain boyish traits, as a frank nervousness of glance now revealed. - -"Well?" Camelia smiled, feeling a something in the silence. - -"It was bad, wasn't it?" said Sir Arthur. - -"Bad?" - -"Yes, poor mother." - -"I don't think it bad." - -Sir Arthur surveyed her with pained hesitation. - -"Why do you say that?" he demanded, with an abruptness of wounded -tenderness that put Camelia alertly on her guard. - -"Why do you say _that_?" she asked, rounding innocent eyes at him. - -"I saw you laughing at it, with Perior--not that he laughed. I heard -what he said too, I prefer that, you know." - -Camelia herself was feeling wounded, was smarting under a sense of angry -humiliation. This added and unexpected blow brought the blood vividly -to her face, and the sincerity of her discomfort seemed even to herself -to warrant the sincerity of her quick question. - -"You suspect me of lying?" - -Camelia hardly thought that she had lied; neither the flush nor the tone -of voice was acted. - -Sir Arthur looked away. "I saw you laughing," he repeated. - -"I _was_ laughing," Camelia declared. "Not at Lady Henge," she added. - -Sir Arthur kept a silence in which doubt and a longing to believe -evidently struggled. - -"I said to Mr. Perior that the rocking passage with the chord -accompaniment made me feel seasick--from its realism; that touch of -levity doesn't imply insincerity in my admiration--I always smile at the -birds in the 'Pastoral.' Why should I be insincere? If I had not liked -it, I would have said so." - -Sir Arthur's long breath escaped with the relief of recovered joy. - -"Don't be insincere;--dearest," he added, looking at her; and seeing the -surprise with which she received the grave, impulsive word, he went on -quickly, yet gently. - -"You know you often want to please people--to make every one like -you;--even I have fancied it--forgive me, won't you, at the price of a -little falseness. When one feels as I do, the least flaw cuts into one -like a knife." With Camelia's triumph there now mingled a bitter -distaste; she could hardly bring herself to look into his honest, -adoring eyes; the quickness of her breath and wavering of her glance -were, again, quite spontaneous, and that she knew them to be effective, -deepened her humiliation. - -"To see you laugh at mother--and then praise her--I thought it; and I -can't tell you how it pained me. You forgive me?" - -Her self-disgust now seemed to lend her a certain sense of atoning -self-respect. "How good you are!" she said, looking at him very gravely, -and this recognition of his goodness restoring still more fully that -sick self-respect, she was able to smile at him, to think that she must -not exaggerate the little _contretemps_, and to ask herself whether she -might not fall in love with Sir Arthur--simply and naturally. Dear man! -The words were almost on her lips--her eyes at least caressed him with -the implication. - -He looked embarrassed, but very happy. "No--no! Please don't say that! -How divinely kind you are. I have been insufferable. It is noble of you -to understand--. Can't we get away from all these people--if only for a -moment. Let us go into the garden--it is very warm." She would rather -not have gone into the garden, but she could not refuse him, she felt -that to some extent she would like to justify his faith in her, and to -shake from her that snake-like imputation of baseness. She glanced at -Perior as she went out; he was talking most affably with Lady Henge, and -did not look at her. His lack of faith stung perhaps more than Sir -Arthur's faith. It was unmerited too, more unmerited than Sir Arthur's -trust, so she told herself, stepping down from the terrace on to the -gravel-path, and the sense of unmerited scorn sharpened that wish to -justify herself--as far as might be--to the kinder judge. - -"No, Sir Arthur, you are good," she went on, pausing before him, her -hands clasped behind her after a little-girl fashion habitual with her; -"and I am horrid--it's quite true--but not as horrid as you thought me. -I do like to please people. I am often pettily, impulsively false; it's -quite, quite true. I do like your mother's piece, but probably not as -much as I implied to her by my praise--not as much as greater things: -and Mr. Perior's silence made me angry too; but I probably was a little -insincere, and that every one is the same is no excuse for me. I don't -want to be like every one, and you don't want me to be, do you? But if I -had _not_ liked it, you would not have wished me to express myself with -the bludgeon-like directness of our rugged friend, would you?" Camelia -asked the question with real anxiety, conscious though she was that she -had thought the composition quite as ridiculous as Perior had declared -it. After all, his ugly sincerity justified her kindly fibbing; and as -for the laughing, she was sorry she had laughed, since Sir Arthur had -seen her. His erectness of moral vision would so distort that -unintentional meanness that she could not be asked to confess it; but -her partial confession, all the same, left her confused by the stinging -of small, uncomfortable compunctions. These, however, did not show -themselves in her eyes, nor in the pure lines of her face. Her silvered -garments and exquisite whiteness gave her in the moonlight an angelic -look that might well humble modest manhood before her. Sir Arthur had -never felt himself so near to the girl he loved, nor his love so well -justified. - -"No, I don't think it's necessary to give a person the truth like a box -on the ear," he said, and he would have taken her hands, but Camelia -again put them behind her back, and stood smiling at him. - -"Poor old Perior," he added, and they walked slowly for a little way -down the path. "You can understand it, though, can't you? He thought you -were fibbing, and that made him give mother the ruthless _coup de -dent_." - -This was very true, and so Camelia knew, knowing, too, that she _had_ -been fibbing. "But that didn't justify the _coup de dent_," she -declared, "and why should he think I was fibbing?" The bit of audacity -was so inevitable that she hardly felt a qualm over its enunciation. On -Perior's loyalty she relied as she relied on the ground beneath her -feet. - -"Well, he knows that you are clever, and that your taste has not been -distorted--as mother's has--by fancied talent." Sir Arthur was all -candid confidence. - -"He was _very_ nasty," said Camelia, "and I shall tell him so. And now -that I have made my little confession, and that you have absolved -me--for I am absolved, am I not?--shall we go in?" Camelia drew back -from the proposal she saw looming in the moonlight; there was time, -ample time, for that, now that she was sure of him, quite sure. A warm -little thrill of pleasure went over her at the thought that it was she -who was not ready, was not sure, though she had never liked him more. - -"Must we go in?" Sir Arthur looked up at her as she stood on the step -above him. He was very handsome Camelia thought with some complacency. - -"I think we must," she said prettily, adding, "I promised to do my skirt -dancing for them, you know. You must tell me it is delightful when I -have done, even if you laugh at me while I am dancing." Sir Arthur had -held out his hand, and she put hers in it. - -"You absolve me, don't you?" he said. "You forgive me? You are not -angry?" - -"Angry? Have I seemed angry?" - -"You had the right to be." - -"Not with you," said Camelia, and at that he kissed her hand, and they -went back into the drawing-room. - - * * * * * - -Camelia as she undressed that night decided that Perior was responsible -for her still smarting irritation. It was too tiresome. Of course, -apparently she had not behaved nicely; but, in neatly analyzing the -whole affair, she could find herself guilty of nothing worse than a -little humorous gaiety--that took an old friend's sympathy for -granted--(could one not think things one did not say? she had only -thought aloud--to him), and a little kindly hypocrisy practised every -day by models of uprightness. Perior's rudeness set a standard by which -social conventions were guilty of black falseness. It was too bad of -him, and her anger put him aside with a sense of relief. The only really -serious part was the stinging sequel. How closely Arthur Henge must have -watched her to catch that irrepressible glint of the eye. He had caught -it, though, and she had lied about it--well, yes--lied, deliberately -lied to a man she respected. - -Of course it made her feel uncomfortable--of course it did. "I am not -the vain puppet _he_ thinks me," she said, leaning on her -dressing-table, and looking gravely at her illuminated reflection--the -_he_ being Perior--"the very fact of my worrying over such a trifling -incident proves that I am not. It is _his_ fault that I should feel so." -She paused for a further turn of silent meditation before adding, "My -only fault was in having trusted to his sense of fun, in having been -amused. The rest followed inevitably. I could not have told Arthur Henge -that I found his mother ridiculous, now _could_ I, you foolish -creature?" and irrepressibly Camelia smiled at her lenient accuser in -the glass. At this point of the colloquy a gentle tap at the door -ushered in Mary. Mary, in a dressing-gown of just the wrong shade, was -not an interesting object, and Camelia glanced over her reflection in -the mirror without turning. She continued her own train of thought, -hardly listening to Mary, though vaguely conscious that the awkward -inquiries after her comfort were rather pointless. - -"I thought you might want something, Camelia. I thought you looked -rather pale," said Mary, drawing near with some timidity. - -"No, thanks. I should have asked Grant, you know," replied Camelia, her -elbows still on the dressing-table. She absently watched Mary lift her -discarded gown from the floor, fold it, and lay it neatly over the back -of a chair. "Don't mind about picking up those things, Mary," she -added, yawning a little, and wishing rather that Mary would go. "Grant -can do all that." - -"I like to tidy up after you." Mary's smile was slightly forced. "See, -Camelia, you need me to look after you--your pearl necklace under a -chair." - -"It must have caught in my bodice," said Camelia, glancing at the -necklace as Mary laid it on the dressing-table. "That certainly was -stupid of me. Thanks, dear." Mary still lingered. - -"You don't want anything, you are sure? You feel quite well--and--happy, -Camelia?" The question was so odd that Camelia turned her head and -looked up, surprised, at Mary's rather embarrassed countenance. - -"Happy?" she repeated. - -"Yes; I fancied you might have something to tell me." This initiative -was certainly amazing in the reserved Mary, and Camelia stared. - -"Something to tell you?" Then her deliberate departure for the moonlit -_tête-à-tête_ with Sir Arthur coming luminously to her mind, she began -to laugh. "Why, Mary, did you come in a congratulatory mood?" - -Mary's badly mastered nervousness melted somewhat. "Oh, Camelia--_may_ -I?" her face lighted to an almost charming eagerness--a charm that our -æsthetic heroine was quick to recognize. "_May_ I?" - -"May you? No, you little goose," Camelia said good-humoredly. "Upon my -word, Mary, you should have had your portrait painted at that moment; -you never looked so--significant. Are you so anxious to get rid of me -then?" The charming look had crumbled into inextricable confusion. - -"Oh, Camelia, how can you?--how could you think----?" - -"Now, Mary, imaginative efforts are bad for you; don't indulge them." - -"I hoped--I only wanted----" - -"Yes, of course, you want me to be happy; and very nice it is of you -too. Be patient, Mary; you shall congratulate me some day. I haven't -decided _when_ that shall be. I haven't really quite decided _how_ I -shall be happy--there are so many ways--the choice of a superlative is -perplexing. When I choose you need not come to me, I promise you." -Camelia rose, stretching her arms above her head, and smiling very -kindly at her cousin. - -Her own words made her feel comfortable. Still smiling, she put her arm -around Mary's neck and kissed her. "I shall tell you _immediately_. Now -run to bed, dear, for _you_ look pale." When Mary was gone, Camelia -finished undressing, and got into bed in a frame of mind much reassured -as to her own intrinsic merit. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -The little moonlit episode had very thoroughly mended the rift within -the lute. Camelia's seeming frankness of confessional confidence more -than atoned for every doubting qualm. Sir Arthur evidently put doubts -and distresses behind him. He allowed himself to be wholly in love. He -wondered resentfully at himself for the mixed impulses he had known, -since all were now merged in one fixed determination. - -The country influences of green trees and summer sky seemed to have -breathed a heretofore unrealized gentleness into his fair one. Her -playful sallies, her little audacities, delighted him now unreservedly, -for under the tantalizing shifting and shimmering of surface moods, the -translucent depths of a loyal and lovely nature, were at last fully -revealed to him. - -Camelia felt the resultant ardor hovering during all their constant -companionship, but she evaded it. The conquest had been so easy, was so -complete, that fitness seemed to require a compensatory dallying. The -atmosphere of adoration, submissive in its certainty of ultimate -success, felt as flatteringly around her as the warm sweetness of a -summer breeze. Conquest was delightful, so was dallying, so was her own -indecision; that was the most delightful part of all. She felt, too, in -the loving warmth that encompassed her, a consolation, a refuge from -cold and rugged depreciation. - -Perior had not reappeared since the musical _mêlée_, and, while enjoying -the sunny harbor where she rocked so peacefully, Camelia was conscious -that thoughts about that rough, that unsympathetic sea outside -preoccupied her amidst the kinder waters. Her gaiety was therefore a -little forced, absent-minded, in a sense a mask; her gentler mood was -the result of inner cogitations, so involved at times as to give to her -manner a dreamy sweetness. Her moral snubbing, though she rejected it as -undeserved, subdued her. - -Lady Henge's vanity was of no petty or immovable order. Far from -antagonizing, Perior's judgment had aroused in her an anxious -self-doubt, an anxious respect for her candid critic. Despite Camelia's -sympathy--for Camelia stuck to her colors, entrenched herself behind a -staunch fidelity to a false position, listened with absorption to -frequent renderings of the "Thalassa," thoughtfully discussed its -iconoclastic merits, the high value of its full flavored modernity, and -felt a certain ethical elevation from these painful sacrifices to the -only constancy permitted her--despite this steady sympathy, Lady Henge -perversely longed for a further expression of unsympathetic opinion from -the ruthless Perior. And one morning she told Camelia that she had -written to him, had asked him to fulfil his promise, to bring some music -of his choosing that might, with his aid, be useful to her. - -"I had hoped to see him every day," she owned, and Camelia realized the -power of a negative attitude--how flat beside it, how feeble, was her -exaggeratedly affirmative one. All her pretty conciliations were as -nothing to Lady Henge beside the stinging interest of Perior's dislike. - -"I think he may help me about so many things, I so often feel a -helplessness in self-expression; the idea is there--but the form! the -form! ah, my dear, art, after all, is form." (This piece of information -was certainly bitter to our martyrized heroine.) - -"As you said, his severity may, to a certain extent, be conservatism, -academic narrowness, but I have always heard of him as widely -appreciative." - -Camelia could answer for the width of appreciation that her resentment -had falsified on the unlucky night of the first performance; she -remembered now, with a little flush, that her saddling of him with -tastes not his own must have seemed to him the culmination of spiteful -pettiness. And then he had not rejoined--had not defended himself, even -against that intimation of academics opposed to his dearly loved -Schumann. Camelia could soothe herself with an "I don't care! He -deserved it. He was horrid;" but all the same the memory brought a -hotness to her cheeks. She felt very angry, too, with Lady Henge, and, -while smiling pleasantly, found some satisfaction in various cynical -mental comments on the weighty intricacy of her cap, and the vast -stupidity of her self-absorption. - -"Do you know, my dear, that phrase," and Lady Henge struck it out -demonstratively from the piano near which she stood; "that phrase does -sound a little weak." Weak! Camelia could have capped the criticism -very pungently. With a good deal of disgust at a situation which had so -neatly turned the tables upon her, she said, "Mr. Perior may tell you -so; I really can't." Her fate evidently was to support Lady Henge by a -fraternity in inferior taste; and to be branded with inferior taste, -even in Lady Henge's eyes, was certainly rather galling. She had not -bargained for it at all, nor dreamed that Lady Henge's complacency would -go down like a ninepin before Perior's brutal missile. Her little -perjury had not been in the least worth while. - -Perior, having the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, arrived next -morning with an impressive roll of music, and Camelia laughed, with some -acidity it must be confessed, as she heard in the drawing-room the -convincing energy of his demonstrations. Fragments of the poor _poème -symphonique_, panting from their cruel dissection, reached her ears -while she strolled about the lawns with Sir Arthur. - -She foresaw that Lady Henge would prove a humble convert, and that she -herself, if not to be convicted of gross insincerity, must remain -gibbeted in a stubborn unconversion. - -"Your mother is very patient," she said, as, from the distant piano, the -dogged repetition of a phrase emphasized its feeble absurdity. "Mr. -Perior as mentor is in his element." - -Sir Arthur laughed with a good-humored recollection of his own political -rebuff at Perior's hands. - -"He is uncompromisingly honest. If you ask for his advice he'll give it -to you." - -"Give it to you unasked sometimes," said Camelia. - -Sir Arthur had told her all about that lost cause, and all about his -plans for the future. There was a very delightful plan for the very near -future; the next session would decide the fate of the Factory Bill that -went by her lover's name, and Camelia, under her attentive quietness, -felt a heaving sigh of ambition gather. Sir Arthur's grave eagerness -showed that after his winning of herself, his political campaign filled -the chief place in his hopes and thoughts. Her interest delighted him, -and the intelligence of her comments. - -He had himself an almost reverent belief in the bill, and Camelia's -sympathetic affirmatives seemed to chime deliciously with his own deep, -active pity for the dim, toiling masses the bill was to reach and -succor. Such a common object was a sanctification; he could hardly, he -felt, have loved a woman who did not feel his own deep pity. They talked -now of the coming struggle, of the rather dubious success of the second -reading that might yet be enhanced for the third. - -"And do you know," he said, "Perior, positively Perior, approves; he is -buckling on his armor for the final fray. An individuality like that -counts, you know. A few leaders in the _Friday_ would rally many -waverers." - -Camelia flushed suddenly when he said this; it delighted her sense of -proprietorship in Perior to hear his praise--to hear that for others, -too, he counted. And yet a touch of pain came with the delight, -reminding her that under present conditions the delight was very -generous, and proprietorship very unassured. - -How he evaded it! Yes, he certainly was horrid; but her breath came -quickly, and with a deft persistence she kept Sir Arthur still talking -of him, finding in his answers to her questions on his youth glimpses of -Perior's. - -"Always generous, always intolerant, always tripping into ditches while -star-gazing," said Sir Arthur; "he has an exaggerated strain in him; it -must be that Irish ancestress. He feels everything more acutely than -thicker-skinned mortals, sees everything, the good and the bad, -magnified--a trifle grotesquely. But it is a noble nature;" and he went -on, as they walked back and forth over the lawn, Perior's pianoforte -exposition, firmly insistent, coming to their ears at broken intervals: -"Perior is staunch on individualism, as you know; believes in the -hygienic value to the race of the combat--a savage creed, I tell him; -but he has amended it; he is not one jot afraid of seeming inconsistent; -he owns to the scientific logic of our attitude. I was afraid he would -accuse us of socialistic methods, tyrannical kindness, State -intervention," and so from Perior Sir Arthur went back to the -all-absorbing topic of the bill; he could allow the bill to absorb him. -For all Camelia's evasions and smiling warnings to patience, he was -deliciously sure of the ultimate end of all. He could afford to be -patient with the luminous sympathy of her eyes upon him, afford to talk -of the unfortunate women-workers whose long hours the kind tyranny of -the bill would restrict, while this woman listened with such a sweet -chiming of pity. - -"If you could only count on a fair following among the Liberals," -Camelia said, phrasing his keenest anxiety, "horrid egotists! They all -have factories, I suppose. Mr. Rodrigg may wrest your dubious majority -from you; he is the lion in your path, isn't he? and he has a whole town -of factories. What chance has a moral conviction against a town of -factories? And he is such a bull-dog; I did wrong to dignify him by the -leonine simile." - -"Such a clever chap, too," said Sir Arthur; "bull-dog cleverness, I -mean." - -"And bull-dogs are so dear," Camelia said, as a small brindled member of -the race, his head haloed by a ferociously bristling collar, came -bounding to them over the lawn. "Dear, precious beastie," she put her -hand on the dog's head as he stood on his hind-legs to greet her, "we -must indeed find another epithet for Mr. Rodrigg, not that I dislike -him, you know. He shares some of your opinions," she added rather -roguishly. - -"Not one, I fear." - -"Yes, one," she insisted. Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt on her charming look; -it carried him into vagueness as he asked-- - -"What one?" not caring at all for Mr. Rodrigg's community of taste, and -smiling at her loveliness. - -"I think he is rather fond of me," Camelia owned. Sir Arthur could -afford a generous laugh. - -"Poor old Rodrigg! He has then a vulnerable point in his armor?" - -"Yes, indeed, yes. I don't know that it amounts to a weakness. I fear I -couldn't wheedle him. But, you might convince him, and I might -help,--and, he is coming down next week." She laughed out at his look -of surprise. "That is news, isn't it?" - -In her very heart of hearts Camelia was rather complacently convinced -that Mr. Rodrigg's fondness _did_ amount to a weakness. Mr. Rodrigg's -devotion was in our young lady's fastidious opinion his one redeeming -quality. She had kindly, but thoroughly, she thought, nipped in the bud -certain too aspiring attempts; but the man was all the more her friend. - -His devotion was built upon a fine hopelessness that really dignified -him. - -She was an Egeria who hovered above him, gently smiling at his -earthiness. Yes, she was kind; for Mr. Rodrigg was a most important -person--emphatically, personally important just now, it seemed; and -though Camelia's thoughts of him were merely humorously tolerant, she -felt quite sure of a wealth of unreturned friendship, ready to transmute -itself into golden action at her bidding. She could but pride herself a -little upon her intellectual influence over her unpresumptuous Numa, and -thought that she could, through that dignified influence alone, by all -means wheedle him, if wheedling became necessary. Sir Arthur would -hardly approve of these personal methods, and therefore he need not know -of the little game that might win his cause; a perfectly innocent game, -she assured herself, since it hurt no one and helped Sir Arthur; and if -Mr. Rodrigg were to be convinced, Sir Arthur must fancy himself sole -winner. - -He did not seem to recognize the possibility, for after his pause of -surprise he laughed again, saying, "Is he coming on _my_ account?" - -"Not on _his_, I am sure!" - -"You know, it won't do any good," he smiled fondly at her, as one smiles -at the folly of a loved woman; "Rodrigg is too deeply pledged, has his -whole party behind him. I could no more convince him, even in these -enchanted premises, than in the dry precincts of the House. Political -conversions are very rare." - -"But you _may_ convert him," Camelia urged. "I will give you every -opportunity." - -"And it is rather unfair, you know." Sir Arthur paused in their -strolling to look at her face, half shadowed in the sunlight by the brim -of her white hat. "He perhaps imagines that he is coming for purposes -far removed from the political." - -"Oh no, no, no. I tell you, dear Sir Arthur, that--well--since you must -have it--I refused him. He hasn't a hope; I pinched the last pangs out -of him a long time ago. In fact, I let him see that I found his audacity -rather funny than piteous. I have laughed him into most submissive -platonics. He will come, because he really is my friend, and really -likes me; and I want him to come, because he must like you." - -"Camelia!" Sir Arthur had used her name more than once of late, and she -let it pass with a half-merry, half-menacing little glance. - -"You dear little schemer," he added. Though spoken in tenderest teasing, -Camelia was just enough conscious of a certain applicability to say with -some quickness-- - -"Not _really_. You know I'm not. I only want to help you--legitimately, -I would not lift my little finger to win your cause if you did not want -me to." - -"Really, I know you're not!" Sir Arthur's voice retained the teasing -quality, but the tenderness had deepened; Camelia was listening all the -while to those dogged passages from the piano. They ceased now, and a -certain gravity and determination of look that had succeeded Sir -Arthur's last words quite justified a sudden retreat. - -"I must go and make Mr. Perior stop to lunch. One only gets him out of -his lair by force and wheedling! I wheedle _him_!" She left Sir Arthur -rather disconsolately cut short, and ran off to the house, her own words -ringing reassuringly in her ears. Yes, she could wheedle him. Despite -unreason, stupid unreason, despite rebellious crossness and pretended -indifference, she had the mastery. He cared so much; that was the -fundamental fact that upheld Camelia's assurance; he cared enough to be -very angry. He would try to hide his anger of course. Her heart had -beaten rather quickly when Sir Arthur's face took on that look of -resolve--she was not ready, not quite sure, not yet, but flight from his -purpose had been only a secondary impulse. She must see Perior. She ran -through the morning-room and met him coming down the stairs, and panting -a little, laughing a little, she leaned against the banisters and -opposed his passage. - -"Well, have you taught her how bad it is?" - -"I think I have," said Perior, looking over Camelia's head at the open -doorway. She stood aside to let him join her. - -"What have you to teach me this morning--_caballero de la triste -figura_?" she said as he came down the stairs and stood beside her. - -"I don't propose to teach you anything. I am not responsible for you." - -Camelia had not analyzed his probable mood incorrectly; he was angry, -and he was trying to hide his anger, fearing for his self-control. But -more than that--though this the acute Camelia had never quite -divined--he was feeling very unhappy. That he was angry she saw, -however, with a little thrill of triumph running through her veins. -Smiling an even smile she said, slipping her hand through his arm-- - -"Ah! but you _are_ responsible. Come into the morning-room." - -"Is Lady Paton there?" Perior asked gloomily. - -"Yes." Camelia had seen her mother and Mary walking safely away into the -garden with Gwendolen Holt and Lady Tramley. She threw open the door and -ushered him in. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -Perior surveyed the emptiness; it hardly surprised him, and well -understanding her determination to wheedle him, he felt an added -strength of determination not to be wheedled. - -"What have you got to say, now that you've got me here?" he asked, -putting down his music and looking at her. - -"You bandersnatch!" Camelia still held his arm. "I am sure you look like -a bandersnatch; a biting, snarling creature. You have a truly -_snatching_ way of speaking." - -"What have you got to say, Camelia?" Perior repeated, withdrawing his -arm from the circling clasp upon it. - -"I have got to say that you must stay to lunch." - -"Well, I can't do that." - -"Then you may sit down and talk to me a little--scold me if you like; do -you feel like scolding me?" - -"I have never scolded you, Camelia," said Perior, knowing that before -her lightness his solemnity showed to disadvantage; but he would be -nothing but solemn, ludicrously solemn if necessary. - -"You were never sure I deserved it, then," said Camelia, stooping to -gather up her dog for a swift kiss, and laughing over his round head at -Perior's stiffness; "else you would have done your duty, I am sure--you -never forget your duty." - -"Thanks; your recognition is flattering." - -"There, my pet, go--poor Sir Arthur is lonely, go to him," said Camelia, -opening the window for Siegfried's exit, "you know your sarcasm doesn't -impress me one bit--not one bit," she added. - -"I don't fancy that anything I could say would impress you," Perior -replied, eyeing her little manoeuvres, "and since I have seen -Siegfried receive his kiss, I really must go," and at this Perior took -up his music with decision; to see him assuming indifference so badly -was delightful to Camelia. - -"_Why_ were you so rude to poor Lady Henge the other evening?" she -demanded, couching her lance and preparing for the shock of encounter; -"you were hideously rude, you know." - -"Yes, I know." Perior still eyed her, his departure effectually checked. - -"Then, why were you?" - -"Because you lied." - -"Oh, what an ugly word!" cried Camelia lightly, though with a little -chill, for the unpleasant sincerity of Perior's look she felt to be more -than she had bargained for. "What a big, ungainly word to fling at poor -little me! You should eschew such gross elementary forms of speech, -Alceste; really, they are not becoming." - -"I hate lies," said Perior tersely, thinking, as he spoke, that by the -logic of the words he should hate Camelia too--for what was she but -unmitigated falseness personified? He had lost his nervousness, now that -the moment for plain speaking had arrived. - -"And you call _that_ a lie?" - -"I call it a lie." She considered him gravely. - -"I tried to give pleasure, you tried to give pain." - -"I tried to restore the balance." - -"I cannot think it wrong to slight the truth a little--from mere -kindness." - -"And I think it wrong to lie. And," Perior added, his voice taking on an -added depth of indignant scorn, "you lied to Arthur; I saw you." - -"You saw!" Camelia could not repress a little gasp. - -"I saw that he caught your humorous and hospitable comments on his -mother's performance, and I saw your cajolery afterwards. I am sure I -can't imagine how you hoodwinked him. It was neatly done, Camelia." - -Camelia felt herself growing pale, losing the victor's smiling calm. -Here he was brutally voicing the very scruples she had laid to rest -after moments of most generous self-doubt--atoning moments, as she felt. -The playful game in which she would tease him into comprehension--absolution, -had been turned into an ugly punishment. The wrinkled rose leaves of -self-accusation that had disturbed her serenity had actually--in his -hands--grown into thorny branches, and he was whipping her with them. -She had never felt so at a loss, for she could not laugh. - -"You would have had me pain him too!" she cried, her anger vindictively -seeking a retaliatory lash. "Well, you are a prig!--an insufferable -prig! I did nothing wrong!--except mistake your sense of humor." - -This was certainly on her side a less dignified colloquy than the one -with the looking-glass; she fancied that Perior looked with some -curiosity at her anger. - -"Was it wrong to smile at you, then?" she said. - -"Yes, it was wrong." Perior had all the advantage of calm, and she was -helplessly aware that her excitement fortified his self-control. - -"I thought the piece funny. Was I to tell her so?" - -"You should have kept still about it. You mocked your guest behind her -back and flattered her to her face. That is mean, despicable," said -Perior, planting his slashes very effectively. - -"To laugh with you was like laughing to myself," said Camelia, steadying -her lips, and wondering vaguely if victory might not yet be wrested from -this humiliation; his inflexible cruelty forced from her that half -appeal. "It was merely thinking aloud, and to tell a few kindly little -fibs--as every woman does, a hundred times a day--is not flattery." - -"To gain a person's liking on false pretences is base; and I don't care -how many women do it--nor how often they do it. I shan't argue with you, -Camelia. We don't see things alike. Follow your own path, by all means; -it will lead you to success no doubt, and for a nature like yours there -will be no bitterness in such success." - -He looked away from her now, as if, despite her immunity from it, he -felt that bitterness. He felt it, though she did not. He looked away in -the depth of his disgust and pain, conscious, though, of the golden -blur of her hair, the indistinct oval of her face, the cool vague gray -of her linen dress, as she stood still, not far from him. Camelia felt -herself trembling. She beat off his cruel injustice--but it was hurting -her--it was making her helpless. - -"For what success do you imply that I am scheming?" she asked, and even -while she spoke angry tears rushed to her eyes. To be misjudged was a -new sensation; a hot self-pity smarted within her. - -Perior did not see the tears, for he still looked away, saying in a -voice that showed how clearly cut, how definitely perceived was the -conviction, "The success of marrying a man you love little enough to lie -to. Henge could not forgive you if he knew that you had lied to him and -to his mother, yet he adores you--you have that on false pretences too. -There is the truth for you, Camelia; and, upon my soul, I am sorry for -Arthur. I pity him from the bottom of my heart." - -"How dare you! how dare you!" cried Camelia, bursting into tears. "It is -false--false--false!" - -Taken aback, Perior stared blankly at her. It was the first time that he -had reduced her to weeping. "Oh, Camelia!" he stood still--he would not -approach her; he felt that since she could cry her helplessness was -fully armed, and he quite helpless; his supremacy robbed of all value. - -"Every word you say is false!" she said, returning his stare defiantly, -while the tears rolled down her cheeks. "I am _not_ scheming to marry -him! I have not let him propose to me yet! I am not sure that I shall; -I am not sure that I shall accept him, and if I do, it will be because I -love him!" - -Perior hardly believed her, and yet he was much confused, especially as -with a fresh access of sobs her face quivered in the pathetic grimace of -loveliness distorted; before that the real issue of the situation seemed -slipping away; her repudiation of the greater dishonesty effaced, for -the moment, the smaller; he had nothing to say--she probably believed in -herself; and those helpless sobs were so touching to him that, -notwithstanding his unappeased anger against her, he could have gone to -her and taken her in his arms to comfort her, at any cost--even at the -cost of seeming to ask pardon. He did not do this, however, but said, -"Don't cry, don't cry, Camelia; you mustn't cry. I'm glad you feel it in -that way; I am glad you can cry over it." He did not go to her, but his -very attitude of nervous hesitation told Camelia that he was worsted--at -least worsted enough for the practical purposes of the moment. - -She got out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, still feeling very -sore-hearted, very much injured; but when the tears were gone she came -up to him saying, while she looked at him with all the victorious pathos -of wet lashes and trembling lips, "You are not kind to me, Alceste." - -He moved away from her a little, but took her hands. "Because you are -naughty, Célimène." - -"I will be good. I won't tell fibs." - -"A very commendable resolution." - -"You mock me. You won't believe a liar." - -"Don't, please don't speak of it again, Camelia." - -"Say you are sorry for having said it." - -"Oh, you little rogue!" Taking her face between his hands he studied it -with a sad curiosity. "I am sorry for having _had_ to say it." - -"Oh, prig, prig, prig." She smiled at him now from the narrow frame, her -own delicious smile. - -"And bandersnatch if you will," said Perior, shaking her gently by the -shoulders, and putting her away with a certain resignation. - -"My good old bandersnatch! _Dear_ old bandersnatch! After all, I need a -bandersnatch, don't I, to keep me straight? Yes, I forgive you. I must -put up with you, and you must put up with me, fibs and all--fibs, do you -hear, not lies. Oh, ugly word!" She clasped her hands on his arm, poor -Perior! "And you will stay to lunch?" - -"No, I won't stay to lunch," said Perior, smiling despite himself. - -"Why?" - -"I am busy." - -"You are a prig, you know," said Camelia, as if that summed up the -situation conclusively. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Whether Camelia were decided on accepting Sir Arthur or not, every one -else, under a waiting silence, considered the engagement an accomplished -fact. Poor Mr. Merriman departed disconsolately when the reality of his -utter ruin forced itself upon his unwilling understanding. Sir Harry -contemplated the hopeless situation more compliantly, oscillated for a -few days between feeble despair and jocular resignation, and then -finding it impossible to utterly tear himself away from his charmer's -magnetic presence, he settled down to a melancholy flirtation with Mrs. -Fox-Darriel that masked his inability to retreat. Lord and Lady Tramley -went on to another visit, and the poet who wrote the virile poems and -believed in the joy of life, finding Miss Paton less sympathetic than -usual, penned a laconic, psychological verselet for her benefit, and -departed. - -Camelia seemed rather vague in the furtherance of hospitable projects, -and the merest trickle of visitors went through the house, affecting -very slightly the really placid routine. - -Lady Paton's whole personality expanded in prettiest contentment; the -calm so far surpassed her expectations, and Camelia seemed very happy. -Lady Paton could but take for granted her happiness. - -Camelia was living the most poetical moment of life; she made no -confidences; but Lady Paton's trust walked in a sadly sweet dream where -her daughter's courtship mingled with tearful memories of her own. -Charles Paton's smile; the first fluttering consciousness that the smile -came oftenest for her; she still blushed as she remembered the moment -when he had murmured to her as they danced that she had the prettiest -throat in England; it had seemed so daring to little Miss Fairleigh, who -had read her first novel only six months before; the very memory still -had the glamour of daring. And Camelia was feeling all those tremulous -delights, with their deep undercurrent of sacred solemnity. - -Camelia was not demonstrative, Lady Paton had sighed over the accepted -fact, but she could trace all such natural emotions on Sir Arthur's face -when he watched or spoke to her daughter. She already felt a maternal -tenderness for him, and his exquisite courtesy, that already implied -rights, was nothing less than filial. - -Lady Henge's dignified intellectuality she found indeed rather awesome, -but she hoped by careful listening to expand her powers of -comprehension, and Lady Henge delivered her expositions of social ethics -with a pleasant faith in their tonic effect upon the suppressed mind of -her hostess-- - -"Suppressed, repressed, Arthur, not shallow," she said to her son, "and -you could not ask a daintier, truer gentlewoman for your wife's mother, -dear." Lady Henge sighed just a little--though quite resigned to the -future--for the Duchess of Amshire's mind was neither suppressed nor -shallow, but as expansive and capable an organ as her own, and -infinitely sympathetic. Lady Elizabeth, too!--Lady Elizabeth, who had -worked at shirt-making in the slums for two weeks, and had caught -typhoid fever at it--even Camelia's sunny charm could not efface the -thought of Lady Elizabeth's almost providential fitness. But in spite of -inevitable regrets Lady Henge was resigned, and the two mothers got on -together very pleasantly, since moulding capability can hardly carp at a -gentle, clay-like receptivity. - -Mr. Rodrigg seemed the only new guest intended for any permanence of -stay. He duly arrived at the given date and hour, a punctual man, very -much aware of his own importance, and of the importance to him, and to -others, of every moment. - -And Mr. Rodrigg was really a very important personage and his moments -weighty with significance. And this iron-gray, middle-aged man had not -at all foolishly fallen in love with the brilliant Miss Paton. A wife so -beautiful, so capable, so charming, would be the finishing touch to his -influence; matter-of-fact motives may well have underlain Mr. Rodrigg's -amorous determination, which Camelia thought so effectually snuffed out. -But indeed Mr. Rodrigg's determination was far too strong to credit -hers. His self-confidence smiled kindly upon a pretty coquetry. The -exquisite grace of Camelia's rebuff--she had almost thought it worthy of -publicity, so felicitous had been its delicate sweep round a corner -dangerous to friendship--had merely impressed Mr. Rodrigg's -unappreciative bluntness with a reassuring conviction of trifling and -postponement. - -The lightness of touch, the deft cleverness upon which our poor Titania -so prided herself, were surveyed in this instance by an ass's head; the -effect she thought so prettily made was quite missed, and she herself -its only spectator. - -The portentousness of Arthur Henge's presence at Enthorpe did not in the -least weigh with Mr. Rodrigg against the final choice he considered as -expressed in Lady Paton's invitation. Miss Paton had put him off--but -she had not let him go; so Mr. Rodrigg interpreted the Egeria attitude; -she demanded patience--and she should have it. She was too clever a girl -to tolerate whining commonplaces; she would appreciate his whimsical -calm; he would not whine--he would wait and humor her. - -She liked to have important people about her, and Mr. Rodrigg explained -Sir Arthur very much as Camelia had explained Mr. Rodrigg. It was -platonic friendliness--quite hopeless. He realized that Camelia might -dally with his own hopes, that skill might be necessary to win her -finally, and he intended to be very skilful, to show no jealousy or -carping that might indispose her towards his future marital authority. -And Mr. Rodrigg hardly felt the fitness of jealousy. He was, he thought, -a cleverer man than Henge, a man of more intrinsic weight. Henge had a -light and pretty talent, spoke with conviction, but was not the man to -sway the world with socialism rewarmed in Tory saucepans; whereas Europe -trembled at Mr. Rodrigg's nod, at least so Mr. Rodrigg, not -unreasonably, was convinced. The "good match" theory in explanation of -Camelia's motives only fortified his own quiet consciousness of -supremacy. He quite gave Camelia credit for an undazzled directness of -vision that would surely apprise her of the side on which her bread was -most thickly buttered. So Mr. Rodrigg arrived in an atmosphere of -blue-books and business unavoidable, though with a minor effect of a -great mind unbending to lighter mundanities. His face was typically -British; ruddy, with broad features clearly hewn; keen eyes, a tight -mouth, and an expression of sagacious toleration of things in general. - -Camelia met him with her prettiest air of mutual understanding that -would warrant the neatest epigrams. Her penetration of Mr. Rodrigg's -character had never quite realized his tenacious conceit. - -He had been anxious, he had been hurt; but he had never imagined that -Camelia thought him hopeless. Her complacent conviction of intellectual -conquest was far indeed from his suppositions; the results of her -Italian reading had been adroitly thrown into his speech as a piece of -pretty flattery, that a great man might harmlessly permit himself -towards a wilful, easily flattered woman. So the two stupidities met -quite unconscious one of the other. - -Mr. Rodrigg was to stop for a fortnight at least, and as Sir Arthur had -to absent himself at intervals during the period, Camelia was all the -more content. She feared that Sir Arthur's attitude of independence and -non-expectancy might antagonize Mr. Rodrigg. She relied upon her own -arguments, her own flattering influence. She sat up late at night -cramming the pamphlets, reports, and books with which Sir Arthur -supplied her. The resultant pallor at breakfast deepened the effect of -an intellectual atmosphere in which she wrapped herself serenely. Mr. -Rodrigg smiled, paternally almost, and with his most tolerant calm, upon -these efforts. He cut her a large slice of cold beef at the side-board -and advised her to take a glass of port; "You mustn't tire yourself, you -know, my dear young lady." - -He rather resented Henge's evident influence when he saw how deeply -Camelia was determined on the bill, but not really troubled by it. -Camelia's fervor of sympathy seemed really personal; girlish -emotionalism, a futile but pretty pity quite interpreted her tenacity. -He was rather pleased that she should be on the side of the factory -women, though anxious to explain to her that the logic of his own -position need not exclude that partiality. - -He thought it safer, however, to argue as little as possible, and -listened attentively and pleasantly, quite willing to go this far in -humoring. Meanwhile Camelia's delay in announcing an engagement imposed -a general silence; no one spoke of Sir Arthur as an accepted lover, and -Mr. Rodrigg might perhaps be pardoned if no such instinctive intimation -penetrated his thick self-confidence. Sir Arthur coming down for a -Saturday and Sunday in Mr. Rodrigg's visit, and going off again on a -Monday, rather avoided an encounter. - -Mr. Rodrigg himself good-humoredly introduced the subject of the bill -one evening in the smoking-room, and they talked of it amicably and -impersonally for a little while. But after this talk Sir Arthur said to -Camelia-- - -"I see very plainly where he stands. He will be firmly against me; his -reticence doesn't conceal that." - -"Are you sure?" asked Camelia. She herself was not at all sure. In a -walk with Mr. Rodrigg that morning she had certainly observed promising -leaf-blades break the stiff soil of his non-committal attitude. Camelia -did not imagine that her own beaming smile might well allure those -vernal symptoms. - -"Quite sure," said Sir Arthur, who was really getting rather tired of -Mr. Rodrigg and his utility, "and--now that I won't see you again until -next Thursday--won't you talk of something as far removed from the bill -as possible." - -"That would be a very uninteresting something," said Camelia. "No, I can -think of nothing but politics just now. Whose fault is that, pray? Did -you see the report Mr. Dobson sent me this morning? You don't want to -see it! Fie, you lukewarm reformer. Now pray be patient--we will talk of -something else on Thursday, perhaps." So she warded him off, conscious -always of that trembling retreat when the momentous question approached -her. She was almost glad when Sir Arthur was gone again. At all events, -she would make a good fight for his cause whether or no she accepted -him. - -"And you are on our side too, are you not?" she said to Perior, for -Perior, more silent than ever, and revolving inner cogitations on his -own laxity, still made an almost daily visit. - -He owned that he was on "their side." - -"And you will support us in the _Friday_." - -"I am going to do my best." - -"But not because I ask you!" laughed Camelia, who still felt a little -soreness since that uncomfortable interview where she had so much -surprised herself. She was still rather resentful, and sorry that her -tears might have implied confession. She was conscious now of a touch of -defiance behind the light smiling of her eyes as he owned that her -asking formed no compulsory element in his decision. - -"Don't you think that Mr. Rodrigg may be malleable?" Camelia pursued, -"Sir Arthur is to convert him, you know." - -"You or Sir Arthur?" She laughed at this. "Would it be terribly wicked -if I tried my hand at it?" - -"It would be terribly useless," Perior remarked; but Camelia looked -placidly unconvinced. - -"I am justified in trying, am I not?" - -"That depends;" Perior was decidedly cautious. - -"Since I believe thoroughly in the bill; since only intellectual forces -will be brought to bear on our stodgy friend,--there is nothing of the -lobbyist in it." - -"I am sure that Henge wouldn't like it," said Perior, with the certain -coolness he always evinced in speaking to her of Sir Arthur. - -"Why not?" - -"It would put him in a false position towards Rodrigg. Rodrigg will -imagine that you are bribing him." - -"_Bribing_ him!" Camelia straightened herself. - -"Yes; that the price paid for his apostasy will be your hand," and this -indeed was exactly what Mr. Rodrigg, with some alarm, was beginning to -think. - -"Apostasy! If the creature won't be sincerely convinced we don't want -him!" cried Camelia. - -"Very well, you have my opinion of the matter." Perior's whole manner -had of late been particularly irksome to Camelia. - -Lady Henge meanwhile, seeing her son's foe within the gates, most -seriously and conscientiously, and openly, made good her opportunity. -She took her mental mastery far more gravely than Camelia took hers, and -poor Mr. Rodrigg began to think that he was asked to pay a heavy price -for his hymeneal visit when Lady Henge cornered him in the drawing-room -and stupefyingly admonished him. Lady Henge's arguments were all based -on superbly moral grounds, and levelled with severity at the iniquity of -individualistic theories, which she demonstrated to be scientifically -and ethically unsound. He at times found it very difficult to keep his -temper. But under the exquisite warmth of Camelia's urgency his hopes -were high. He could regard with humoring half compliances this pretty -whim of his pretty Camelia. Camelia would have raged could she have -known Mr. Rodrigg's real impressions--impressions accompanied by the -fatherly tolerance of that "pretty Camelia." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -Sir Arthur was back again on Thursday, alertly conscious of a half -promise, and he intended to put it to the test while he and Camelia rode -together in the afternoon. The party was made up: Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -Gwendolen Holt, Sir Harry, and another young man--but Camelia did not -go. The horses were already before the door, and she, fully equipped in -riding costume, engaged before her mirror on the final details of veil -and gloves, when Perior rode up; Camelia saw him through the window, and -heard him decline to join their party, as he had come for Mary. Mary was -not a good rider, nor could she be urged beyond the dullest trot, and -Perior's refusal was no doubt on her account. Poor Alceste! Condemned to -Mary for a whole afternoon! In a rapid change of project Camelia dashed -out of her habit and into her prettiest white dress, sent down a note to -Sir Arthur pleading sudden headache, and commanding him to go without -her, saw the five depart obediently, and placidly descended to capture -Perior. Mary was getting ready; Camelia, as she passed her room, saw her -sewing a button on a glove, her habit laid in readiness on the bed. -Camelia would have liked her ride; it was only from the impulsive wish -for ten or fifteen minutes with Perior that she had sacrificed it, and -she saw with satisfaction that Mary would take quite that time. - -"Well, how do you do?" she said, finding him as usual in the -morning-room, "I _think_ we have got him," she added, picking up the -threads of their last conversation. - -"That is Rodrigg, of course," said Perior, looking with a pleasure he -could not conceal at her charming appearance. He felt for a moment like -telling her that in that dress she was bewitchingly pretty, but checked -the impulse with some surprise at it. - -"Yes, I argued out the whole third clause with him yesterday," said -Camelia, smiling her happiest smile, for she was quite conscious of -those unspoken words. - -"Dear me!" - -"He seemed impressed--though you are not. Sit down." - -"He seemed what he was not, no doubt--I haven't the faculty." Perior -spoke quite good-temperedly. Indeed, Camelia's political manoeuvres -did not displease him--consoled him in a sense. There was a pretty folly -about them quite touching, and her earnestness seemed to vouch for some -real feeling. - -"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, taking the place -beside him on the sofa and leaning forward, her arms on her knees. - -"The man wants to please you," said Perior, looking at her white hands -hanging idly together. He wondered again whether egotism or a real -fondness for Arthur moved her. - -The long delay of the engagement excited and made him nervous. It had -usually been so easy to see through Camelia, and he did not like the -perplexity. Still, the thought that she hesitated pleased him; she would -accept Arthur, doubtlessly, but at least she would imagine that she -cared for him. Camelia had gained some moral value in his eyes from that -pause. - -"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, feeling -delightedly that the atmosphere was much less chilling than usual. - -"The man wants to please you." - -"Well, and what then?" - -"He expects to marry you." - -"Nonsense!" she said with a laugh of truest sincerity. - -"Tell him that you are engaged to Arthur, and see." Perior's curiosity -made that little probe, and the eyes of both showed a mutual -self-consciousness; both thought of the last scene in the morning-room. - -"I can't make the experiment yet, even to please you," said Camelia, -satisfied that her cheeks showed no rising color. "Mr. Rodrigg is really -attached to me. He would do a great deal for me." - -"Your smile for all reward." - -"Exactly." - -"You are a goose, Camelia." - -But she was pleasing him; her conceit amused him almost tenderly, and he -laughed. - -"You think me fatuous, no doubt," said Camelia, laughing too. - -"Yes, rather fatuous. Not as clear-sighted as usual." - -"Mr. Rodrigg knows that I could never marry him," said Camelia more -gravely; "he can only hope for my smile, and, if he helps me through, I -shall always smile." - -"I don't credit Mr. Rodrigg with the faintest flavor of such humility." - -Camelia's smile, confidently unconvinced, now shifted to a humorous -little grimace. "He never really hoped. As though I _could_ have married -a man with a nose like that!" - -"I maintain that he does so hope--despite his nose; an excellently -honest nose it is too." - -"So broad at the tip! as though he had flattened it against adverse -forces all his life. It is a plebeian trait, an inheritance from -money-getting ancestors who held theirs conscientiously to the -grindstone." - -"Mine should show the peculiarity," and Perior rubbed it, "it has been -ground persistently." - -"Ah--a merely acquired tendency; besides, you are not going to ask me to -marry you--so you may carry your nose fearlessly." Camelia's eye, -despite the light audacity of her tone, fixed him with a certain alert -hardness. - -Perior bowed, his hand on his heart. "Thanks for the intimation. I shall -carry it quite fearlessly, I assure you." - -Camelia laughed. "But I like your nose," said she, leaning towards him; -and, very much as a kitten gives a roguish paw-tap, she drew a finger -briskly down the feature in question. - -Perior grew a little red, and drew back rather sharply. - -"What a staid person you are," said Camelia, quite unabashed; "you don't -take a compliment gracefully, Alceste; not that it was a compliment, -exactly, since your nose is not at all handsome; a poor thing but to my -taste. I like its dominant ruggedness, and that nice lift in the -bridge." - -"Well, Camelia, I came to take Mary out riding, you know," said Perior, -who still showed signs of uneasiness under her scrutiny. - -"Yes, I know; you are so good to Mary. She is getting ready." - -Camelia contemplated Perior's paternal relation towards Mary most -unsuspectingly, yet she really did not like it. She could not like -anything that withdrew a very important tributary from the river-like -receptivity of her existence. Mary's narrow channel was quite unmeet for -such a complimentary contribution, and Camelia was sincerely convinced -of the mere charitableness of Perior's attitude. Then, above all, Perior -was her own especial property; Mary might profit by him when she did not -feel the want of him, and this afternoon she wanted him--very much, as -it now struck her. To have sacrificed her ride for this bare ten minutes -had been hardly worth while. She had not looked beyond the impulse of -the moment, and the lonely hours stretched in long inconsistency before -her. She thought of them now with some surprised dismay, and her eyes, -still contemplating Perior's nose, grew vague with conjecture. Perior -certainly, despite his latter severity, would rather spend his afternoon -with her than with Mary. He could not own to it, of course, nor would -she force him to such an issue; but it might be managed--pleasantly for -every one, for all three. Camelia's life, so wide in its all embracing -objectivity, had little time for self-analysis, little time therefore -for putting herself in other people's places. Her lack of sympathy was -grounded on a lack of all self-knowledge. Therefore her mind turned the -matter quickly in the direction that best suited the desire of the -moment, good and bad being to Camelia external facts that either pleased -or displeased herself, and she said without one inner compunction, -"Shall I hurry her up? And I must see that she puts her hat on properly. -Mary has an unerring instinct for the unbecoming." - -"Has she?" said Perior, in the tone that Camelia well understood as -being altogether unencouraging and perhaps disgusted. "Don't hurry her. -I can wait." - -"See how unkindly I dress my best impulses," said Camelia, smiling. "I -really want to help her, and to make her smart and tidy. A few touches -of my fingers about Mary's unfurnished forehead, and her face assumes a -certain grace and prettiness. Alceste, you must not take my flippancy -_au grand sérieux_--you are in danger of becoming ridiculous, Alceste, I -warn you of it." She had certainly succeeded in making "Alceste" smile, -and with a reassured and reassuring wave of the hand she left him, -delighted with her own ability for forcing him to swallow her -naughtinesses--for swallow them he must; she would feign nothing for -him; she would exaggerate even the defects he saw so solemnly. She was -quite sure now that she must not be left alone, and that Perior must -spend the afternoon with her. She ran upstairs quickly, conscious of -how prettily she sprang from stair to stair, of how charmingly with its -silk and muslin rustle her white dress swayed about her, conscious even -of the distinguished elegance of her white hand gliding up the hand -rail; for Camelia had always time for these æsthetic notes, and her -grace, her dress, and her hand were so many reasons for keeping Perior -to admire them. Mary was quite ready, and looking really nice; a pretty -color, and the dull fairness of her hair smoothed neatly beneath her -hat. - -Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed -aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the -barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that -Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of -appreciation. - -Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the -threshold. - -"Were you going with them? They are gone, dear!" - -Mary turned from the mirror, her habit skirt falling from her arm; on -her face a dismal astonishment, that Camelia, absorbed in the mental -completion of her arrangement, hardly noticed. - -"Sir Arthur, Gwendolen, the others--you were going out with them." She -scarcely knew why she hedged her position with this pretence of -ignorance. But Mary's face brightened happily. - -"Oh no, Mr. Perior is going with me. You haven't seen him, then. He came -for me." - -Camelia had the barrel-organ all in readiness, and prepared to roll it -forward without delay. - -"Oh! did he? Well, Mary, I have another plan for you this afternoon, -you will like it just as well, I know. I promised Mrs. Grier to make -that charitable round of visits to her poor people with her this -afternoon. We were to go to the almshouses, and I have a basket of -sweets for the children in Copley, and now I must give up going because -of this dreadful headache, and knowing that nothing would please you -more----." - -It was quite true that Camelia had made the appointment with Mrs. Grier, -but on agreeing to go out riding with Sir Arthur, she had intended to -ride to Mrs. Grier's house and make charming apologies--of which Sir -Arthur's tyrannous monopoly would bear the brunt. By her present plan -both Mary and Mrs. Grier would be pleased. She congratulated herself on -her thoughtful dexterity. Mary liked Mrs. Grier so much, liked -almshouses and poor children, and especially liked the distributing of -goodies among them; Mary gained everything by the little shuffle, and -she was not at all prepared for a certain stiffening and hardening in -her cousin's expression. "It is a lovely basket, and tea and curates -galore," she added, turning on the final roulade of the barrel-organ, -rather wondering, for the coldness of Mary's look was apparent, though -Camelia did not divine the underlying confusion. - -Mary was well trained in self-abnegation, but she turned her eyes away -without replying for a moment: "Could you not send word to Mrs. Grier?" -she asked. - -Camelia felt quite a shock of surprise at the tone, and a sense of -injury that hardened her in advance against possible opposition. - -"Oh, it is too late, my dear--she would be terribly disappointed--and -the children--and the tea prepared for me--the people invited. Why, -Mary, don't you want to go?" - -"I wanted the ride," said Mary in a low voice; and growing very red she -added, "I am afraid Mr. Perior will think me rude." - -"Oh, I will make your excuses!" Camelia, in all the impetus of her -desire, was much vexed by this ungrateful doggedness. - -"Mr. Perior and I could ride over and explain," Mary added. - -Camelia had never met in her cousin such opposition, and a certain -dryness mingled with the real grievance in her voice as she said-- - -"Is your heart so set on this ride, Mary? Mr. Perior will take you out -again, and you know that the pleasure is always rather one-sided, since -he particularly likes a good gallop across country. It isn't quite like -you, I think, to disappoint a friend like Mrs. Grier--you are so fond of -Mrs. Grier, I thought." - -During this speech Mary's face grew crimson. Setting her lips, she began -quickly to draw off her gloves; Camelia felt suddenly a sense of -discomfort. - -"You will enjoy it, I am sure, Mary." - -Mary made no reply, and silently unbuttoned her coat. - -"I beg of you, Mary, not to go if you are going to feel aggrieved about -it. I do not see what I am to do. I thought it would be quite a treat -for you." - -"Thanks, Camelia." - -"You will go, then?" - -"Oh yes, Camelia." - -Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she -could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the -unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She -lingered, however. - -"You are right to keep on that straw hat--it is very becoming to you. -Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make -conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table. -Shall I order the dog-cart for you?" - -"Thanks very much, Camelia." - -"Mary, you make me feel--horridly!" - -Camelia could not check that impulse. "Do you _mind_? You see that I -can't get out of it; you see that it wouldn't do--don't you? I hope you -don't really _mind_." - -"Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless--very -ungrateful." The conventional humility rasped Camelia's discontent. "And -you will tell Mr. Perior?--you will explain?" - -"Yes, yes, dear." - -Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left -her with the assurance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly. -But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the -stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had -been decidedly spoiled by the candle's unmanageable smoking and -guttering. Mary's decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for -feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of petty -falsities for which Perior would have scorned her. - -Remembering that to account comfortably for Mary's absence she must lie -to him, she came to a sudden standstill outside the door of the -morning-room. How badly she had managed everything! She did not want to -lie to him. Why had not Mary been delighted to go--as she should have -been? Only the thought of Mary's general disagreeableness fortified her -a little. - -Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor, -as she entered. - -"Oh, Camelia," he said disappointedly. - -"Only Camelia." She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing -red. - -"Where is Mary?" - -"I have come to make Mary's excuses. She can't go--is so sorry." With an -effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that -to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the -matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her -credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching. - -"Can't go?" he repeated staring. "Why she sent me word that she would be -ready in twenty minutes." - -"She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone--" -(it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), "but couldn't -because of my headache--I have a horrible headache. I would have put her -off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round -of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children, and afterwards -tea and curates galore--" Camelia realized that with a confused -uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. "Mary likes tea -and likes curates," she went on, pushed even further by that sense of -confusion--she had never told her old friend so many lies, "and the -curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a -choice among them." Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny -for suspicion, yet Perior still stared. - -"What a vacuous look!" laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been -forced to cross quite so many Rubicons. - -"I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself--as usual," he said -slowly. - -"Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against -half-a-dozen curates--reinforced by tea and sandwiches?" - -"Mary likes our rides immensely--and I never saw any signs of a fondness -for curates." - -"No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the -Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined." - -Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, "I don't -think she is looking over well--you know her father died of -consumption." - -"Don't; he was my uncle!" Camelia exclaimed. "Still, my chest is as -sound as a drum." She gave it a reassuring thump. - -"That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary's?" - -She looked at him candidly. - -"You foolish, fussy old person! Mary is solidly, stolidly well; who -could associate the lilies and languors of illness with Mary? You are -trying to poetize Mary's prose to worry me, but you can't rhyme it, I -assure you." - -"I don't know about that!" Perior was again, for a moment, silent. "I -don't think Mary has a very gay time of it," he said, speaking with a -half nervous resolution, as though he had often wished to speak and kept -back the words. "She doesn't go out much with you in London, does she?" - -Camelia did not like his tone, but she replied with lightness, "Not -much, Mary is a home-keeping body. She is not exactly fitted for worldly -gaieties, and she understands it perfectly." - -"How trying for Mary"--the nervousness was quite gone now--once he had -broached a delicate subject Perior could handle it with little -compunction. - -"Mary is very happy, if you please. She adores me, and is devoted to -Mamma. Mamma is certainly nicer to her than I am--that is an affair of -temperament, for Mary does bore me tremendously--I think she knows that -she does, but she adores me, since I don't deserve it--the way of the -world--a horrid place--I don't deny it." - -"Happy Mary! allowed to adore your effulgence--but at a distance--since -she bores you, and knows she does!" And over his collar Camelia could -observe that Perior's neck had grown red. She joined him at the window, -and said, looking up at his face-- - -"Why do you force me to such speeches? I am not responsible for the -inequalities of nature--though I recognize them so cold-bloodedly. The -contrast does not hurt her, for she is a good, contented little soul, -and then--for nature does give compensations--she has no keen -susceptibilities;" she locked her hands on his shoulder, and smiling at -him, "Come, you know that I am fond of Mary. You should have seen how -prettily I arranged her hair to-day--it would have softened your heart -towards me. Come, we are not going to quarrel again." - -Perior's eye turned on her, certainly softened in expression, "By no -means, I hope," and he smiled a little, "especially as I must be -off--since I have missed my ride." - -Camelia's face at this unlooked-for consummation took on an expression -of sincerest dismay. - -"Going! you will leave me all alone! They have all gone!" - -Perior laughed, looking at her now with the same touch of irrepressible -pleasure she could usually count on arousing. - -"Poor little baby! and it has a headache, too?" - -"Yes, it has; please stay with it." - -She was quite sure that he wanted to stay; indeed, Camelia's certainty -of Perior's fundamental fondness for her was an article of faith -untouched by doubt. - -"Very well, you want to show off your dress, I see." Perior's smile in -its humoring coyness was charming; Camelia felt that she quite adored -him when he so smiled at her. "A very pretty dress it is; I have been -taking it in." - -"And we will have tea in the garden," said Camelia, in tones of happy -satisfaction, "and you will see how good I am--when you are good to me. -And I'll tell you all about the people who are coming--for I must have -more of them--droves of them; in batches, artistic batches, 'smart' -batches, intellectual batches, political batches. You and I will look at -them." - -"Thanks; you don't limit me to a batch then?" - -They were still standing near the window, and she kept a hand on his -shoulder, and looked at him now with the gravity that made her face so -strange. - -"No, dear Alceste, you know I don't." - -He returned her look, smiling with a little constraint. - -"We must be more together," Camelia went on, "we must take up our -studying. No, Mr. Rodrigg, I can't walk with you this morning, I am -reading the Agamemnon with Mr. Perior." Camelia's eyes, mouth, the -delicately long lines of her cheek, quivered with the half malicious, -half tender smile that tilted every curve and every shadow from calm to -roguery. - -"How Mr. Rodrigg will hate me, to be sure," said Perior, who at that -moment felt that he would like to kiss his bunch of primroses--an -illusion of dewiness possessed him. - -"And now for tea under the copper beech. And I will read to you. What -shall I read? It will be quite like old days!" - -"When we were young together," said Perior, smiling at her so fondly -that she felt deliciously reassured as to everything. - -The gods always helped a young lady who helped herself. Such had been -Camelia's experience in life, even when she helped herself to other -people's belongings. - -At all events, with hardly a qualm of conscience, Camelia enjoyed the -afternoon she had wrested from poor Mary. - -The tea-table was duly installed under the wide shade of the -copper-beech. Perior carried out an armful of books and reviews from -which to choose. They drank their tea and ate their bread and butter, -and Camelia read aloud from the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. And it cannot -be denied that Perior, sitting in the cool green shadow, listening to -the perfect French accent, looking at the white figure sprinkled with -the pale shifting gold that filtered through the leaves above them, -enjoyed himself a great deal more than he would have done with Mary. -Truly at times the way of transgressors is very easy. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -But retribution followed Camelia's manoeuvre. On the advent of Mr. -Rodrigg, very red and hot after a long country walk with Lord Haversham -(who also had axes to grind), Perior said good-bye, remounted his horse, -and rode off. It was six o'clock, a warmly rosy evening. The hot gold -was gone, but in the sunset influences there was a certain oppression. -Perior yawned and rode slowly along the strip of turf that bordered the -dusty road. But though he felt physically very indolent, his mind was -delightfully alert, weaving busily, with a sense of freedom and -joyousness, a web of hopeful imaginings, swinging the illusive, -intangible filaments from point to point of the afternoon's experience. -Nothing, in his estimation, could raise Camelia much above the level to -which that cluster of frivolous lies had sunk her; his very heart ached -when he thought of them--especially of the lie to Arthur; but the tears -of last week, though his reason denied their influence, had in reality -touched, surprised, and softened him, and made him hopeful. And now came -the smiles, the sincerity, the sweetness of this afternoon; he could not -distrust them. The idealist impulse--the master mood of his nature, -though reined in so often by bitter experience, began to evolve an ell -from the supposititious inch of excellence. The possibility of moral -worth; the implication of some real rectitude of soul, that her truth to -him seemed to justify; the formative power of a real affection for -Arthur: so Perior wove his spider web, working as the spider does, from -the merest foothold, and bridging chasms with a shining thread of trust. - -Yet alas! for Camelia--that afternoon had certainly been a bungling -piece of mismanagement, a covetous snatching at the present, a foolhardy -forgetting of the future. - -Perior met Mary returning in the dog-cart. He had not forgotten Mary, -nor his suspicions of self-sacrifice. He turned his horse's head again -and proposed to ride back with her. Yes, he had plenty of time; and in -assuring her of it he smiled his kindest smile, and the pony and the -horse fell into a walk. The hours under the copper-beech, with Camelia's -white dress, and Camelia's shining head to look at, had seemed -delightfully cool and pleasant, yet the autumn afternoon had been a hot -one, and Mary's face was flushed, tired, and to her own knowledge, even -a little tremulous. - -"Did you have a nice afternoon?" he asked her. - -"Oh, very, thanks," the habit of submissive gratitude was too strong to -be mastered at the first moment, though she added, "Camelia told you how -_sorry_ I was?" - -"Yes, but I am still wounded. I did not think you would have deserted me -for the babies of Copley." - -It was rather useless to attempt humor with Mary, for even he could -interpret as alarmed and distressed the look of her face as it turned -to him. - -"Oh! but I did not want to go!" she exclaimed; "you know that! Camelia -wished it--she had a headache, and said Mrs. Grier expected her, so, -though I was quite ready for our ride, looking forward to it so much, I -had to go; but I didn't want to--indeed I was dreadfully disappointed--" -And then suddenly the sense of injury, of resentment, of dismay at -herself that she should wish to display that resentment--should wish to -retaliate for humiliations too deep for display, getting altogether the -better of her, two large tears--and Mary had been swallowing tears all -the afternoon--rolled suddenly down her cheeks and splashed upon her -dusty gloves. - -"Why, Mary! _Mary!_" said Perior, aghast. - -She searched for her handkerchief in hasty confusion. "How silly I am! I -can't help it; it has been so hot, I am so tired." - -"My poor child!" But Perior was more stricken than the sympathy of his -tone made manifest. His pity sprang comprehendingly to Mary, but a -deeper emotion underlay it. It was as if Mary had thrust that dusty -dog-skin glove right through his beautiful, fragile spider web, and as -he was dashed from his illusion his thoughts gathered themselves in -quick bitter avengefulness. - -"You were ready? dressed, you say?" he was already sure of Camelia's -falseness, but he wished to define it, to see just how much she had -lied, to see just how far went her heartlessness. - -"Yes," Mary could not restrain the plaintive note, though she was -drying her eyes in a sort of terror over her weakness. - -"And Camelia forced you to go?" - -"Oh, don't think that!" Mary had thought it, but the words spoken by him -shocked her. "She did not know how much I had set my heart on the ride, -and it would have been a pity had Mrs. Grier been disappointed. That is -what Camelia thought of--" and Mary quite believed Camelia as far as -that went; but the cruel manner of discharging her duty! the deep injury -of the forces brought to bear! The memory of them rose irrepressibly, -poignantly. - -"How considerate of Camelia!" Perior's anger made any careful analysis -of Camelia's motives impossible. She had shirked an irksome duty, and -kept him to entertain her laziness. The latter fact did not in the least -mollify him; it was of a piece with her grasping selfishness, Mary's -pleasure not weighing a feather's weight against the momentary wish. She -had gone to "hurry" Mary, and on her return from the cousinly little -errand, had given him the impression of Mary's uninfluenced change of -plan--even implying curates as its cause! Liar! The word almost choked -him as he kept it down, for he did not want Mary to know her a liar. - -"She went to your room to ask you to go?" he pursued, choosing a safe -question. - -But his persistence aroused in Mary a certain dim suspicion. - -"Yes," she said; "she was surprised to see me dressed. She did not know -I was going with you." The very force of her inner resentment--a hating -resentment, as she felt with terror--made her grasp at an at least -outward loyalty. But hardly had she spoken the words when the suspicion, -definite, tingling with probability, leaped upon her. She looked quickly -at Perior. He was white to the lips. This revelation fairly silenced -him. He put his horse to the trot, and the dog-cart, hastening its pace, -kept beside him. - -Mary could hardly have spoken. Her mind was in a whirl of broken, -distracted thoughts, that only grew to coherence when the wave-like -conviction of Camelia's mean robbery broke over her. - -Perior's scorning rage meanwhile hurried forward to wreak itself on -Camelia; he was conscious only of its scorching. - -They reached the park gates in silence; then Mary was able to say, "Are -you coming in?" - -"Yes, I will come in for a moment." - -"You--you won't say anything about--my silliness?" - -"My dear Mary, I must speak to Camelia; but you have accused her of -nothing, nor shall she think you have. I will come for you to-morrow," -he added as he helped her down from the dog-cart at the door; "we will -have our ride. Don't be persuaded out of it either. Let other people do -their own charities. It won't harm them." - -Lady Paton was in the hall, a cool, gentle embodiment of the evening. -"Mary brought you back?--You are going to dine, Michael?" she asked. - -"No; I only want to see Camelia for a moment." - -"I have just come from her. She is with Mr. Rodrigg, talking politics," -and Lady Paton's smile implied the softest pride in Camelia's prowess in -that pursuit. "She says you have had an old-time afternoon, reading -together. You must take up your reading again, Michael--for the time -that she is left to us." - -Mary, going slowly up the stairs, bent her head as she heard, "Yes: he -had stayed with Camelia all the afternoon." He did not care to ride with -her--no, for all his kindness, the pleasure of the rides was poisoned -forever. That was the thought that, at the sight of him, had cut her to -the quick, bringing the tears to her eyes. More than Camelia's lie, -Camelia's cruelty in dealing her that humiliation, burned. When she -thought of it the blackness of her own heart terrified her. She felt -that she hated Camelia, and when she reached her room, she bolted the -door and fell on her bed in an agony of weeping. - -Camelia perhaps counted a little too confidently upon Mary's "adoration" -for her. To Mary, Camelia had always seemed the bright personification -of beauty, cleverness, joy. She had wondered at her, rather than admired -her. Her attitude of mind had been as that of a child staring at the -unattainable moon, shining silvery-gold, and sailing far above in a wide -clear sky. - -She had seldom been conscious in the past of any slight or injury. Her -most constant feeling was one of quiet duty. Camelia's little kindnesses -surprised her; her unkindnesses she took as a matter of course. But now, -in this dreadful clash of ill-matched interests, her life against -Camelia's game, all the sense of duty, of gratitude, of admiration, -went down in black shipwreck. She found that they had been flimsy -things, after all, that under their peaceful surface there had been for -many weeks a lava-like heaving of resentment. And the worst terror was -to see her life bereft of all supports--to see it unblessed, all hatred -and despair. For even at the moment she could judge herself, measure how -much she had lost in losing her blind humility--that at least gave calm -and a certain self-respect--could accuse herself of injustice. Camelia -had lied; but then Camelia could never have divined the rash folly of -Mary's secret--must never divine it; and the cruel humiliation of that -one blighting intimation of Perior's charity hurt more than the lie; and -Camelia's ignorance of the hurt she had inflicted only made it ache the -more. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -Meanwhile Perior marched off to the garden. He passed through the -morning-room where Mrs. Fox-Darriel was writing. - -"So you didn't get your ride either?" said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, who had her -own reasons--and not at all complex ones--for disliking Mr. Perior. "It -_was_ rather hot." - -Perior in his indifference did not even divine the suspicion that saw in -his arrival, and Camelia's defection and amusing headache, a -portentousness threatening to the object she had set her heart upon. - -Perior replied shortly, and it was with very little love that she -watched him walk over the lawn. Camelia really was a fool, and who knew -how far her folly might not go. - -Camelia was still under the copper-beech, and still talking to Mr. -Rodrigg. Perior perforce acknowledged her innocence of flirtatious -methods. Her earnest pose--elbows on the arm of her chair, hands -clasped, head gravely intent--denoted the seriousness with which she -took her rôle. - -Mr. Rodrigg's smile might have warned her. He balanced a teaspoon neatly -on his cup, and looked from it to her, vastly unimpressed as to the real -purport of the conversation. - -Perior's mood was too miserable, too savage, to allow him more than a -mere dart of cynical amusement at her folly. Camelia turned her head, -surprised at seeing him. Smiling a complacent little smile she patted -the chair beside her. - -"So you came back after all." - -"Yes." The nipped monosyllable, like a sudden _douche_ of icy water, -told her that since he had left her their relations had changed, and -changed very much for the worse. Her conjectures sprang immediately to -Mary. Bother Mary! what had she said? But at the thought of what she -might have said Camelia knew that her heart was shaking. Her look, on a -first impulse, would have been entreating, but in the presence of a -third person it grew cold in answer to his, and she turned again to Mr. -Rodrigg. - -"Go, on, please; I want your answer. I have still that one fallacy to -demolish, you know." - -Mr. Rodrigg observed Perior affably; he was a really important opponent. -"Miss Paton wishes, I believe, to institute a sort of eighteenth century -rôle for women in politics," he said, "the rôle that obtained in France -during that ominous century. She expects to rule England through her -_causeries_." - -"Indeed, I fancy that England would be very prettily ruled!" said -Camelia, laughing. - -Perior switched the dust on his boots and made no reply. - -"You have been reading, I hear," Mr. Rodrigg continued, seizing -gratefully the chance of escaping from the bill, "a very interesting -number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. I looked at it a day or two -since: the serial romance is quite a new departure in style. There is -certainly new leaven working in French literature. The revolt from -naturalism is very significant, very interesting, though some of the -extremes of opposition, such as symbolism, tend to become as unhealthy." - -"Symbolism, mysticism, in the modern naturalistic French writer, is -merely the final form of decadence," Camelia observed with some -sententiousness, feeling Perior's silent presence as an impulsion -towards artificiality in tone and manner, "the irridescent stage of -decay--pardon me for being nasty--but they are so nasty! I have had -quite enough of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_--so to business, Mr. -Rodrigg." But though Camelia was quite willing to ignore the new-comer, -Mr. Rodrigg insisted on dragging him into the running, until at last, -perceiving a most unencouraging unwillingness, he rose and left him to -the _tête-à-tête_ for which he had evidently returned, going off to the -house very good-humoredly. Perior's position was altogether unique, and -not one of Camelia's lovers gave his intimacy a thought. - -As Mr. Rodrigg's wide back disappeared through the morning-room windows -Camelia turned her head to Perior. - -"Well," she said, leaning back in her chair and putting her finger-tips -together with a pleasantly judicial air, "what have you to say? You look -very glum." - -"I met Mary, Camelia." - -"Ah! Did she have a good afternoon?" - -"No; I fancy it was as dull to her as it would have been to you." - -"Impossible. Mary loves such things; besides, I do not find them dull." - -Perior looked at her. - -"What a liar you are," he said. If hate and scorn could wither, Camelia -felt they would then have withered her; she quite recognized them in his -tone. - -But she was able to say with apparent calm--not crediting the endurance -of those unkind sentiments towards her, "indeed; you have called me that -before." - -"Will you deny," said Perior, looking at her with his most icy -steadiness--Camelia keeping her eyes on his, and feeling that for the -moment the best thing she could do was to hold firmly to their calm and -luminous directness of expression--"will you deny that you went up to -ask Mary to take your place? that you found her ready to go with me? -that you pretended not to know that I had come for her?--she let that -out in excusing you from my disgust!--didn't suspect you!--that to me -you pretended she had gone to Mrs. Grier's of her own accord?" - -The withering had begun to operate. Camelia felt his outward and her -inner press of feeling vanquishing the mild inquiry of her look. She -dropped her eyes. "Will you tell me why you take the trouble to debase -yourself--for such a trifle?" - -Camelia gazed at the grass. She had cried when he accused her unjustly; -but now that her own hurrying, searching thoughts could find no -loop-hole for denial she felt no wish to cry. She was not touched, but -silenced, quelled. The enormity of her misdeeds made her thoughtful, now -that they were put so plainly before her. She felt herself contemplating -the sum of lies with an almost impersonal curiosity. - -"Camelia!" The odd pitch of his voice, sharp with a sudden, -uncontrollable emotion, made her look up. - -He rose, paused, looking back at her. "You are breaking my heart," he -said. He had not intended to say it, nor known the truth that now came -imperatively to his lips. How she had hurt him, after all! He felt that -he was almost appealing to her, that indignation, scorn, hatred of her -baseness, were as nothing compared with that appeal--not to hurt him; -and he grew very white. An answering pang shot through Camelia's -heart--whether pain, pity, or triumph she could not have told; but she -said quickly, her eyes rounded in unfamiliar solemnity, still on his-- - -"Breaking your heart?" - -"I care for you," said Perior; "I only ask for a mere cranny, where a -friendly tenderness might find foothold--one ray of sincerity, of -honor--to make me feel that my fondness for you is not a--a -contemptible, a weakening folly. It's as if you dashed me down on the -rocks--just as I fancy I've found something to hold on by!" he spoke -brokenly, clutching and unclutching his hands on his riding cane. "And I -have to watch you dragging yourself through the dustiest meannesses; -would I care if it was another woman!--no--let her be contemptible, -ugly, puny, I could give it a laugh--one can only laugh; but you! to be -fond of you! to watch you growing more and more greedy, soulless; a -liar, a flatterer! Oh, it makes me sick!" - -Camelia had again lowered her eyelids, but her eyes stared, startled at -the grass. A creeping coldness went through the roots of her hair; she -knew that her face was pale. For quite a long time there was perfect -silence. - -"To rob that poor child of her little pleasure," Perior said at last, -"to lie to her--to me; and for what? What use had you for me? Were you -so anxious to read me the _Revue des Deux Mondes_? _Why_ did you lie?" - -"I don't know," said Camelia feebly. - -"_You don't know?_" he repeated. - -"No--I thought Mary would not mind. I thought she would like to go." - -"And you left me intending to ask her?" - -"Yes." - -"Telling me you were going to hurry her?" - -"Yes." - -"Pretending to her that you did not know I had come for her?" - -"Yes." There was an impulse struggling in Camelia's heart--frightening -her--but worse than fright, the thought of not freeing it. "One ray of -sincerity." Mary had been noble enough not to tell him--she must be -noble enough to tell. - -"More than that--" she added, feeling her very breath leave her. - -"More!" - -"Yes; I let Mary think you would rather stay with me;--that you didn't -care to ride with her----" - -"_Camelia!_" They were in full view of the house, but his hand fell -heavily upon her shoulder; and so he stood for a long moment, too much -stupefied by the confession to find another word. - -But Camelia took a long breath of recovery; sighed with it, and felt the -blood come back gratefully to her heart. - -"But why?--why?--why?" Perior said at last, in a voice from which anger -seemed to have ebbed despairingly away, leaving only an immense and -wondering sadness, "_Why_, Camelia?" - -A faint, appealing little sparkle lit her face as she glanced up at him; -that weight gone, all the buoyancy of her nature rose, ready to win -smiles and rewarding looks of caressing encouragement. - -"I wanted to read you the _Revue des Deux Mondes_." - -He stared at her, baffled and miserable. - -"And though I was a viper--it was true, wasn't it? You _would_ rather -stay with me." - -"Yes, no doubt I would," said Perior with a gloom half dazed. - -"And you see I did want you so much! Mary could not have wanted you -nearly so much! Why, I gave up my ride to stay with you! I had no -headache!" she announced the fact quite joyously; "I simply thought -suddenly how nice it would be to spend the afternoon with you--like old -days--when we were young together! I really thought Mary would prefer -Mrs. Grier--really I did! And once embarked on a fib--for I did not want -her to think that I cared so much to have you--I had to go on--they all -came one after the other," said Camelia, dismally now, "and even when I -saw how disappointed she was I hardened my heart in its selfishness--a -perfect devil, of course; yes, I see quite well that I was a devil. So -there is the truth for you. Really the truth. More than _one ray of -sincerity_, is it not? And I need not have told you, since good old Mary -was such a trump. There! I have lain down under your feet--and you may -scrub your boots on me if you want to!" - -"Alas, Camelia!" said Perior. He sat down again. Her confession had -indeed forced upon him a certain resignation. For some moments he did -not speak. "I believe I am the only person in the world to whom you -would humble yourself like this," he said at last. "I am a convenient -father-confessor for you. You find yourself more comfortable after -dumping your load of sins on me. It's a corner in your psychology I've -never quite understood--another little twist of egotism my mind is too -blunt to penetrate. I am not worth while deceiving--is that it?" and as -her eyes rested on his in mute, but unmistakable pain, he added, the -note of resignation deepened, "You do not repent, that is evident. You -confess; but it is very much as if I particularly hated dirty -finger-nails, and to please my fastidiousness you washed yours." - -"I might have hidden them," Camelia murmured, glancing down at the -translucent pink and white of those _objets d'art_. - -"Yes, you might; that is your advantage. The speck of dirt worried you, -knowing my taste. The matter to you is just about on that level of -seriousness. You are not sorry for Mary; you are merely preening -yourself for me. It is that; your heartlessness, your selfishness, your -hard indifference to other people's feelings that makes me despair of -you. For I do despair of you." - -"Am I so heartless, so selfish, so hard?" - -"I am afraid you are." - -"And it breaks your heart?" - -Perior laughed shortly. - -"Ah; you find compensation in that! I shall survive, Camelia. I have -managed to survive a great many disagreeable experiences." - -"And I am one. Don't you feel a little more kindly towards me? Are you -not a little flattered by the realization that my misdeeds arose -entirely from my affection for you?" Camelia smiled sadly, adding, "It's -quite true." - -"You want to monopolize me, as you monopolize everything, Camelia. If -there was a cat that did not devote itself exclusively to you, you would -woo the cat. In this case I am the cat." - -"Dear cat!" she stretched out her hand and put it on his arm. "May I -stroke you, cat?" - -"No, thanks. You shall not enthral me." He rose as he spoke. "Good-bye." - -"Good-bye? Will you not stay to dine?" - -"No; I am in no dining humor." - -"Haven't you forgiven me--absolved me--one little bit?" - -"Not one little bit, Camelia." - -His farewell look she felt to be steeled against her in its -resoluteness, though weak in its long dwelling. She knew that when he -was gone the resoluteness would remain with him; the weakness would -leave him with his departure from her presence. She enthralled him by -the mere fact of being before him, baffling and exquisite; therefore he -was leaving her. There was an air of finality in his very way of turning -from her in silence. She watched him walk away over the lawn, and sat on -in the dusk. She was a little dazed, and an evening dreaminess veiled -from her the poignancy of her own fear. She evaded it, too, by the -thought: he cares so much, so much. Then, too, what difference did it -make? She could always wrap herself, in case of a shivering emergency, -in that cloak of carelessness; but the fact of his caring so very much -kept her now from shivering. When she went into the house at last she -found Mrs. Fox-Darriel still alone in the morning-room. - -"My dear Camelia," she said, looking round at her young friend, "when -next you submit to being shaken by Mr. Perior, I really would choose a -more secluded spot. The whole house might have been staring at you; and -I can assure you that the spectacle you offered was highly ludicrous. A -rabbit in an eagle's claws." - -"And, really, if I choose to be whipped up and down the drive by Mr. -Perior, I shall do it, Frances, notwithstanding your disapproval." -Camelia was in no temper for smarting advice. - -"The man is insufferable," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, "_il porte sa tête -comme un saint sacrement_; provincial apostolics. Your flattering wish -to please him is not at all in character." - -"Your knowledge of my character, Frances, is very restricted," Camelia -replied, walking away to her room. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Camelia during the next few days was conscious of an expectant pause. -There was a page to be turned. She kept her own hand from it; for a day -or two, at least, she would not stir a finger; and if Perior chose to -turn it, the turning bound her to nothing--would probably reveal mere -blankness, whereon he might inscribe an affectionate dedication for her -new life. In that case the new chapter would be hymeneal; indeed, it -seemed inevitable that she should marry Arthur Henge; the waiting volume -seemed inevitably that of her married life. - -But her thoughts were not with Arthur. They fixed themselves -persistently on Perior. Let him come--write the friendly dedication, -certify, by his blessing, to the sincerity and wisdom of her choice; or -else, was it not possible that he might dash the volume out of her -hands? No doubt she would pick it up again. Still, to see him dash it -down would be eventful. Therefore, she waited, more breathlessly than -she quite realized. - -The last act of the drama had left her with no spite at all against -Mary--its chief but insignificant factor. She was not resentful on the -score of Mary's revelations; on the other hand, Mary's charitable -reticence did not move her to gratitude. After all, it was a very -explicable reticence; her own confession to Perior had lent it the -kindest glamour. For Mary to have told Perior all would have been a -humiliating plea for his negative; and the negative he could not have -given with sincerity. Mary had felt that. No; Camelia's analysis -disowned any obligation; but neither was she conscious of the least -anger. A mean revengefulness was not in her nature, she was as easy -towards Mary as towards herself; she quite saw that to Mary she must -have seemed horrid, and that perfectly atoned for the whines in which -poor Mary had probably indulged. She was sure the whines had not been -spiteful. She could imagine Mary injured, but not at all spiteful; and -on their first meeting after the portentous dressing-room scene, her -eyes rested in blankest serenity upon her cousin's flushed and miserable -face. - -She felt serenity and blankness to be tactful kindnesses, and they were -very easy. The thought of Mary hardly stirred her deep, still absorption -in the purely dual problem, for, after Mary's ride--and Camelia missed -him then--Perior did not come again. - -The trial of strength in silence, they the two opponents facing one -another for the test, filled her days with an excited sense of contest. -It was not made more complex by outer jars. Mr. Rodrigg was unavoidably -called away for a fortnight, and Sir Arthur might still be evaded, -though Lady Henge's brow had grown gloomy. Camelia rather enjoyed the -grave inquiry in the looks bent upon her by her future mamma (oh yes, -almost without doubt, future mamma); but she did not intend to brighten -them by the announcement of that fact until her own good time. Lady -Henge's gloom and Arthur's patience touched only the outer rings of her -consciousness. For Perior did not come. At the end of the first week her -patience was out-worn; the detachment of mere contemplation became -impossible. She essayed a flag of truce. Let it be peace, or, at all -events, more close, more keenly realized warfare. - -"Are you never coming to see me again?" she wrote. "Please do; I will be -good." - -Perior laughed over the document. It was merely the case of the cat -again dignified by its persistent absence. His reply was even more -laconic. "Can't come. Try to be good without me." The priggishness of -this pleased him, and would probably amuse her. He did not want to hurt -her. Neither did he intend that she should hurt him. She probably -guessed that. - -The note gave her a mingled thrill, anger and pleasure. That he should -not come showed more than the priggish intent to punish; that pedagogic -mask did not hide his fear; and that he should fear meant much. He -wanted to punish her, yes; and that he could succeed was very -intolerable; but that was his only strength, held to amidst a weakness -he would give her no chance to exploit. His cowardice was complimentary, -but since she was helpless against it Camelia was angry with her cat. -Strength, after all, is largely a matter of situation, and to stand in -the street vainly cajoling one's pet on the house-top gives one all the -emotions of acknowledged inferiority. To turn her back and walk away -was the natural impulse of Camelia's exasperated helplessness; she hoped -that the cat would watch her, and feel badly as she turned the corner, -for she determined to delay no longer decisions of far more importance, -as she assured herself, than the ridiculous dwelling on such a trifling -matter as a recalcitrant cat. The acceptance of Arthur Henge could be no -longer evaded after this fortnight of evasions, each turn and twist -leading her more inevitably to the centre of the labyrinth. Sir Arthur -could hardly have a doubt of the final answer, though its postponement -and her son's attitude of smiling patience might bring the gloom to Lady -Henge's forehead. - -"I do not like to see you played with, Arthur," she confessed; and her -look said as much to Camelia, who, in her absolute security, only -frolicked the more in her leafy circles. - -"I enjoy it, mother," Sir Arthur assured her, "it's a pretty game; she -enjoys it and so do I. She is cutting up a surprise cake, and I am sure -of her giving me the slice with the ring in it." - -"A rather undignified game, Arthur," said Lady Henge in a deep tone of -aggrievement, and Sir Arthur was sorry that Camelia, for the moment, had -effaced that first good impression; but he would not see that he was -aggrieved. He knew that he sat in the heart of the dear labyrinth, and -Camelia's peeps at him through the hedges, her slow advances and swift -retreats, were all charming, and not too bewildering when one was -trained to them. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel, however, was both aggrieved and impatient. Her long -visit bored her badly, and Camelia's smiling impenetrability irritated -her. Her impatience almost descended to grossness. - -"What a hostess you will make, Camelia, at Laversley Castle. I see you -on that background of Grinling Gibbons and Titian. To be almost the -richest, probably the cleverest, certainly the prettiest woman in -England. What a future! An unending golden vista--widening. And for a -base of operations, Laversley. Such tapestries, my dear, such -porcelains, such a library and park. All in the hollow of your hand." - -Camelia stretched it out. "Yes," she said, surveying its capabilities, -"I have only to close it." - -"You will close it, of course." - -"No doubt," said Camelia blandly, a blandness that snubbed and did not -satisfy her friend's grossness. - -But under the blandness something struggled. Must she close the hand? -Would no power outside her hold open and unstained by greed that pretty -palm? The absurdity of the accusation gave her the melancholy comfort of -an only half reassuring smile. Sir Arthur's excellence, not his -millions, had turned the scale; yet the accusation, for all its folly, -cut. And Perior did not come. He too joined forces with fate, made the -closing of the hand inevitable. She defied him with the sustaining -thought, "Sir Arthur is best, best in all. I close my hand on his heart -because no better heart could be offered me." - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -A week had passed since Perior had received the first pleading note from -Enthorpe, and one afternoon, when he was busy in his laboratory, another -arrived, more a command than a supplication. - -"Come at once. I must see you. I am very unhappy." - -Camelia indeed was very unhappy. She could hardly recognize or define -the unusualness of the unfamiliar sensation, and her ignorance helped to -hurt her, make her more bewildered under it. She had accepted Sir Arthur -that morning, hurried by no impulse, but conscious as she walked with -him in the garden of an ill-tempered recklessness, of a fate more easily -accepted than evaded uselessly. If he would have it--if every one would -have it, including herself, of course, let it be so. She said yes with -almost a sigh of exhausted energy, smiled with lifted brows over Sir -Arthur's ensuing rapture, and then wondered that under the lightness -with which she braved the decisive moment a sudden sickness of fear, of -sorrow, should seize her. Reality this, then. No more choice. No more -playing. The game ended. She was not being led into the Garden of Eden, -but out of it, and a new world, a world bleak, leaden, a sunless -immensity of dreariness stretched before her. She was frightened, and -the lesser feelings of the next hour were dazed by her effort to dismiss -this fear. She knew that her mother's tearful, speechless joy, Lady -Henge's elevated approbation, Mary's gasping efforts after fitting -phrases, Frances' cool, close-lipped little smile of satisfaction, and -the background of congratulatory faces were all very irritating, and -that she herself was unreasonably angry with them all. - -She was glad to find herself alone in the library with Sir Arthur, even -though strangely helpless before his joyous possessorship. His arm was -about her, and she could hear Lady Henge thundering on the piano in the -drawing-room. - -"The dear mater is improvising an epithalamium," said Arthur, with a -laugh. To Camelia it seemed cynically in keeping with her jarred and -jangled mood that her marriage should be interpreted by this pretentious -music. It symbolized so much. Her own flimsiness and falseness, the -immense distance from anything like perfect union. She turned her -thought to the attainable pleasures of the future, tried to shut her -soul on the lamenting ideal that Lady Henge's music mocked, and her mind -rested for a moment on the reassuring certainty of her own appreciation -of Sir Arthur's excellence. Strangely enough, though his possessorship -frightened, his arm about her waist consoled her; a warm sense of his -kindness and stability held her from inner terrors; she was glad to have -him there; she foresaw in solitude an on-coming and chilly stupor. She -felt it well to sit beside him, protected from her own fear by his -devoted nearness. "There now, you are smiling," said Sir Arthur; "you -seemed sad, as though you were conscious of responsibility--and didn't -like it." When he spoke of responsibility Camelia felt more keenly that -she had received an injury from fate. The "Yes" that had been spoken -only a few hours before had belonged to the game, was it quite fair that -this solemnity should result? Yet why not take it gaily? Force it into a -dancing ring of happy lightness? - -"Responsibility? Oh no, you can't saddle me with that!" she said, -returning his look, and smiling still more easily as she felt how much -his handsome face pleased her; its very expression, an unaccented, -humorous gaiety, worn for her sake, was a homage, a warrant of most -chivalrous comprehension. "You alone are responsible"--and following her -mental picture of the game of hide-and-seek in a Watteau landscape--"You -caught me--that was all!" - -"That was all!" he repeated; "and you were difficult to catch. Now that -you are caught I shall keep you." - -"No, I am not sad," Camelia pursued, "I only feel as if I had grown up -suddenly." - -"No, don't grow up. I must keep you always my laughing child." - -"Lady Henge wouldn't approve of that!" said Camelia, yielding to a -closer enfolding, but facilitating it by no gracious droopings. - -"Ah, mother loves you," said Sir Arthur, with a touch of added pride in -his capture. - -"Does she?" Camelia's brows lifted a little; the enfolding continuing -she was conscious enough of a dart of irritation to wish to add, "I -don't love her!" but after a kiss he released her and she checked the -naughty impulse, merely adding, with some perversity, keeping him now at -arm's length though she abandoned her hand for the purpose, "Would you -have dared to love me had she not?" - -"Camelia, you know that I did." The perversity had grieved him a little. -His clear brown eyes, that always reminded her of a dog's in their -widely opened sincerity, dwelt on her, questioning her intention. "She -did not know you, that was all." - -"Nor did you, quite." Camelia laughed at him gently, and put her hand on -his shoulder, half as a reward for the pang, half to still keep him -away. - -"No, not quite," Sir Arthur confessed, "though even my ignorance loved -you. But you let me know you at last." - -"But what _do_ you know?" Camelia persisted. - -"I know my laughing child." - -"Her faults the faults of a child?" - -"Has she faults?" - -"Oh, blinded man!" - -"The faults of a child, then," he assented. - -When he had left her, for he was to spend the day in London, there was a -lull after the stress of change. Camelia found herself in a solitude -wherein she might sit and meditate. Every one seemed to fall away from -her, and when she was left alone she was sorry for it, though it was she -who had withdrawn, not they. Lady Henge had talked to her for -half-an-hour, her arm affectionately, but heavily lying about her -shoulders, seeming in the massive embrace to claim her with a kindness -that knew itself as wiser than mere maternal emotionalism. The low -tones of her voice were impressive, and Camelia would have submitted to -the newly assumed manner of guardianship, of confidential admonition, -with a very ill grace, had not Lady Henge been now so truly indifferent -to her. - -Mary had been very tiresome, following her at a distance, wanting to -kiss her and cry. Mrs. Fox-Darriel's silent complacency was unendurable. -Camelia knew that in the new epoch her friend saw only a tightly-closed -fist, and this symbol affected her own imagination until she could have -shaken Mrs. Fox-Darriel for having suggested it. - -Then her mother had fallen upon her breast and wept. Camelia was ashamed -of herself for seeing in the great lovingness a Scriptural exaggeration; -and being ashamed of herself she was only the more anxious to get rid of -the maternal clinging. She ended by locking herself in her own room, -only to find that she had locked herself in with a melancholy that had -been stepping silently beside her since the morning. She would not look -this companion in the face, however. She was alone with it at last; but -she feverishly avoided its fixed eyes, and eagerly busied herself with -trivialities, a dramatic sense of courage animating all her actions. She -emptied and rearranged her wardrobes and boxes, folded ribbons with -intensest exactitude, introduced a new plan in the bestowal of her -gloves and handkerchiefs, and even found herself unpicking a summer hat -with a fictitious eagerness that implied an imperative want of that -particular hat in a new trimming. When the hat was quite demolished she -put it away, and polished her finger-nails, and, lastly, spent a -fatiguing half-hour before the looking-glass in essays at new ways of -hair-dressing. None were satisfactory, and with arms aching from their -long uplifting, she at last swept the shining tresses into their -accustomed lines, unlocked the door, and emerged deliberately, but with -a sense of flight. - -Every one had gone. The guests to golf at the Havershams; Mary, Lady -Paton, and Lady Henge for a long drive. They had all respected the -sensitive requirements of her new position. She was to be left alone, -and as Camelia walked from room to room, the big house was desolate. - -She nourished a sense of resentment, of injury, for it seemed to thrust -away the chilly stupor of fear, fear of that new presence walking with -her, waiting for her recognition. The loneliness, the melancholy, to -which she could only feign blindness, were almost unendurable. The tears -rose to her eyes more than once, and her thoughts circled nearer and -nearer to Perior's great unkindness. It was when the melancholy seemed -suddenly to lay an imperative hand upon her that she flew to the -writing-table and wrote the note. She looked at the clock as she heard -the groom departing on horseback. Perior might easily arrive at six, and -at the thought her spirits rose with a great soaring bound, and laughed -down at the cold enemy. When he arrived she would see what would happen. -She reined back her imagination from any plan. - -According to his manner, she would tell immediately, or delay telling -until a favorable moment. Perhaps when he knew he would say that his -heart was completely broken, but the thought of his unhappiness only -seemed to send her spirits into a higher ecstasy of joyousness. She felt -them bubble-like, floating in illusion, but the relief of the unthinking -hour--she seemed to live in it only, to breathe only its -expectancy--buoyed her above the clouds. In the long drawing-room, where -the firelight made the autumnal landscape outside, its distant hills -purpling with chilly evening, a mere picture, framed for the contrast in -her rosy mood, she danced, trying over new steps. She had always loved -her dancing, loved to feel herself so lovely, her loveliness set to such -musical motion, the words of the song. She hummed the sad, dead beauty -of a pavane, pacing it with stately pleasure; the gracious pathos of an -old gavotte; and, feeling herself a brook, her steps slid into the -flowing ripple of the courante. Perior had always loved these exquisite -old dances. She would dance for him, of course. That thought had been -growing, and the gavotte, the courante, the pavane becoming rehearsals. -Yes, she would dance for him--at first. Flushed, panting a little from -the long preparation, she ran upstairs to put on a white dress, a new -one made for dancing, with sleeves looped over bare arms, flowing sash, -and skirt like a flower-bell. She lingered on each detail. She must be -beautiful for Alceste; dear Alceste, poor, poor Alceste; how unhappy he -would be--when he knew. And suppose he should not come. The thought went -through her like a dagger as she held a row of pearls against her -throat. Over them she looked with terror-stricken eyes at the whiteness -of her beauty--useless beauty? Ah, she could not believe it, and she -clasped the pearls on a breast that heaved with the great sigh of her -negation. She could not believe it. He must come. And when she reentered -the drawing-room the sound of a horse's hoofs outside set the time to -the full throb of an ecstasied affirmation. - -A delicious flood of contentment went through her. She stood smiling in -the dark yet luminous room, where only the firelight shone along the -polished oak of floor and wainscoting, half unconsciously emphasizing -her sense of the moment's drama by pressing her hands on her heart. Of -course he had come. How could he not come if she really wanted him? Dear -Alceste. In a moment he had entered. The firelight, as she stood before -him, seemed to shine through her pearly glimmering. She looked -sprite-like, a transparent fairy. Her dress, her attitude, her eyes, the -hovering expectancy. Perior, too, was immediately conscious of drama, -and felt as immediately an impulse to flight; but he came forward, a -quick look of calm arming his sturdy opposition to the atmosphere of -exaggerated meanings. - -"Well, here I am," he said, in a manner intended by its commonplace to -rebuff the significance, whatever it might be, of eyes, dress, and -attitude. Camelia took his hand, joyously entering once more into the -dear, enchanted fairy-land--the old sense of a game, only a more -delightful, a more exciting game than ever. She could almost have -whirled him into the circle--a mad dancing whirl round and round the -room. How astonished he would have been! Solemn, staid old Alceste! - -"Yes, here you are. At last," she said. "How shamefully you have -punished me this time!" - -She laughed, but Perior sighed. - -"I haven't been punishing you," he said, walking away to the fireplace. -Camelia followed him and watched him hold out his hand to the warmth. - -"Is it so cold?" she asked. - -"Very chilly; the wind catches one on that mile along the common. My -hands are half-numbed." Prettily, as she leaned in her illumined -whiteness beside him, she took his hands between her own and rubbed them -briskly. - -"You wrote that you were unhappy," said Perior, looking down at the -daintily imprisoned hands; "what is the matter?" - -"The telling will keep. I am happier now." - -"Did you get me here on false pretences?" He smiled as he now looked at -her, and the smile forgave her in advance. - -"No, no. I needed you very much; really I did. I am growing melancholy; -and I was all alone. I hate being alone." - -"There, that will do. They are quite warm now; thanks very much. Where -are the others?" - -"The others? They are away," said Camelia vaguely. - -"Rodrigg?" - -"He comes back to-night, I think." - -"And Henge?" Perior asked it with a little hesitation. Of late he had -wondered much about Arthur and Camelia. There was an effort in the -unconscious aloofness of his voice. - -"In London too." Camelia looked clearly at him. No, she would not tell -him now. The happy half-hour she must guard for them both. Her oblivion, -his ignorance, would make a fairy-land. Let him think even that she had -sent Arthur away finally. Arthur had no place in fairy-land. - -"All the others are out," she repeated, "golfing, calling, driving. But -are you not glad to see me, even if I seem happier than strict -consistency requires?" - -"Yes, I am glad to see you." Perior's eyes showed the half-yielding, -half-defiance of his perplexity. "But tell me, what is the matter? Don't -be so mysterious." - -"But tell me," she returned, stepping backward, her skirt held out for -displayal, "is not my dress pretty?" - -"Very pretty." Perior leaned back against the mantelpiece with an air of -resignation. "Very exquisite." - -"Shall I dance for you?" - -"By all means; since the dress was put on for that, I summoned for that. -Isn't it so?" - -She made no reply, her smile lingering as she turned from him, and -showing in its fixedness a certain gravity. He was satisfied that -conjecture as to her meaning, her plan in all this, only wearied him, -yet sorry that he had come. Under the weariness he was resentfully aware -of excitement. And what of Arthur? Camelia's whole manner subtly -suggested that Arthur no longer counted. The note might be explained as -an after-throb of doubt, or at least of dreariness, in a world -momentarily without big issues. If she had refused Arthur definitely? -The thought, as his eyes followed Camelia's exquisite steps and slides, -shook some careful balancing of self-control. He felt stripped of a -shield, unpleasantly exposed to a dangerous moment. Camelia was dancing -quite silently, yet the air, to Perior's musical brain, seemed full of -melody, and she the soundless embodiment of music made visible--so -lovely, so dear to him; so dear in spite of everything. She was like a -white flower, tilting, bending in the wind. She skimmed like a swallow, -ran with rippled steps like a brook, flitted with light, languid -balancings, a butterfly hovering on extended wings. Her slender body, -like a fountain, rose and fell in a continuity of changing loveliness. -Her golden head shone in the dusk. - -Perior watched her, half-dreaming, half-dazzled. The long moments of -acute, delicious contemplation drifted by as peacefully, as stilly as -falling rose-petals, muffling all outer jars and murmurs, blurring the -past, the future, making the present enchanted. - -When she was far off his heart beat for her return, and when the -swaying, hovering whiteness came near he shrank from the nearness. The -unexpected sweeping turn that caught her away suddenly into the -half-visionary distance stabbed him through with a pang of relief and -disappointment. - -He was entranced, half-mesmerized, conscious only of his delight in her, -when her circling at last grew slower, the musical beat of the -recovering tilt faltered. She came on a sliding, wavering step, and sank -like the softest sigh before him, folded together in her wing-like -whiteness. - -"You enchanting creature," Perior murmured. He bent over her--he would -have lifted her--taking her hands, but Camelia herself rose between his -arms, and inevitably they closed about her. It was so natural, so -fitting in all its strangeness, that to Camelia the slow circling of the -dance seemed still to carry her round and round, unbroken by the crash -of a great revelation. She closed her eyes, hardly wondering at her -perfect happiness, and from the last revolving mists the reality dawned -sweetly upon her--the only reality. She had danced out of the game; it -lay far behind her. Through it she had blundered on a mistake, but her -mind put that swiftly aside. The mistake mattered nothing, the last act -merely of the game--a reckless, angered act. She thought now that the -game would hardly have been begun if only Perior had put his arms around -her, claimed and reclaimed her foolishness, long ago. Of course she -loved him. It needed but that to let her know. - -But to Perior the moment, after its irresistible impulse, was merely one -of shame and self-disgust. He held her, for she was enchanting, and she -had enchanted him. Disloyalty to his friend did not forbid that -satisfaction. That she meant to marry Arthur was now impossible. She had -tossed him aside, dissatisfied; he could not pity Arthur for his escape, -nor credit Camelia with disinterestedness. She was bored, disappointed, -reckless in a wish for excitement. He analyzed her present mood -brutally--the mood of a vain child, made audacious by childhood -intimacy, her appetite for conquest whetted by his apparent -indifference; he had not known that she would pay such a price for -conquest. It was an ugly revelation of Camelia, but the revelation of -himself was uglier. He at least pretended to self-respect. The folly of -her coquetry hardly surprised him; his own yielding to it did; yet in -the very midst of his self-disgust he fulfilled it to the uttermost by -stooping his head to her upturned face, blind to its intrinsic -innocence, and kissing her lips. As he kissed her he knew that for angry -weeks and months he had longed to kiss her, the unrecognized longing -wrestling with his pride, with his finer fondness for her--the firm, -grave fondness of years, with even his loyalty to Henge. That barrier -gone, the longing rushed over the others. Among the wrecks his -humiliation overwhelmed him:--a girl he loved, but a girl he would not -woo, had wooing been of avail!--in it he was able to be generous. - -The moment had not been long. He released her. Feeling most ungentle, he -yet put her away gently by the whole thrust of his arm. Leaning on the -mantel-shelf, his face averted from hers, he said: "Too enchanting, -Camelia. I have forgotten myself," and he added, "Forgive me." - -"But _I_ did it!" Camelia's tone was one of most dauntless joyousness. -She was necessarily as sure of his love as of her own, surer of its -long-enduring priority. But his love feared--that was natural: dared not -hope for hers--too natural. She could not bear to have him put her away -in even a momentary doubt of her sincerity. Clasping both arms about his -neck she said quite childishly, in her great unconsciousness of his -thoughts about her-- - -"Why would you never say you were fond of me? Why would you never say -you loved me? Say it now--say that you love me." - -His bewilderment at her audacity stung him to anger, and in -self-defence, for her sake too as well as for his own, almost to -brutality. "Ah, I love you enough to kiss you, Camelia," he said; "you -are only fit for that. There," he unlocked the clasping arms, "go away." -The unmistakable sternness of his face struck her with pained -perplexity. He would not meet her eyes; he turned from her, looking -wretched. A flashing thought revealed the possibility of tempted -loyalty. Did he think her bound? Divine the engagement? He could not -have heard of it already. She saw, her heart throbbing at the -half-truth, half-falseness of the unbecoming vision, how she must appear -to him in that distorting illumination. Free in her own eyes, she -hesitated on a lie that would release him from his doubts. But as she -stood looking at him, smiling, a little sternly too, at the test, the -door burst open with unpleasant suddenness, and Mr. Rodrigg, bull-like -in his vehemence, charged into the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -Camelia felt, in the glaring pause Mr. Rodrigg made before Perior's -baffling presence, that she herself was the red scarf he sought. Her -mind, alert in self-defence, even in this stress of joy and terror, -divined some unknown danger. Mr. Rodrigg had faded into complete -insignificance, put away with the other toys; she looked coldly at him, -as at a dusty jack-in-the-box, protruding its fatuousness in a grown-up -world. Yet she felt the necessity for self-command and quick -intelligence. Something ominous shone in Mr. Rodrigg's eye. The lid must -be pressed down firmly, fastened securely; she was sure of her complete -control over the silly plaything, but an extinguishing dexterity might -be requisite. - -"Well, Mr. Rodrigg," she said; and her tone fully implied the -undesirability of his presence. - -"Can I see you alone, Miss Paton?" - -Mr. Rodrigg's voice was offensively strident. Camelia looked at Perior, -who, from under lowering brows, bent ungracious eyes on Mr. Rodrigg's -flushed insistency. - -"No, I don't think you can--at present." She did not want to vex Mr. -Rodrigg--she spoke not unkindly; but Mr. Rodrigg was dense, coarsely -dense, or else coarsely angry. Angry with her; Camelia had time by now -to wonder at that, and to feel less amicable with the greater need for -feigning amiability. - -He closed the door with decision. "Then I will speak before Mr. Perior. -As a family friend, Mr. Perior will not be amiss between us. He is a -witness of the whole affair. I appeal to Mr. Perior. Miss Paton, I have -just met Lady Henge. She tells me that you accepted her son this -morning." - -Camelia grew white. Though Perior spoke no word, his stillness equalling -hers, she felt a fixed stare turned upon her. Unforeseen catastrophe! -She had hoped to glide noiselessly from the cardboard stage, to pack up -and send away the useless, even though misused puppets; and now the -whole scenery, heavy too, fell crushingly upon her, pinning her in the -very centre of the stage. There she was held--the mimic properties were -stone-like--there she was held in the full glare of the footlights; and -he was staring at her. - -She drew herself together and clasped her hands behind her back. Her -little head, with the intent resoluteness of its look, had never been -more beautiful. Even Perior, in the frozen fury of his stupefaction, was -aware of that. The mute, white cameo on the dim, rosy background gazing -with not a tremor at its own perfidy, stamped itself ineffaceably on his -memory as a Medusa type of splendid, pernicious courage. For one brief -moment she wondered swiftly--and her thoughts flew like sharp flames--if -a round, clear lie would save her, save her in Perior's eyes, for she -saw herself as he saw her, was conscious only of him, and cared not a -button for Mr. Rodrigg, the ugly raven merely who had croaked out the -truth. The uselessness, the hopelessness of a lie, and too--in justice -to her struggling better self be it added--shame for its smirch between -her and him on the very threshold of true life--this hopelessness, this -shame nerved her to the perilous truth-telling. Better his scorn for the -moment, than a scorn delayed, but sure to find her out. Could she not -explain--confess--on his breast, with tears? She did not look at Perior. -Keeping fixed eyes on Mr. Rodrigg, an unpleasant but necessary medium -for the communication, "Yes, Mr. Rodrigg, I did," she said. - -Perior at her side gave a short laugh, a cruel laugh. The moment was -horrid; let it be hurried on, and Mr. Rodrigg, tool of the avenging -gods, hurried out. - -"Have you anything to say, Mr. Rodrigg?" she asked, conscious of hating -Mr. Rodrigg, and, even at that moment, of a shoot of emphasized -irritation with his nose, which caught the firelight bluntly. - -"May I ask you, Miss Paton, if during these past weeks, you have always -had that intention?" he inquired, speaking with some thickness of -utterance. - -"No, Mr. Rodrigg, you may not ask me that," she returned. - -The revelation of the man's hopes was no longer to be evaded; she drank -down the bitter draught perforce, her eyes on that squarely luminous -nose-tip. - -During the pause that followed Mr. Rodrigg's eyes travelled up and down -her with mingled scorn, wrath, and humiliation. - -"Allow me to congratulate you," he said at last, most venomously, "and -to take my leave of you, Miss Paton. I have not understood, I perceive, -the part I was supposed to play here." - -And Camelia was left alone with Perior. With an impression as of strong -boxings on the ears she could only cry out "Odious vulgarian!" She -tingled all over with a sense of insult. - -"I, too, will bid you good-evening, Camelia," said Perior. He could have -taken her by the throat, but in the necessary restraint of that desire -his glance, only, seized her as if it would throttle her. - -"No! no!" she caught his arm, all thought of Mr. Rodrigg and his slaps -burnt from her. "Listen to me--you don't understand! Wait! I can explain -everything! everything--so that you must forgive me!" - -"I do understand," said Perior, who stood still, scorning, as she felt, -to touch and cast her off. "You are engaged to Arthur. You are -disgraced--and I am disgraced." - -"Through me, then! You were ignorant! But wait--only listen--I am -engaged to him; but I love you--don't be too angry--for really I love -you--only you--Oh! you must believe me!" - -He retreated before her clasped imploring hands, she almost crying, -following, indifferent to the indignity of her protesting supplication. -"Indeed, I love you!" she reiterated, her chin quivering a little as the -cruelty of his withdrawal brought the tears to her eyes. - -Perior took the clasped hands by the wrists and held her off. "You love -me?--and you love him too?"--she shook her head helplessly. "No; you -have accepted him, not loving him, and you dared,"--the cruelty was now -physical, as his clench tightened on her wrists--"you _dared_ turn to -me, to debase me with yourself, you false, you miserable creature!" - -Under the double hurt she closed her eyes. "But why--but why did I -turn?" she almost sobbed. - -"You ask me why? Can I tell what folly, what vanity prompted you? Those -are mild words." - -"Oh!--how you hurt me!" she breathed; the feminine sensitiveness was a -refuge--a reproach. He released her wrists. "Because I love you," she -said, and standing still before him she looked at him through tears. -"You may be angry, despise me, but I only want to tell you everything. -You are so brutal. It was a mistake--I did not know--not till this evening. -I accepted him because you would not prevent me--because you didn't -come--nor seem to care, and--yes, because I was bad--ambitious--vain--like -other women--and I did like him--respect him. But now!"--the appealing -monotone, broken by little gasps, wailed up at the inflexibility of his -face--"it isn't folly, it isn't vanity--or why should I sacrifice -everything for you, as I do--Oh! as I do!" - -"Sacrifice everything for me? Go away!" - -"Oh!--how can you!" She broke into sobs--"how can you be so cruel to -me--when you love me!" - -"Love you!" - -"You cannot deny it! You know that you love me--dearest Alceste!"--her -arms encircled his neck. - -Perior plucked them off. "Love you?" he repeated, looking her in the -face. "By Heaven I don't!" - -And with the negative he cast her away and left her. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -But he did love her. That was the worst of it, as he told himself -through the night that followed. His love and his disgrace pursued him. -Disgraced, though cruel enough to clearly see her as the temptress, -disgraced by the weakness of his yielding to a moment of enchantment, -disgraced by having given her the right to reproach him--the woman he -loved, but the woman only fit to kiss. He was innocent of real -disloyalty, and her perfidy might well exonerate his ignorance; but even -Camelia's perfidy could not excuse that kiss. He met the morning jaded, -from torturing hours. When the first passion of his rage against her had -died away the thought of her astounding declaration, her reiterated -devotion, chilled him with the new fear of final yielding. Camelia, -imagining herself in love with him, became an ominously alluring figure. -She could claim him only through his weakness, but his dishonor gave her -power. He accepted the morbid accusation, scourged himself with it, and -the thought of her power urged him to escape. She was only fit to kiss, -that was the final verdict. To marry such a woman meant a permanent -disablement of all that was best in life. The kiss could not bind him to -that atonement. It was she, rather, who owed him an infinity of -reparation. He determined to treat himself to a trip through Italy, and, -alone with the beauty of the past, to shake his soul free from the -choking entanglement of the present. He felt sick, battered, bereft of -all security; and through everything throbbed the worst hurt of -all--that Camelia should have proved herself worthless so utterly. - -Early in the afternoon of a day spent in hurried preparations for -departure, he heard a horse's hoofs outside, and looking from the -library window he saw Arthur Henge dismounting. - -Perior felt the blood rush to his head. The first impulse of his thought -was to see in Arthur the righteously angered friend come to heap upon -him the shame of his discovered betrayal. He would of course bear the -responsibility as the chiefly false and traitorous. The woman would -shield herself; it was the right of her weakness, and his deep, -unreasonable loyalty to Camelia, a loyalty paternal in its force and -helplessness, accepted the vicarious position, rushed over and confused -every self-asserting instinct. It was with almost the illusion of guilt -that he stood upright, waiting. Then, this last straw he snatched at, -despising it, as he heard Arthur's step in the hall; was it possible -that he had discovered nothing?--possible that he had come to announce -his engagement?--possible that Camelia, in the bewilderment of her -rejection, had returned to a doubly false, a dastardly allegiance? The -irony of such a supposition did not make it by any means impossible. But -one look at Arthur's face dismissed the tragic-comic surmise. - -It was a face of stiffened gloom, a face difficult for the moment to -interpret. Camelia had told the truth, then. Told more than the truth? -Buttressed her falseness with his act of folly? - -Perior expected nothing less than this craven insincerity. To shield her -he must bare his breast for Arthur's shafts. Arthur might as well know -that he loved her, but Camelia should never know it, so Perior grimly -promised himself as he met his friend's look with some of the sternness -necessitated by his pitch of unpleasant resolution. - -But Henge's first words proved that Camelia, at all events, had not been -cowardly. - -"Perior--she has broken our engagement! She accepted me yesterday--and -to-day she has broken our engagement!" and the quick change of -expression on Perior's face moving him too much, he dropped into a -chair, and leaning his arms on the table, bowed his head upon his hands. - -Perior's first feeling was a crumbling sense of baseness. The lie -between him and his unfortunate friend scorched him, and his recognition -of Camelia's courage was swept away by the realization of her cruelty, -by the avenging consciousness that owing to her he feared to meet his -friend's eyes. - -He kept silent, studying the surrendered reticence of the bent head. - -"She accepted me yesterday, Perior." Henge repeated it helplessly. - -Perior put his hand on his shoulder. "My dear Henge," he said. - -Arthur looked up. "I don't know why I should come to you with it. I am -broken. I could cry like a baby. I love that child, Perior! You saw her -yesterday; yes, that is why I came. She accepted me yesterday, you know. -Did she say anything to you about it?--when you saw her? You see"--he -smiled miserably--"I want you to turn the knife in my wound." - -"I heard it," said Perior, feeling that a rigid adherence to perhaps -deceptive truth was all that was left to him. - -"But she gave you no reason to think that she had changed her mind?" - -"What has Camelia said to you, Arthur? One may interpret it -differently," said Perior, detesting himself. - -Sir Arthur's face resumed the blankness of its helpless wonder. - -"I got back this morning and she sent for me. I found her white, woeful, -resolute. She said, 'I made a mistake. I can't marry you. I am unworthy -of you.' That to me, Perior! to me! and only yesterday! Oh!--I could -have sworn she cared for me! I don't blame her; don't think it. It was -all pity--a fancied tenderness; the shock of realization showed her the -difference. She can't love me. She unworthy! The courage--the cruelty -even, were worthy; but she repeated that again and again." - -"Was that all she said?" Perior asked presently. - -"All? Oh no, that was only the beginning. I tortured her for an hour -with pleadings and protestations. With her it was mere repetition. She -did not love me; she felt it as soon as she had accepted me. She told me -that she sent for you--not for counsel, but to see if her misery was -not mere morbid fancy; she said that Rodrigg--the brute!--rushed in upon -her with implied accusations; to me she confessed--dearest -creature--that she had been foolishly hopeful, foolishly confident in -her eagerness for my cause. She heaped blame upon herself. She called -herself mean, and weak, and shallow--Ah! as if I did not understand the -added nobility! I have not one hard thought of her, not a touch of the -jilted lover's bitterness. It is my misfortune to see too well the -worthiness of the woman I have lost." - -"It is the best thing that could happen to you, Arthur." Perior, -standing silently beside his friend, absorbed in the contemplation of -this pitifully noble idealization, could now defy his own pain, shake -from himself the clogging sense of shame, and speak from the fulness of -his deep conviction. - -"You mean better than marrying an unloving woman," said Sir Arthur; but -he had flushed with the effort to misunderstand. Some lack in Perior's -feeling for Camelia he had always felt. He shrank now from confronting -it. - -"Yes, I mean that and more," Perior went on, feeling it good to -speak--good for him and good for Arthur--good to shape the hard truth in -hard words, yet with an inconsistency in his resolution, since he wished -Arthur to recognize her unworthiness, yet would have given his life to -keep from him the one supremely blasting instance which he and Camelia -alone knew. - -"She is not worthy of you. I hope that in saying it she felt its truth, -for truth it is." - -"Don't, Perior--" Sir Arthur had risen. "You pain me." - -"But you must listen, my dear boy--and it has pained me. I have been -fond of Camelia--I am fond of her, but I am never with her that she does -not pain me. She pains every one who is unlucky enough to care about -her; that is her destiny--and theirs." - -Sir Arthur's face through a dawning bewilderment now caught a flashing -supposition that whitened it, and kept him silent. - -"From the first, Arthur, I regretted your depth of feeling for her," -said Perior, after the slight involuntary pause with which he recognized -in his friend's face his own unconscious revelation. They now stood on -as truthful a ground as he could ever hope for. Arthur had guessed what -Camelia should never know. He could speak from a certain equality of -misfortune--for had not Camelia hurt them both? "In accepting you she -did you one wrong, she would have done you a greater had she married -you. She is not fit to be your wife. You wouldn't have held her up. Most -men don't mind ethical shortcomings in their wives--lying, and -meannesses, and the exploiting of other people--they forgive very ugly -faults in a pretty woman; but you would mind. It isn't as a pretty woman -that you love Camelia, nor even as a clever one, so you would -mind--badly. Don't look white; there is nothing gross, vulgar, in -Camelia's wrongness. As your wife she would have been faithful, useful, -kind, no doubt; there would be no stupidities to complain of. She is a -charming creature--don't I know it! But, Arthur, she is false, -voraciously selfish, hard as a stone." - -Sir Arthur had the look of a man who sees a nightmare, long forgotten as -darkest delusion, assuming before his eyes the shape and hue of reality; -he retreated before the obsession. "Don't, Perior--I cannot listen. I -love her. You are embittered--harsh. Your rigorous conscience is -distorting. You misjudge her." - -"No, no, Arthur. I judge her." - -"Ah!--not before me, then! I love her," Sir Arthur repeated. "Good-bye, -Perior. I came to say good-bye. We are going, you know." - -"Yes--So am I." - -Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt upon him for a compassionate, a magnanimous -moment. "You are? Ah! I understand." - -"More or less?" said Perior, with a spiritless smile. - -"Oh, more--more than you can say." - -Perior let him go on that supposition. Arthur understood that Camelia -had hurt him. That, after all, was sufficient; left his friend's mind -without rancor for his galling truth-telling. And, as Perior walked back -into the library, he heaved a long sigh of relief. The Rubicon was -crossed. In so speaking to Arthur he had fortified himself. The truth, -so spoken, was an eternal barrier between him and Camelia. The barrier -was a plain necessity; for Perior was conscious that a possible thrill -lurked for him in the contemplation of Camelia's last move. Its reckless -disregard of consequences proclaimed a sincerity to which he had done -injustice yesterday. She believed she loved him; she gave up all for his -subjection. Yes, the thrill required suppression. He must abide in the -firm reality of the words spoken to Arthur--"hard, false, voraciously -selfish;" yes, she might love him, but her love could be no more than a -perplexing combination of these ineradicable qualities. - -The short autumn day drew to a close. From the library window the -evening grayness dimmed the nearest group of larches, golden through all -their erect delicacy. The sad sunset made a mere whiteness in the west. -Perior had been at his writing-table for over an hour, diligently -strangling harassing thoughts, a pipe between his teeth, a consolatory -cat at his elbow, when, in a tone of commonplace that rang oddly in his -ears, "Miss Paton, sir," was announced by the solemn old retainer. - -Perior wheeled round, and stumbled to his feet; the papers he held fell -in a sprawling heap upon the floor, and the dozing cat jumped down and -took nervous refuge under a chair. - -Camelia, following old Lane with dexterous determination, saw the -astonished commotion and found it encouraging. She was determined but -not desperate. Even without encouragement she fancied that she could -have held her own, sustained as she was by her inner conviction, and -while Lane went out and closed the door, she was even able to cast a -reassuring smile at the cat, whose widened eyes shone at her from under -the chair edge. - -The door safely shut, she turned a steady look upon Perior's rough head, -silhouetted in monotone on the pale landscape outside. She herself faced -the light. She had walked, and her face showed an exquisite freshness, -an imperative youth and energy. In the austere room the sudden rose and -white of cheeks and lips and brow, the lustre of her eyes, the pale gold -of her hair, dazzled. - -Fixing Perior with this steady look, she said: "He has been here." - -"Henge? yes," said Perior. Even in the shock of his dismayed confusion -he felt with thankfulness a strong throb of an unswerving energy quite -fit to match hers. He could look at her, dazzled, but not wavering, and, -stooping from the successful encounter of eyes, he picked up the fallen -papers, pushed them into shape, and laid them on the table coolly -enough. - -"You have heard what has happened, then?" Camelia was in nowise -disconcerted by these superficialities. - -"Yes." - -"Did you tell him why I broke my engagement?" - -Perior looked again, and very firmly, at the rose and white and gold. - -"He gave me the reason you had given him. That was sufficient, wasn't -it?" - -"Sufficient for him, yes. I gave him only half the truth--I should not -have minded, you know, had you given him the whole." - -"I should have minded." - -"You? Why should you mind? It was my fault--the whole truth could tell -him nothing less than that," said Camelia quickly. - -"I appreciate your generosity"--Perior laughed a little--"that really is -generous." It really was. He put another mark against himself; but a -perception of his own past injustice did not weaken him. - -"You know why," she said, and her eyes were now solemn; "you know that I -don't care about myself any longer--so long as you care. That is all -that makes any difference--now. So you might have told him had you -wished." - -"I didn't want to;" Perior leaned back against the writing-table, -feeling a certain shrinking. Camelia's power took on new attributes. He -could but recognize a baleful nobility in her self-immolation. After -all, the falseness of yesterday had held a great sincerity--though the -sincerity might only be a morbid folly. He had hardly the excuse of -blindness. With a renewed pang of self-disgust he saw that his more -subtle falseness to her was a weapon in her hand. She had not turned it -against him. Perhaps she did not realize her need. He was glad, by -lowering himself, to lift her. - -She had come forward into the fuller light, and her face, more clearly -revealed, showed the stress that Arthur had seen as a resolute woe. In a -pause at a little distance from him, in the very tension of her face, -Perior saw that she stooped to no weak appeal; it was an intelligent -demand, rather, that he should recognize and do her justice. - -"I know how angry you are with me," she said, after the slight pause in -which they studied one another. "You believe that I have acted badly; -and so I have. I see it too. I entrapped you, made you feel false to -him, made you feel that you betrayed him. But if you _understood_. You -have never really understood. You have taken the shell of me--the -merely external silliness--so seriously." - -Perior could wonder at his own firmness before her. He was filled with -compunction for the pitiful certainty of success--once his stubborn -disbelief were convinced--that spoke through her gravity. He loved her, -and knew that he loved her, against his reason, against his will, -against his heart even, yet heard himself saying, sure of the kindness -of his cruelty--for any prolongation of her security was cruel-- - -"I hope never to take a merely external silliness seriously, Camelia. -Let me think of this as one. You should not have come, it can only hurt -you, and me. We had best not see each other again until you have -outgrown, shall we say, your present shell?" Yes, he could rely on the -decisive clear-sightedness that had made him speak the truth, once for -all, to Arthur and to himself. He felt secure in his moral antagonism; -the ascetic admonishment of his voice gratified even a sense of humor, -quite at his own expense, which he perceived in the rigor of his -righteousness. But Camelia made no retreat before that rigor, though the -color left her face, as if he had struck her; her eyes betrayed no -confusion, but a keenness, a steadiness, almost scornful. - -"You think it _that_?" Perior was not sorry to tell her and himself what -he did think. - -"I think it just that. A phase of your varied existence; a curious -experience to sound. You have set your heart on being in love with -me--since that was an experience most amusingly improbable. I am -another toy to grasp since the last disappointed." - -"You are dull," said Camelia. She looked down, clasping her hands behind -her. "You are not sincere. It pleases you to blind yourself with your -preconceived idea of me. Your self-righteousness would not like to own -itself mistaken in believing anything but the worst of me." - -"Ah! hasn't it for years been struggling to see only the best of you!" -cried Perior; "I don't deserve that, Camelia." - -"You see the best now; why won't you believe in it?" - -"I don't say I see the worst--by no means; even there is something that -surprises me, that makes me confess, gladly, that I have misjudged you; -but I can only believe that yesterday, in the impulsive reaction against -your false position--you did not love Arthur--the fact frightened you; I -am glad of that, too; but in the melting illusion you thought of me as -something solid to cling to, and now you are determined to keep on -clinging, deceiving yourself with an impossible mirage of fidelity, -devotion, and self-forgetting, which you'll never reach, Camelia ---never, never." Camelia contemplated him. - -"Yes, you believed that, or something even less pathetic; that accounts -for your cruelty--the cruelty of your last words yesterday--so false as -I knew them; but I understood them, saw all you thought, though your -wrath, your injury, your impatience to punish--how fond you are of -punishing!--wouldn't let me explain. You did not believe that I loved -you--_loved_ you. You do not believe it now. You can't believe that I, -who could have anybody, should choose you. It looks to you like an -aberration. You are afraid of being hurt by believing, afraid I'll treat -you as I treated him, afraid that you will be another toy--that was what -cut yesterday. You were being played with--I saw you thought it. But I -do love you; you will have to believe it. I do--choose you." Her head -raised, she was looking at him with the clear command of this inflexible -choice. The sublimity of confidence was touching. Perior, grimly -conscious of its illusory foothold over chasms, could afford a certain -chivalry, could at least restrain the brutality of a push into the void. -He didn't like the idea of Camelia, his smiling Camelia, really scared, -tumbling from her pinnacles into the abyss where rocky facts awaited -her. - -"I am sensible to the compliment"--the mild irony of his tone was a -warning of insecurity--"though you will own that it is, in some senses, -a dubious one; but it's very kind in you, who could have anybody, to -stoop to a nobody. My obscurity is gilded by the preference; it will -console, illuminate my solitude." She flushed, interrupting him with a -quick, sharp-- - -"I didn't intend that! You know it! You are cruel, yes, and mean; for -only my sincerity gives you the power to wound me. You _are_ a somebody; -though the whole world were blind, I can see; that is why I love you. Do -you believe me when I tell you that I love you?" Camelia did not come -closer as she asked it, but her poised expectancy of look seemed to -claim him. Perior folded his arms and stared at her. "I would rather -not," he said. - -"Why?"--her voice at last showed a tremor. "You debase me by your -incredulity. If I do not love you--what did yesterday mean?--what does -_this_ mean? It is my only excuse." - -"Excuse?"--in this nearing antagonism his voice flamed up at the sudden -outlet--"Excuse? There was no excuse--for yesterday." Saved from the -direct brutality of refusing her love, the memory of Arthur's betrayed -trust rose hot within him. Arthur's sincerity shone in its noble -unconsciousness of the falseness of friend and sweetheart, one falseness -forced, one willing and frivolous; his grief was mocked by her -indifference. - -"Nothing can excuse that," he said. "What right had you to accept him? -What right had you to keep me in ignorance? Why did you not break with -him before turning to me? By Heaven, Camelia! even knowing you as I do I -cannot understand how you did it! I could hardly look him in the face -when he was here, the thought of it sickened me so." - -"Yes, that was horrible," said Camelia. - -"Horrible?" Perior repeated. Her judicial tone exasperated him. He -walked away to the window repeating, "Horrible!" as though exclaiming at -inadequacy. - -"But have I not atoned?" Camelia asked. - -"Atoned?" he stared round at her. - -"I have set him free. I have owned myself unworthy. I did not know you -cared for me when I accepted him, or, at least, I did not know I cared -for you--so much." - -Perior continued to look at her for a silent moment, contemplating the -monstrousness, yet strangely intuitive truth of her amendment. He let it -pass, feeling rather helpless before it. - -"So that is the way you pave the way to penitence? You atone to the -broken toys by walking over them? No, Camelia, no, nothing atones, -either to him or to me, for that unspoken lie." He came back to her, -feeling the need to face her for the solemn moment of the contest. - -Camelia was speaking hurriedly at last, losing a little her sustaining -calm--"And had I told you?--Had I said at once that I was engaged to -him?--Would that have helped us?--Could you have said, then, that you -loved me? You would have been too angry--for his sake--to say it, when I -had told you that in one day I had accepted and meant to reject -him"--the questions came eagerly. - -He looked at her face, strong with its still unshaken certainty, white, -delicate, insistent. Loving it and her, his eyes held hers intently, and -he asked, "Did I say I loved you?" - -A serene dignity rose to meet his look. "You did not _say_ it, perhaps. -You said you did _not_ love me," she added, with a little smile. - -"I was base--and I spoke basely. I said that I loved you enough to kiss -you. You may scorn me for it." - -"Ah!" she said quickly, "that was because you did not believe that I -loved you! You are exonerated." - -"Not even then. But if you do love me--choose me, as you say; if I do -love you--which I have not said--and will not say, will not say even to -exculpate my folly of last night--even then, Camelia! I would not marry -a woman whom I despise." - -"Despise?" she repeated. Her voice was a toneless echo of his. She -weighed the word, and found it heavy, as he saw. Her eyes dwelt on his -mutely, and there dawned slowly in them the terror of the eternal -negative that rose between her and him. - -"You are not good enough for me, Camelia," said Perior. - -"Because of yesterday!" she gasped. "You can't forgive that!" - -"Not only that, Camelia--I do not love you." - -She stood silent, gazing. His heart bled for her. To tell the saving -lie, he had faced a jibing self-scorn; yet he continued to face it -inflexibly. - -"I could not live with you. I think you would kill me. I said to poor -Arthur this afternoon what I believe of you--that you are selfish, and -false, and hard as a stone. I could not love a woman of whom I could -think--of whom I had been forced to say--that." - -Compunctions rained upon him--sharp arrows. Her mute, white face -appealed--if only to the long devotion, the long tenderness of years. - -The crucial moment was past, and the upwelling tenderness, devotion, -called to him to hurry her away from it, and support her under his own -most necessary cruelty. - -His voice broke in a stammer as he said, taking her hands--"How can I -tell you how I hate myself for saying this?--it is hideous--it is mean -to say." - -And Camelia said nothing, seemed merely to await, in a frozen stupor, -another blow. He could not see in her now the lying jilt of yesterday. - -"Don't think of me again as I've been this afternoon. Forget it, won't -you?" he urged; "I am going away to-morrow--and--you will get over it, -be able to see me again--some day, as the good old friend who never -wanted to be cruel--no, I swear it, Camelia. You must go now; you will -let me order the trap? You will let me drive you home?" - -She had drawn her hands away; in the dim room her eyes met his--bereft, -astonished. - -"You will let me drive you?" Perior repeated with some confusion. - -"No, I will walk," she said, hardly audibly. - -"The five miles back? It is too far--too late." He looked away from her, -too much touched by those astonished eyes. - -"No--I will walk." Then, as he stood still, rather at a loss-- - -"You are going to-morrow?" - -"Yes." - -"Because of me?" - -"Ah--that pleases you!" he said, with a smile a little forced. - -"Pleases me!" The sharpness of her voice cut him, made him feel gross in -his unkindness. - -"It does not please me, but it is the best thing under the -circumstances. Now, Camelia, you must go. I will walk with you. We won't -speak of this at all--will pretend it never happened. You must forgive -my folly of last night, and get over this touching folly of yours. Come, -we won't talk of it any more," he repeated, drawing her hand through -his arm, holding it with a clasp consolatory and entreating. - -She did not follow him. "No! no!" she said, half-choked, drawing away -the hand. Then, suddenly, with a great sob, turning to him, she flung -herself upon his breast, clung to him, her hands clutching his -shoulders-- - -"Oh! don't leave me! Don't leave me! I can't bear it!" she cried, -shuddering. "I will be good! Oh, I _will_ be good! Give me time, just -wait--and see--" The words were half lost, as with hidden face she wept. -"You are so cruel, so unjust--give me time and see how I will please -you--how you will love me. You must love me--you must--you must." - -"Camelia! Camelia!" Perior was shocked, shaken as well. The deep note of -his own voice warned him in its pity, and amazement, and distress, of -the dangerous emotion that seized him. To yield again to an emotion, -even though a higher one than last night's--to yield with those thoughts -of hers--those spoken thoughts--never, never. - -He tried to hold her off; her sobs made her helpless, but with arms -outstretched--blindly, as he remembered to have seen a crying, stumbling -child, she turned to him--it was too pitiful--as she might have turned -to her mother. How repulse the broken creature? He could but take the -outstretched hands, let her come to him again; she did not put her arms -around him; there was no claim; only a clinging, her face hidden, as she -sobbed, "Don't leave me! Don't! I love you! I adore you!" - -"My poor child!" - -"Yes, yes, your poor child! Be sorry for me, be kind--only a child. I -did not mean to deserve that--torture, you--despising! I never _meant_ -anything--so wrong. Only a silly, a selfish, a frivolous child--won't -you see it?--never caring for the toys I played with--never caring for -anything but you, _really_. Can't you see it now, as I do? I have grown -up, I have put away those things. Can't you forgive me?" - -"Yes, yes. Great heavens! I am not such a prig, such a fool! I have -always hoped----" - -"That you could allow yourself to love me! Ah, say it! say it!" She -looked up, lifting her face to his. - -"To be fond of you, Camelia," said Perior. "I can't say more than that!" - -"Because you won't believe in me! Can't believe in me! And I can't live -without you to help me! Haven't you seen, all along, that you were the -only one I cared about? Half my little naughtinesses were only to -provoke you, to make you angry, to see that you cared enough to be -angry. All the rest--the worldliness--the using of people--yes, yes, I -own to it!--but no one was better than I! Why should I have been good -when no one else is? When all are playing the same game, and most people -only fit to play with? Why should I have been better than they?" - -"I don't know, Camelia, but--my wife would have to be." - -"She _will_ be." - -"Don't make me hurt you--don't be so cruel to yourself." - -"She will be," Camelia repeated. - -"I beg of you--I implore you, Camelia." He hardened his face to meet her -look, searching, eager, pitiful. - -"How could I say this unless I believed you loved me--had always loved -me? Don't speak; don't say no; don't send me away. You are angry. You -have the right to be; but, ah! if you only knew what I feel for you." - -"Don't tell me, Camelia." - -"But I must. I love everything about you--I always have. When you were -near me I saw every gesture you made, heard every word you spoke, knew -every thought you had about me. I love your little ways--I know them -all; that wag of your foot when you are angry, the look of your teeth -when you smile, your hands, your face, your dear rough hair----" - -Perior had turned from red to white, and still looking at him, shaking -her head a little, she finished very simply on a long sigh-- - -"I can't live without you. I _can't_." - -"Camelia, I can't marry you," he said; and then, taking breath in the -ensuing silence, "You are mistaken. I don't love you. I have your -welfare at my heart; I wish you all happiness, all good. I am sorry, -terribly sorry for you; but I do not love you. You must believe me. I do -not love you. I will not marry you.--God forgive me for the lie," he -said to himself; "but no, no, no, I can_not_ marry her, poor impulsive, -wilful, half noble, half pitiful child, a thousand times no." The strong -rebellion of his very soul steadied him. He could yield without a -tremor to his pity, could take her hands and hold them in a clasp -convincingly paternal and pitying. - -Camelia closed her eyes, drawing in a long breath, too sharp in its -accepted bitterness for the break of a sob. Her face, with this tragedy -of still woe upon it, was almost unrecognizable. Until now it had been a -face of triumph. Defeat--and that at last she recognized defeat he -saw--changed its very lines; the iron entered her soul, and something -left her face for ever. For a long time she did not speak, and her voice -seemed dimmed, as though spoken from a great distance, when she said, -her eyes still closed, "Then you never loved me!" - -"Never," said Perior, who, encompassed by the saving lie, could freely -breathe in the tonic atmosphere of his resolute pain. - -"But--you are fond of me?" said Camelia; and as she spoke, from under -the solemn pressure of her eyelids, pressed down as on a dead hope, -great tears came slowly. - -"Great Heaven! Fond of you? _Fond_ of you? Yes--yes, my dear Camelia." -He leaned forward and kissed her forehead above the closed eyes. - -"Ah!" she murmured, "I was so sure you loved me!" More than its rigid -misery, the humble bewilderment on her face, as of a creature stricken -helpless, and not comprehending its pain, hurt him, warned him that -every moment made it more difficult to keep down the fluttering of a -longing he would not, must never satisfy. He seemed to crush a harsh -hand on its delicate wings as he said-- - -"And now you will go. You will let me walk home with you?" - -She shook her head. "No, no." - -She went towards the door, her hand still in his. - -"You should not go alone. I beg of you, dear, to let me come." - -"I would rather go alone." - -They were in the hall, and she had not looked at him again. She put her -hand out to the door and then she paused. Perior had also paused. - -"Will you kiss me good-bye?" she said. - -"Will I? O Camelia!" At that moment he felt himself to be more false -than he had been during all the scene with her, for as he kissed her the -fluttering wings beat upward with the exultant throb of a released -desire. And she did not know. She believed him. All her hope was -stricken in the dust. And yet they clung together--lovers; he ashamed of -his knowledge; she pathetic, tragic, in her chastened, her humiliated, -trust and ignorance. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel was walking across the hall on her way to the staircase -when Camelia entered. She had not seen Camelia since the morning's -catastrophe, a catastrophe as yet unannounced, but plainly discernible -in the departure of the Henges, in Lady Paton's retirement, Camelia's -disappearance, and Mary's heavy silence. Mary herself hardly knew as -yet, could only suspect, with a sickening droop of disappointment -following a hope, unreasonable perhaps, but delicious while it so -briefly lasted. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel plied her with profitless questions during tea-time; -she only knew that Sir Arthur had ridden away, that Lady Henge had -followed with the boxes, that Aunt Angelica was in her room, and that -Camelia had gone out. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was not disposed to let Camelia -off easily; and now, undeterred by the almost vacant stare her young -hostess bent upon her, she rushed at her imperatively. - -"You look quite half mad, Camelia! What is the matter? The Henges are -gone, she as gloomy as a hearse. I have not seen your mother since -breakfast. Has a thunderbolt struck the house? You accepted Arthur Henge -yesterday, and to-day you give him his _congé_. Is it possible?" - -Camelia's hand waved her aside. What did this chattering, rattling -creature want of her? She belonged to a dim primeval age, the age of -yesterday, before the cataclysm had changed everything. - -"No; you are not going to get rid of me like that!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel -followed her swiftly up the stairs. "That would be a little too bad, to -leave me, all curiosity, frying in my own ignorance. Now, Camelia, let -me have the whole truth of it. What has happened?" She confronted her in -her room. - -"Yes, I have broken my engagement." - -"Why? great heavens, why?" - -"I don't love him. Please go, Frances." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel crossed her arms and surveyed her friend in an -exasperated silence. - -"Was that so necessary?" she asked presently, while Camelia, sitting in -a low chair half turned from her, unbuttoned her muddy boots and -gaiters. - -"Yes, it was. I wish you would go away." - -"You know what every one will think--you know what _I_ think!--that you -accepted him to prove you could throw him over. You try him on to show -that you can fit him, and then kick him away, precisely as you kick away -that muddy boot. It is an unheard-of thing. It is distinctly nasty." - -Camelia leaned back with closed eyes, hardly hearing, certainly not -caring for the words, though their sound was an importunate jangling at -her ears, wearisome, irritating. - -"As for the egregious folly of it! well, my dear, you may have plans -into which I am not initiated, but the day will come, I think, in which -you will own that you have behaved like a horrid little fool." Mrs. -Fox-Darriel moved towards the door, not caring to outstay her climax, -yet urged to an addenda by the exasperating, almost slumbering -indifference of Camelia's face. "I will go. You want to finish your cry. -Have you been walking about the lanes crying? I am off to the Dormers -to-morrow; I only stayed on here because of you; my occupation now is -decidedly gone." - -"Good-bye," said Camelia. - -When she was alone she rose and bolted the door. Her ten miles had tired -her physically, and she sank back into her chair, her stockinged feet -stretched out, her muddy skirts clinging damply about her ankles. - -Yes, let the whole truth surge over her, and find her unresisting. - -He did not love her; had never loved her. He despised her. The -remembrance of his scorn crept over her like a gnawing flame. The shame -of last night's dancing, of his reluctant embrace, that she had courted, -came upon her in an awful revelation; and the wilful, desperate passion -of to-day, sure of the hidden treasure he withheld from her in -punishment only--a child pounding at a locked door. And the room was -empty; there had been no treasure. She had forced him to open to her the -dreadful vacancy. His sad friendship, smarting still from its momentary -debasement, had sheltered her from the keenest pang; it was as if he had -held her hand as, together, they went into that vacant room; now, alone, -the realization of her own abasement stunned her. But she loved him. It -had not been for her love that he had scorned her, though -misinterpreting it so cruelly. She had made it impossible that she -should ever retrieve herself, or that he should ever see the truth; her -falseness had blinded him to her only worth, yet even now the -consciousness of that worth held her from utter loss of self-respect, -the consciousness of the intrinsic nobility of her devotion, rejected -alas! seen with darkest disfigurements, but standing upright and -unashamed at the centre of her life. This great love was like an -over-soul, a nobler self looking with sad eyes at the prostrate, the -utterly confounded Camelia. - -Then came throbs of loneliness and terror. He was going away! She sprang -up under the knife-like thrust of the thought. Oh! if at least he had -believed her! If at least he had seen tragedy, not a poor, silly farce, -the only noble thing in her life distorted to a wretched folly. Only -outwardly had she been a child screaming for an unattainable toy. She -walked up and down the room, her hands wrung together, until a quivering -weakness of fatigue came over her, and she flung herself face downwards -on the bed. - -Sobs came with the despairing posture. Her whole body shook with them. - -A tiny, timid knock at the door broke in on the miserable satisfaction -of woe expressed. - -Camelia held back her weeping and listened silently. - -"Camelia," said her mother's voice, a voice tremulous with tears, "may I -not see you, my darling?" - -In her agonizing self-absorption Camelia heard the words with a -resentment made fierce by sympathy crushed down. - -"No," she said, steadying her voice, for her mother must not think her -weeping in regret over her act of repudiation, "you can't." - -"Please, my child "--Lady Paton evidently began to sob, and Camelia, -wrapping herself in a sense of necessary and therefore justified -brutality, again buried her head in the pillow. Yes, she was a brute, of -course, but--how silly of her mother to stand there crying! How -tactless, at least; for Camelia at once hated herself for the other -word. What did she expect? She seemed nearly as remote as Frances--not -quite, for she could see Frances and repulse her with complete -indifference, and she could not meet her mother indifferently. There -would be the pain, the irritation of feigning. - -"Don't be cruel, dear." The words reached her dimly through the pillow. -Cruel! Camelia smiled bitterly. _She_ did not know. The apparent cause -for grief was slight indeed; the real one was locked forever in her -heart, so let them think her cruel. - -The hopeless little click of the door-knob showed that her mother's hand -had been appealingly laid upon it. Her slow footstep passed along the -hall. Camelia lay in her damp, hot pillow, her eyes closed. "Yes I am a -brute," she said to herself; and then, thinking of Perior, her tears -flowed again. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -Mrs. JEDSLEY'S visit of curiosity and condolence was of a surprisingly -consolatory nature. As an old friend, Mrs. Jedsley permitted herself the -curiosity; but even from an old friend Lady Paton had not expected a -true-ringing generosity of judgment. - -"I came, my dear--yes, because I wanted to know. My ears are buzzing -with the talk of it--true or false, who can tell? Not even you, I fancy; -but I have my own opinion," said Mrs. Jedsley. "I understand Camelia -pretty well; but vulgarly, schemingly cruel--rubbish! rubbish!--so I -say!" - -That the saying had been at all necessary made poor Lady Paton more -white, yet Mrs. Jedsley's denunciation was so sincere that she took her -hands, saying, "How can they! It was a mistake. She found she did not -love him. _He_ understands." Sir Arthur's parting words had haloed her -daughter for her during these difficult days. - -"Yes, yes, he is a very fine fellow, and idealizes her tremendously," -said Mrs. Jedsley, with strict justice. "It was, of course, a great -shame for her not to have made up her mind long ago--a great shame to -have accepted him"--Mrs. Jedsley shore off Camelia's beams -relentlessly--"and a great pity, my dear, that the engagement should -have been announced, since a few hours of silence might have shifted -the matter, and no one the wiser. But of course we were all as ready as -dry kindling for the match--it spread like wildfire--a fine crackling! -and then, in a day, a fine cackling! Lady Haversham came running down to -me post-haste to say it was off--to wonder, to exult. Of course she is -an adherent of the Duchess's, and Lady Elizabeth has her chance again. -But yes, yes, I know the child--a vain child, a selfish child; ah! it -pains you; one must face that truth to see beyond it--to others; but not -vulgarly cruel. She would not play with the man for months to give -herself the feline fun of crunching him at the end of it all. She was -playing with herself rather, only half in earnest. The engagement -brought her to her senses--held her still; she couldn't dance, so she -thought. Indeed, it's the first time I've respected Camelia. I do -respect a person who has the courage to retrieve a false step. It is -quite a good enough match to turn a girl into a schemer. At least she -has proved she's not that." - -"No! no! My daughter!" - -"Quite true; your daughter; that does count, after all. No, she can't be -accused of husband-hunting." Mrs. Jedsley laughed dryly. "Now, the -question of course remains, who _is_ she in love with?" and she fixed on -her friend a gaze so keenly interrogative that it certainly suggested -tinder ready to flash alight of itself. "Not our Parliamentary big-wig, -Mr. Rodrigg? Oh no!" - -"No, indeed." Lady Paton's head-shake might have damped the most arduous -conjecture. "He went away, you know--very angrily, it seems, and most -discourteously, for I did not even see him. He behaved very badly, -Michael told me. Michael himself is gone; you knew that too? He just -stopped to see me on his way to the station." - -"Mr. Perior--yes." Mrs. Jedsley looked ruminative; even to her quickly -jumping mind that long leap of inference did not suggest itself except -in one connection. - -Poor Mr. Perior! Had Camelia been giving the mitten right and left? -Buffeting back into hopelessness each suitor who advanced, encouraged by -another's failure? Had Mr. Perior really been foolish enough to run his -head into that trap? - -"Now that the comedy is over, the chief confidant packs up--he quite -filled that rôle, didn't he?" she said. "And our fine jingling lady, -Mrs. Fox-Darriel? Has she, too, folded her tents and stolen away?--not -silently, I'll be bound. She had staked something on the match." - -"She is gone. She spoke unkindly to me of Camelia. I do not like her. I -could say nothing, it was so----" - -"So neatly done. She implied, merely; you would have accepted inferences -by recognizing them. I can hear her!" - -"She felt for me. Camelia had gone too far--it didn't look well; a girl -must not overstep certain limits; one could make too much of a -reputation for audacity; Camelia's charm had been to be audacious, -without seeming so. And the sad affair of Mr. Rodrigg--Camelia should -not have stooped, and to no purpose; people turned on one so horridly. -Poor Sir Arthur would lose his bill as well as his sweetheart, now that -Camelia had meddled so disastrously. Oh! she was most unkind." Lady -Paton evidently remembered the unkindness--her voice was a curious echo. - -Mrs. Jedsley ruminated energetically all the way back to the village, -as, her skirts raised in either hand, she marched with heavy-booted -splashes through the mud. Near the village she overtook Mary, bending as -she walked, an umbrella uncomfortably wedged under one arm, several -parcels encumbering her. - -"My dear, why walk in this weather?" Mrs. Jedsley herself walked in all -weathers, but for Mary, with a pleasant equine background, the necessity -was not obvious; she joined her with the ejaculation. - -"Oh! I like walking, Mrs. Jedsley," said Mary. "Aunt Angelica always -tells me to have the pony-cart, but it seems hardly worth while for this -little distance." - -"A good mile. Where are you bound for?" - -"I want to see Mrs. Brown; Kitty was rather troublesome in Sunday-school -last Sunday." - -"And how nicely you manage that class. It is a credit to you. Camelia -now laughs at it." Mary said nothing to this, and Mrs. Jedsley added, -"Not that she has much heart for laughing at anything just now from what -I hear. That is the very encouraging feature of the whole case. It is -ridiculous to speak of her as setting feathers in her cap with a light -heart. She really feels this sad affair." - -"Yes," said Mary, looking ahead with a rather rigid settling of her -features. - -"One might perhaps say affairs," Mrs. Jedsley added, for she could not -keep those restless conjectures to herself; out they galloped. "It has -been a general _débâcle_. Mr. Rodrigg gone in a fury--breathing flame; -Sir Arthur flung from his triumph--and, poor Mr. Perior. Now I really -did not expect it of Mr. Perior; I thought he knew her so well--yet, for -eyes that can see it's very evident, isn't it?" - -Mary looked down, making no reply. - -"Evidently she has a charm the most metallic male heart can't withstand; -a case of molten iron with Mr. Perior--in that condition I can imagine -him irresistible to some women. But such a reasonable man; -well-seasoned, and her friend for years. Oh! it's a great pity that he -let her melt him; no one knows now what shape his despair will cool to?" - -Mary, her head bent persistently downward, stared at the muddy road. - -"That she was very fond of him there is no denying," Mrs. Jedsley -pursued, "but I should have seen that as the most hopeless part of the -matter. A girl like Camelia doesn't marry the middle-aged mentor of her -youth. But fond of him she is. I have watched her. Her eyes were always -sliding round to him. He made a standard to her; she might jibe at it, -but she liked to see it standing there--and to hang a wreath on it now -and then. Upon my word, Mary!" and Mrs. Jedsley, stopping short in a -mud-puddle, turned triumphant eyes on Mary's impassive face, "I -shouldn't be surprised if _that_ were the real matter with her. She is -really fond of him; his tumble hurts her more than the other's. She -misses her sign-post pointing steadily at friendship. She is sorry to -lose her friend." - -Mary after a little pause said, "Yes." - -"Yes! You think so too!" cried Mrs. Jedsley delightedly. "You have -opportunities, of course----" - -"Oh no! No, indeed, Mrs. Jedsley--I only think, only imagine----" - -"You have thought and imagined what I have. And that we are right I -don't doubt. The double catastrophe accounts very fully for her low -spirits--and I really respect her for them, though that the catastrophe -should have occurred makes it only just that she should suffer. But Mr. -Perior was foolish. Ah yes! in her defence I must say that!" - -Mary was saying nothing, standing mutely at the parting of the roads -until her companion should have done. She was well prepared for Mrs. -Jedsley's unconscious darts. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's parting look and parting words still rankled in her -heavy heart; the look, one of pity; the words: "She has refused the -other too! And him she would have liked to keep dangling! She enjoys an -interminable sense of drama when he is by; her life is bereft without -it. But the man was mad to think that she would take him," and the look -had added that the man was a fool not to see and be contented with the -minor fact Mary would have been so willing to supply. Mary had felt -withered; her nerves scorched to apathy, since that look. - -"You must come in and have tea with me, my dear," said Mrs. Jedsley, "it -will put strength into you for your talk with Mrs. Brown. Come and have -a cup with me--and you know my hot scones; we will talk this over. Your -aunt doesn't suspect it, poor dear!" - -"No, Mrs. Jedsley, thanks--I can't come, and no, aunt does not -know--must not know; it would make her feel very unhappy! she is so fond -of Mr. Perior; she doesn't suspect it," Mary spoke with sudden -insistence--"and then, it may be pure imagination on my part," she -added, flushing before Mrs. Jedsley's smiling and complacent head-shake. -"It would be unfair to _them_--would it not?--to Camelia I -mean--and----" - -"And Mr. Perior; quite true, my dear. We must be as quiet as mice about -it. Unfair, as you say. We must not hang out his heart for the daws to -peck at. Poor man! You won't come in to tea?" - -"Thanks, no. I must be home early." Mary hurried away. She bit her lips -hard, staring before her at the wet browns and grays of the lane, dingy, -drab, like her life; narrow, dull, chill with on-coming winter, and -leading--the lane led to the churchyard. Mary's thoughts followed it to -that destination, and suddenly the hot tears rolled down her cheeks, and -hard sobs shook her as she walked. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -These days were very lonely for Lady Paton. The house was empty, and one -could not call companionship Camelia's mute, white presence. - -Camelia read all day in the library, where only Siegfried was made -welcome, or rode for hours about the wintry country. To all timid -questions, as to future plans, she only answered by a coldly decisive, -"I don't know." When her mother put her arms around her, Camelia stood -impassive in their circling love, locked in her own frozen mood of -despairing humiliation. - -One day when in her room she had broken down her outward endurance by an -impulsive cry of woe, and stood sobbing, her face in her hands, her -mother came in, made courageous by pity. - -"My dearest child, tell me--what is it? You are breaking your heart and -mine. Do you love him? Tell me, darling. Is it some hidden scruple? some -fancy? Let me send for him," poor Lady Paton's thoughts dwelt longingly -on amorous remedies. - -"Love him? Sir Arthur? Are you mad, mother?" Camelia lifted a stern -face. "He doesn't enter my mind. He is nothing to me--simply nothing." - -"But, Camelia--you are miserable----" - -"Ah! I have a right to that dreary liberty." - -"And--Oh don't be angry, dearest--is there no one else?" - -"No one else?" Camelia repeated it angrily indeed;--that her mother -should give this stupid wrench to her heart was intolerable. "Of course -there is no one else! How can you be so tiresome, mother. There--don't -cry. I am simply sick of everything--myself included, that is all that -is the matter with me. Please don't cry!" for sympathetic tears were -coming into her own eyes, and above all things, she dreaded a breaking -down of reserves, a weakened dignity that might bring her to a sobbing, -maudlin confession, that would burn her afterwards, and follow her -everywhere in the larger pity of her mother's eyes. - -Lady Paton, her handkerchief at her lips, pressed back her grief, saying -in a broken entreaty, "But, Camelia--why? How long will it last? You -were always such a happy creature." - -"How can I tell?" Camelia gave a little laugh that carried her over the -vanquished sob to a certain calmness; leaning back against the -mantelpiece she added, smiling drearily, "Don't worry, mother; don't -_you_ be miserable." - -Lady Paton looked at her with eyes in which Camelia felt the unconscious -dignity of an inarticulate reproof. - -"Oh, my child!" she said, "my child! Am I not your mother? Is not your -happiness my only happiness?--your sorrow my last and greatest sorrow? -You forget me, dear, in your own grief. You shut me out--because you -don't love me--as I love you;--it is that that hurts the most." - -Camelia stood looking at her. Her artistic sensibility was decidedly -impressed by this unexpected revelation of character. How well her -mother's white hair and cap looked on the pale greens of the room; the -exquisite face, and the more exquisite soul looking from it. How well -she had spoken; how truly too. Yes, her own worthlessness clung to her; -she, so far inferior in moral worth, made this sweet, fragile creature -unhappy; she was everything to her mother, the light that shone through -and sustained the white petals of her flower-like being; and her mother -was to her only a pretty detail. Camelia analyzed it all very -completely, and resting on an achieved self-disgust she said, gravely -contemplating her, "It is a great shame, mother. That is the way of this -wretched world. The good people are always making beauty for the bad -ones. You shouldn't let that lovely, but most irrational maternal -instinct dominate you; see me as I am, a horrid creature." She paused, -and all thoughts of artistic effects, all poetical and scientific -appreciations, were blotted out in a flame-like leap of memory--"false, -selfish, hard as a stone," she said. - -"Don't say it, dear--you could not say it if it were so." - -"Oh, yes!--one can, if one has a devilish clearness of perception about -everything. I am horrid--and I know that I am horrid. And you are very -lovely. There." And kissing her, Camelia pushed her gently to the door. - -Perhaps, however, more than artistic sensibilities had been touched. -Camelia shrank as quickly as before from any demonstration that seemed -to look too closely at her heart, but she herself would make advances. -She was only gentle, now, towards her mother; she never failed to kiss -or caress her when they met. A cheerful coldness seemed at once her -surest refuge and most becoming medium for an affection that could allow -itself no warmer and more dangerous avowals. It was a colorless, still -affection, held, as it were, from development, only felt by Lady Paton -as a more careful kindness, and by Camelia as a new necessity for -incurring no further self-reproach. - -Poor Lady Paton, devouring her heart in sorrowful conjecture and -helpless sympathy, had no thought but of her child; but by her side, -Mary, the silent witness of her grief and anxiety, might have claimed, -from disengaged eyes, a foreboding attention. Since the day of her -stolen ride Mary had effaced herself in a shadowy taciturnity. She -watched Camelia, and avoided her. Her absorption in every household duty -became minutely forced. She slipped early to bed after a day of -self-imposed labor. Work and its ensuing weariness, were the only -sedatives for intolerable pain; she deadened herself with the drug. The -weather was bad, and Lady Paton too depressed to rouse herself to her -usual benignant activity. Mary took upon herself her Aunt's abandoned -occupations. She went every day to read to the paralyzed girl at the -Manor Farm. She made the weekly round of visits through the wet village -streets; consulted with the well-worked rector; kept an eye upon the -school and almshouses. Mary was not particularly popular in the village. -Her kindness was rather flat and flavorless; Jane Hicks at the farm -complained to her mother that Miss Fairleigh's reading was "so dull -like; one didn't seem to get anything from it." - -Jane never forgot the one visit Miss Paton made her, nor how Camelia had -sat beside her and kept her laughing the whole hour. Camelia, seeing the -effect she made, had promised to return some day, but events had -interfered, she now was in no mood for laughing, and Jane was always -eager to question Mary about Camelia's doings, and to sigh with the -pleasant reminiscence of her "pretty ways." Mary's virtues were all -peculiarly unremunerative, they sought, and obtained, no reward. - -Towards the beginning of December Camelia's despair threw itself into -action. The rankling sense of Perior's scorn at first stupefied, and at -last roused her. Before him she had felt her powerlessness. His rocky -negative had broken her. He would not change--not a thought of his -changing stirred her deep hopelessness; but she herself might -change--merit at least a friendship unflawed--cast off crueller -accusations. - -She must be good, she must struggle from the shell; she must realize, -however feebly, his ideal. He would never love her--that delusion of her -vanity he had killed forever; but he might be fond of her without a -compunction. - -Towards this comparatively humble attainment Camelia strove. How to be -good was the question. Of course she would never tell lies any -more--unless necessary lies of self-defence, in protection of her dear, -her dreadful secret--Camelia could address it by both names; the love -that sustained and must lift her life, even he should never see again. -After all, it was easy enough to tell the truth when one cared no more -for any of the things gained by falseness. That was hardly a step -upward. Some other mode of development must be found; Camelia pondered -this necessity, and one day during a walk past Perior's model cottages -the thought came. She, too, would build cottages, beautiful cottages, -more beautiful than his! She almost laughed at the delicious, teasing, -old friendliness of that addenda. - -The Patons' estate boasted only very commonplace residences for its -laborers, and delightful visions of co-operative farming, of idealized -laboring conditions flashed joyously through Camelia's mind. Vast fields -of study opened alluringly, and, immediately in the foreground, these -idyllic cottages. They bloomed with trellised flowers on the gray -December landscape as she walked. The wall-papers were chosen by the -time she reached home. She burst upon her mother in the firelit -drawing-room at tea-time with an enthusiasm that made Lady Paton's heart -jump. - -"Mother! Such an idea! I am going to build." - -Mary, who was toasting a muffin to hotter crispness before the fire, -turned a thin, flushed face at the announcement. - -"Build what, dear?" asked Lady Paton; while Mary, certain in one moment -of what Camelia was going to build, and why, silently put the -ameliorated muffin on the little plate by her aunt's side. - -"Cottages. Model cottages. Beautiful cottages--really beautiful, you -know--Elizabethan; beams, white plaster, latticed windows, deep -window-seats, and the latest modernity in drains and bath-tubs." - -"Like Michael's, you mean," said Lady Paton, a little bewildered; "his -are not Elizabethan, but the drains and bath-tubs are very good, I -believe." - -Camelia's face changed when her mother spoke of "Michael;" and Mary, -watching as usual, compressed her lips tightly. The cottages were to be -built for him--with him! Ah! he would come back. Camelia would keep -him--for building cottages, for adoring her; while she, Mary, would be -thrust further and further away. - -"Yes, like his, only better than his. My tenants shall be the best -housed of the county." Camelia threw herself into an easy-chair, and -fixed her eyes thoughtfully upon the fire. - -"It will be very expensive, dear." - -"Never mind; we'll economize." - -Camelia had not so looked or spoken for weeks, and Lady Paton smiled a -happy acquiescence. - -Camelia took the cup of tea her cousin offered her without looking away -from the fire, where she saw the cottages charmingly pictured, and she -and Perior looking at them--friends. - -"Your boots are wet, dear, are they not?" asked Lady Paton; "it has been -raining." - -"They are wet, I think. Mary, just ring, will you? Grant must take them -off down here. I am too tired, too comfortable, to go upstairs." - -Camelia sighed as though the fundamental heaviness of her mood rose -through the seeming light-heartedness of tone; sighed, and yet the -relief of getting outside herself was filling her with an exhilarating -energy. - -As she drank her tea, ate a muffin, Mary browning it nicely for -her--"How cosy to have tea by ourselves," said Camelia, "and toast our -own muffins!"--she talked as she had not talked for a long time. Her -mind ran quickly, escaping its miserable thraldom, from point to point -of the project. - -She pushed aside the tea-things to make with spoons and saucers a plan -of the new scheme. - -"That high bit of land, you know, with the beech woods behind it; I'll -have six of the cottages, with big gardens; and what a view from the -front windows. I will furnish them, too. I must see an architect at -once: I'll go up to town for that, and talk it over with Lady Tramley. -Where is her last letter, I wonder? I remember her asking me for some -date; but that doesn't matter. She wanted me to go out, and of course I -won't." Camelia sprang up to rumple over the leaves of the blotter, the -drawers of the writing-desk. "Where is the letter? In the library, I -wonder?" - -"There is a whole pile, dear, in the small cabinet. You did not care to -look at them. I think they had better be gone over." - -"No; here is hers. I don't care about the others. I don't want to hear -anything about any one," Camelia added with some bitterness, as she -dropped into her chair again and held out her foot to Grant, who had -come in with the shoes. "Yes; she asks me for next week." - -"If you won't go out, dear, it may be rather annoying for her." - -"Oh! she can get out of things herself while I am with her," said -Camelia easily, as her eyes skimmed over the letter. - -The new impulse was too strong to be thwarted by the slightest delay. -That evening Camelia sent off a bulky letter to Lady Tramley, much -astonishing that good friend by her absolute ignoring of important facts -in recent history. Sir Arthur was not so much as hinted at. The whole -letter bristled with cottages, and Camelia's earnestness panted on every -page. - -"She is going in for philanthropy, I suppose," Lady Tramley conjectured, -shaking her head with a patient smile over the small, flowing -handwriting--Camelia hated untidy scrawls. "Let us help her. Camelia is -sure to do something interesting in the way of cottages. She'll carry -them through like a London season." - -Lady Tramley, as may be gathered from these remarks, was one of -Camelia's admirers, though not a blind or bigoted one. She shook her -head on many occasions, but Camelia's defects were not serious matters -to her gay philosophy, and Camelia's qualities in this frivolous world, -where nothing should be peered at too closely, were attractively -sparkling. As a successful hostess Lady Tramley prized the charming Miss -Paton. - -"Now mind," Camelia said on arriving at her friend's house, "I am not -going to be shown to any one. I am in a monastic frame of mind, and must -be kept unspotted from the world. No dances or dinners, if you please," -and she fixed her with eyes really grave. - -"Very well." Lady Tramley acquiesced as to a humorous and pretty whim. -"My doors are closed while you are here--as on a retreat. But when will -the season of penance be over? We are all expiating with you, remember." - -"Do I imply penance? Is that the habit my retirement wears?" - -"People give you credit for all sorts of niceties of feeling." Lady -Tramley smiled her significant little smile, a smile not lavished on the -nothings of intercourse, and Camelia, taking her by the shoulders, shook -her softly. - -"No; sly as you are you get nothing out of me, and give me credit for -nothing, please, not even for curiosity as to what people _do_ say of -me." - -"You know, dear, he is to meet, I fear, a second disaster as -unmerited----" - -Camelia had sat down to the tea-tray brought to refresh her after her -journey. She looked up from the filling of her cup to meet in a glance -the delicate directness of Lady Tramley's look. - -"Jack knows the ropes, of course, and I thought you ought to know -too--and be sorry." In her heart Lady Tramley hoped for an expansion of -sorrow that would carry Camelia past her moment of inexplicable folly. - -"I am sorry. The bill, you mean." Camelia folded a slice of bread and -butter, adding "Idiots." - -"Idiots indeed. It won't be carried, I am afraid. There is a split in -the Government, and Mr. Rodrigg has developed a really spiteful -acrimony. I always hated that man." - -"Ah! I loathe him!" said Camelia. She thought with a pang of -self-reproach of an unopened letter among the rejected pile--a letter -for Mr. Rodrigg. She had not cared to read his shuffling excuses. His -vanity, bulwarked by the strangely apt events succeeding his -discomfiture, might well renew hope. He might imagine these events the -result of remorse, and that, brought to a timely realization of her -folly, his fair one would consent to bury the hatchet and allow his firm -hand to tame her finally. All this Camelia had conjectured very rightly -on looking at the fat envelope. She had restrained the direct rebuff of -returning the unopened letter, but she had neither answered nor cared to -read it, and could well imagine that Mr. Rodrigg's cumulative -humiliation would urge him to his only possible vengeance. The "I loathe -him" was spoken with a most feeling intensity of tone. - -"Yes." Lady Tramley's affirmative was meaning, and Camelia looked up -alertly. "Lady Henge told me." - -"You know everything, I believe," cried Camelia. "Well, I am in good -hands." - -"I understand--your idea in it. But how unwise. How you mistook the -man." - -"Rather! Ass that I am!" - -"You looked for superlative chivalry, if you come to think of it." - -"No, for sincerity; common honesty. I thought I could convince him. I -didn't want chivalry without conviction. What did Lady Henge say of me?" -Camelia added bluntly. - -Lady Tramley replied very frankly, "She said you were a shallow jilt. I -quite agreed with her inwardly--though I shamelessly defended you." - -"If I say that I agree with you both it will only savor of ostentatious -humility--so I refrain. But, Lady Tramley, it was not the breaking of -our engagement that was shallow--that I will say. And so the bill is -doomed. Can we do nothing? Shear no Samson in the lobbies? Mr. Rodrigg, -of course, offers no hirsute possibilities." - -"Not a hair. Your Mr. Perior will be disappointed. He came back from the -Continent, you know, and put his shoulder to the wheel." - -Camelia stirred her tea evenly. Her nerves, as she felt with pride, were -very reliable. - -"_Our_ Mr. Perior then, is he not?" she asked, while her thoughts flew -past Sir Arthur to nestle pityingly to Perior. His useless valiancy -embittered her against the world of unconvinced opponents. Idiots -indeed! But she could not see him yet; even her nerves were not yet -tempered to a meeting. She had no comfortable background against which -to present herself; when she did, the background must be so unfamiliar -that for neither of them could there be the confusion of a hinted -memory. - -"Ours, by all means," said Lady Tramley. "I only effaced myself before -the paramount claim.--Not quite doomed. There is still the final fight, -and it is to be heralded by a thunderous article in the _Friday_. Mr. -Perior only goes down sword in hand." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -So he was in London. Camelia, sitting at home in the library, could -think of the nearness with a new calm. She was preparing herself to meet -its closer approach. She was not leaving herself defenceless. She -plunged into her reading--architecture, agriculture, decoration, and -sociology. The books came down from London in heavy boxes, and she sat -encompassed by the encouraging perfume of freshly-cut leaves. - -"Are you happy, dear?" her mother asked her. She would come in with her -usual air of deprecatory gentleness, and bend over the absorbed golden -head that did not turn at her entrance. On this day the absorption wore -a look of eager interest that seemed to justify the question. - -Camelia finished her sentence, smiling, however, as she put her hand on -her mother's without looking up. Her mind, indeed, was soothed, -comparatively comfortable. - -"No rude questions, Mamma!" - -"You understand all these solemn books?" Over her daughter's shoulder, -where she leaned, Lady Paton looked respectfully at the heavy volume. - -"I am beginning to understand that whatever one does in philanthropy is -wrong from the point of view of some authority!" Camelia said, -stretching herself on a long yawn, and then gently pinching her mother's -chin, while the smile dwelt upon her appreciatively, "As usual I find -that the only thing to do in this world is to do just as one likes." - -"If one can," said Lady Paton, with a half sad playfulness. - -"If one can;" the words woke in Camelia a painfully personal -affirmative, and with the wave of self-pity that swept through her -mingled a sense of her mother's unconscious pathos. Still holding her -chin she looked up at her, "It has often been _can't_ with you, hasn't -it?" - -Lady Paton's glance fluttered to a shy alarm and surprise at this -application. - -"With me, dear?" - -"Yes--you have had to give up lots of things, haven't you? to put up -with any amount of disagreeable inevitables." - -"I have had many blessings." - -"Oh! of course! You would say that over your last crust! But it has been -can't with you, decidedly. I wonder if it was because you weren't strong -enough to have your own way!" - -"That would be a bad way, surely." - -"Ah!--not yours!" - -"And perhaps I have no way at all," Lady Paton added, and Camelia was -obliged to laugh at the subtle simplicity. - -"That is being too submissive. Yet--it is comfortable, no doubt. -Absolute non-resistance isn't a bad idea. And yet, why shouldn't one -make one's struggle?--survive if one is fittest? Why is not having -one's own way as good as submitting to somebody else's? Oh dear!" she -cried. - -"What is it?" - -"Nothing, nothing; I am unfittest, that is all!" Camelia stared out of -the window. - -"What do you mean, dear?" - -"I mean that I can't have my own way--I, too, can't. And it wasn't a bad -way either. There is the cruelty of it, the irony, the jeer! All the bad -ways are given to me, and when I turn from them, don't want them, and -try for the _best_--I don't get it! Isn't it intolerable?" - -To Lady Paton this was wild, bewildering, pitiful, yet she grasped -enough to say, "That would be the punishment, would it not, dear, for -the bad ways?" - -"Yes, the punishment. Like damnation. One has made one's self too -ugly--the best can't recognize one at all." - -That evening the last number of the _Friday Review_ lay on the -drawing-room table. Perior had not written in it for some time, but with -the quiver of the heart any association with him now gave her, Camelia -picked up the paper and carried it to the fireside. Mary, sewing in the -lamp's soft circle of light, looked up quickly, and her hand paused with -an outstretched thread as she saw Camelia's literary fare. - -Camelia turned the pages in a half fretful search for what she felt sure -of not finding; then, abruptly, the rustling leaves came to a -standstill. There was the article, at last! a long one, on the Factory -Bill. Impossible to question the concise, laconic style; no one else -wrote with such absolute directness, such exquisite choice, free from -all hint of phrasing. - -Camelia's gray eyes kindled as she read, and her lips parted -involuntarily; she drew quick, shallow little breaths. Oh! through it -all went that fervor, that cold, bracing fervor she knew and loved. - -Perior's strong feeling was at times like a clear, indignant wind, -sweeping before it cowering littlenesses. Her mind half forgot him as -she read, conscious as was her heart. For the first time the intrinsic -right of the bill was borne in upon her. She had glibly dressed its -merits, laughing at her own theatrical dexterity. She had never really -cared for any bill. Now it became the greatest, the only bill in the -world. Her ardor rushed past the unfortunate initiator, to fall at the -propagator's feet. Ah! if she could but help now, and for his sake! Poor -Sir Arthur! - -Mary, who from her seat could just see, beyond the sharply held review, -the lovely line of Camelia's cheek, the little ear, set in its delicate -closeness against the shining hair, Mary, intent on the rising color in -this bit of cheek, had quite stopped sewing. Her pale eyes widened in a -devouring significance, her lips set tightly on repressed pain. Mary, -too, had read the article. - -Coming to the end of it, Camelia slanted the paper downwards, and -vaguely, over the top of it, looked at the fire. Then suddenly her eyes -met Mary's. A violent shock of self-consciousness shook her through and -through. She felt herself snatch back her secret from a precipice edge -of revelation--revelation to dull Mary, of all people. Mary, against -whom, in regard to Perior, she had long felt--not knowing that she felt -it--a strong, reasonless antagonism. She could not shake and slap her -secret, as a frightened mother slaps and shakes her rescued child; but -she could turn the terrified anger on its cause, and, in a strangely -pitched voice, she said, "What are you staring at? You look like a spy!" - -Mary gave a great start. If indeed she had been slapped outright her -guilty amazement could not have been more cruel. - -She stammered at a repetition of "staring"; but no words came. Her face -was scarlet. Camelia was immediately sorry, but not one whit less angry, -more so, perhaps, since pity is often an irritating ingredient; and, -too, she felt that to any one less stupid her very outburst might have -betrayed her. She was angry with herself as well as with Mary. Mary's -very helplessness was repulsive, and she hated to see her light blue -eyes set in that scarlet confusion. - -"Yes, staring;" she helped the stammering. "Is there anything you want -to find out? Do ask, then. Don't let your eyes skulk about in that -sneaking fashion. It makes me quite sick to see you." - -Mary stood up, looking from side to side in a half-dazed way that -Camelia observed with a pitying disgust that indeed sickened her. It -reminded her of the gestures of an ugly animal wounded by a stone flung -by some cruel boy. The simile came in a flash that it did not at the -moment give her time to complete it and see herself as stone-thrower. -She felt relief, as well as an added dismay, when Mary broke suddenly -into sobs, and stumbled out of the room, her sewing, caught in her -skirt, following her with ungainly leaps. Only then Camelia realized -that it was her own cruelty that sickened her; her irrational terror, -breaking in upon a tender, thrilling absorption, had urged her to it, -almost irresistibly; but now, the terror past, its foundationless folly -apparent, she really felt quite sick as she still sat looking at the -fire. - -The _Friday Review_ sliding suddenly from her knees gave her a nervous -pang that tingled to her finger-tips, and when she stooped to pick it up -Perior's personality seemed to confront her. She cowered before it. The -hot blood beat in her head. Only by degrees, as her mind faltered over -extenuations, did she quiet herself. Her hidden unhappiness--her love, -it had been like a blundering hand thrust among her heart-strings; how -could she have helped the sharp anger in which her naked anguish clothed -itself? Lastly, but with a kind of shame, Mary's displeasing personality -made a subtle condonation; her inarticulate stupidity was almost -infuriating. Not for one moment did her secret suspect Mary's. Her own -pain seemed already an expiation, and, in analyzing it, she could put -Mary aside, promising herself that she would atone by a "Forgive me, -Mary, I did not mean it," the next time they met. She would even add, "I -was a devil." Her sigh of decision left her only half comforted. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -She did not see Mary again until the next morning, and then Camelia gave -herself the satisfaction of fulfilling an uncompulsory duty. Mary's -mask-like look of endurance met her apology with a dumb confusion that -Camelia must assume as accepting it, since she could not imagine Mary as -unforgiving. - -Holding Mary's hand she repeated with some insistence, "I was devilish, -indeed I was. I don't know what evil spirit entered me." - -Mary was acute enough to see the apology as a mere poultice on Camelia's -bruised conscience, but she did not divine the stir of real pity that -had prompted it, nor the embarrassment that concealed itself, half -ashamed, under Camelia's bright smile, a smile like the flourishing -finality at the end of a conventional letter. - -Mary only shrank more coweringly from the circling advance of pain. In -her solitude Camelia's whip-like words and Camelia's smile blended to -the same scorching; words, Mary thought, so true, that no apology, no -smile, could efface them. That Camelia had felt them true was a -nightmare suspicion; the instinct for the truth had at least been there, -and, like the wounded animal, Mary quaked in her warren, conscious of -insecurity. Camelia soon forgot both cruelty and apology. - -The news of the defeat of the bill brought her no shock, when it came -late in January. She had regretted keenly her own interference for a -long time, and found herself prepared to meet the blow with the quiet of -exhausted feeling. Camelia was not given in these days to finding -excuses for her faults, but she could see that this one had been venial, -and escape an unjust self-reproach. It was certainly irritating to have -Mrs. Jedsley rub in the undeserved sting. - -Coming from the library one afternoon Camelia found this lady ensconced -before the drawing-room fire, her muddy boots outstretched to the -blaze--Mrs. Jedsley's boots were chronically muddy--a muffin in one -hand, a cup of tea in the other, her expression divided among the triple -pleasure of warmth, tea, and interesting news. - -"Well, my dear, you've all had your brushes cut off, it seems," was her -consolatory greeting. - -Camelia sank into a chair, languidly detesting Mrs. Jedsley's bad taste. - -"You did so much for the cause, too, didn't you?" said Mrs. Jedsley, -deterred by no delicate scruples. "Come, Camelia, confess that it has -been a tumble for you all!" - -"Too evident a tumble I think to require confession." - -"And Mr. Rodrigg here for such a time! You are less clever than I -thought you--don't be offended--I mean it in a complimentary sense. -Then, after all, it isn't a brush you need mind losing. I never thought -much of the bill myself." - -Camelia sat coldly unresponsive, and Lady Paton tried to smile at Mrs. -Jedsley's remarks and to believe them purely humorous. - -"I am sorry for poor Michael," she said, "I fear he has taken it to -heart." This unconscious opening was only too gratefully seized upon by -Mrs. Jedsley, who, after a meaning glance at Mary, fixed, over her -tea-cup, sharp eyes on Camelia. - -"Ah!" she said, "he is a man cut out for misfortunes--they all fit him. -He is bound to fail in everything he undertakes." - -"I can't agree with you there," Camelia spoke acidly. "I think he -succeeds at a great many things." - -"Things he doesn't care about, then, you may be sure of that. Fortune -follows such men like a stray dog they have no use for, while they are -looking for their own lost pet." - -Camelia drank her tea in silence, priding herself somewhat on her -forbearance, pondering, too, on the pathos of Mrs. Jedsley's simile in -which she could only see a purely personal applicability. It was not him -the stray dog followed, but any number followed her--and it was she who -had lost her all. - -But would he not come back? Might she not see him again? To be with -him--brave, self-controlled, and reticent, how well worth the fuller -pain! Pain was so far preferable to these dragging mists where she -waited. She might be--she must be--developing, but she must measure -herself beside him to know just how much she had grown. It pleased her -to see herself smiling sadly upon his unwitting kindness--for since he -had thought it a folly he should think it now a folly outgrown. It -pleased her to think that now exterior things mattered less to her than -to him; he, for all his self-defence of calm, still winced under the -whips of material circumstance; no doubt he was now tearing his heart -out over the defeat of the bill, and trying to persuade himself that he -had always expected it! She saw all material circumstance with -Buddhistic indifference. This thought dwelt pleasantly while she drank -her tea. Looking from the window she saw the winter afternoon not yet -gray, and her contemplative mood impatient of the chiming sharp and mild -which her mother and Mrs. Jedsley made, she left them to go out. First, -though, she bent over her mother and kissed her. It gave her content to -find tender demonstration becoming more and more an unforced habit. - -"Nice, pretty little mamma," she whispered. - -In her long coat, Siegfried trotting in front of her, Camelia breasted -the tonic January wind. There was just a crispness of snow on the -ground; in the lanes thin patches of ice made walking wary. She emerged -from the shelter of the hedges on to the fine billowy stretch of common, -where the wind sang, and the sunset in the west made a wide red bar. -Siegfried's adventurous spirit soon warmed him to an energetic gallop -through the dead fern and heather, and Camelia followed his lead, -intending to cut across to the highroad, and by its long curve return -home. It was in lifting her eyes to this road that she saw suddenly a -distant figure walking along it at a quick pace that would bring them -together at the very point she aimed for. It needed only the very first -brush of a glance to tell her that it was Perior. For a moment joy and -fear, courage and cowardice, pride and shame, struggled within her. Her -step faltered, stopped even, and Siegfried stopping too, looked round at -her, interrogation in the prick of his ears. - -Camelia walked on slowly. Perior had seen and recognized her--that was -evident. Whatever might be his own press of feeling he did not hesitate. -He took off his cap and hailed her gaily, and Camelia felt that her -answering hand-wave helped to prepare the way for a meeting most -creditable to them both. - -He did not fear the meeting, or would not show he did, for he advanced -over the heather at a pace resolutely unembarrassed. In another moment -they were face to face, and then she could see that his repressed a -tremor, and was conscious that her own was, with the same attempt, a -little rigid in its smile. Partly to recover from this shock of seeing -her again, partly to give her time to recover from her own emotion, -Perior raised her outstretched hand to his lips. He was so determined in -his entrenched resistance to the lover he knew himself to be (the lover -whose complaints had brought him rebelliously back again, his coming a -sop angrily thrown at the uncontrollable gentleman on condition, that -satisfied so far, he would keep still), so sure was Perior, the friend, -of the bargain, that the kiss was most successfully friendly. It sealed -delicately the bond he insisted on recognizing between himself and -Camelia. His relief was great, in looking at her again, to see that she, -too, fully recognized it, and that perhaps her courage was helped by -the fact that the mood--the astonishing mood--had passed. It would much -simplify matters if it had. He longed to be with her again, a longing -her tacit acquiescence in the old friendship could alone justify him in -satisfying. That his coming had not been indelicately ill-judged the -directness of her eyes seemed to assure him; but however much the friend -might rejoice in believing that he alone had anything to conceal, the -repressed lover, most inconsistently, felt a pang. Perior only consented -to recognize his own contentment with the safe footing upon which he -found himself. - -Camelia smiled at him, and he smiled at her, smiles that might have been -children kissing and "making up"; frank, and bravely light. - -"I thought you were in London," said Camelia. "No; come back, Siegfried, -we are going no farther; for you were coming to us, I suppose, Alceste?" -She could look at him quite directly. She was not ashamed, no, -mercifully she was not ashamed, that was her jubilant thought. After the -pang of the first moment she felt the strong conviction, borne in upon -her by her own calmness, that her love for him could never shame her, -nor her confession of it. The warm power of his friendship kept her from -petty terrors. She felt, in a moment, that on her courage depended their -future relationship. To ignore the past, to make him ignore it, would be -to regain, to keep her friend. - -"Yes, I was going to you--of course," said Perior, smiling, as they went -towards the road together. - -"I have been to Italy, you know, but I came back some time ago. I -thought I might be of use." - -"Ah! I should have liked to have been of use! but I had been too badly -bitten to dare put out a finger!" - -"I wouldn't put out fingers, if I were you; it isn't safe--when, they -are so pretty." The intimacy was almost caressing; she leaned against it -thankfully. Proud to show him that of the crying child there was not a -trace, she determined on a swift glance at the past that would put him -quite at ease. - -"And you are coming back? Since this dreary business of the worsted -right is over you won't exile yourself any longer--and rob us? All your -friends will be glad to have you again!" - -"Will they indeed?" his eyes sought hers for a moment, seemed to see in -them the past's triumphant mausoleum, presented for inspection quite -magnificently. - -"Thanks, Camelia." The boldness delighted him, delighted all of him -except that grumbling prisoner who, in his dungeon, felt foolishly -aggrieved. "Yes, I am coming back--since I am welcome," he said, adding -while they went along the road, "As for the worsted right, the right -usually is worsted, in the first place. One must try to keep one's faith -in eventual winning." - -"Tell me," said Camelia, feeling foundations quite secure, since each -had helped the other, "Mr. Rodrigg's opposition, that last speech of -his--the satanic eloquence of it!--you don't think--ah! say you don't -think me altogether responsible?" - -"Would it please you--a little--to think you were?" The old rallying -smile pained her. - -"Ah, don't! That has been knocked out of me--really! Don't imply such a -monstrous perversion of vanity." - -"I retract. No, Camelia, I don't think you _altogether_ responsible. The -eloquence would always have been against us, its satanic quality was, I -fear, your doing." - -"Yet, I meant for the best--indeed I did. Say you believe that." - -"Indeed, I do believe it, Camelia." - -They were nearing home when he said, "You were in London--I heard from -Lady Tramley." - -"Yes, I went up on business." - -"Did you? How are Lady Paton and Mary?" - -"Very well. You don't ask about my business,"--Camelia smiled round at -him. - -"Very blunt in me. What was the business, Camelia?" His answering smile -made amends. - -Camelia placed herself against her background. - -"I am building model cottages! You should see how economical we have -become! _Your_ glory is diminished!" - -"With all my heart!" cried Perior, with a laugh of real surprise and -pleasure. "Lady Tramley did not tell me. Good for you, Célimène!" - -It was delightful to bring him into the drawing-room that she had left -only an hour before. Camelia almost fancied herself perfectly happy as -she flung open the door with the announcement-- - -"Here is Alceste, Mamma!" No nervousness was possible before her mother -and Mary; it required no effort to act for them since she had so -successfully performed her part to him. Mrs. Jedsley was gone, but Mary -and Lady Paton sat before the fire, Mary reading aloud. She dropped the -book; Camelia's voice, in her ears, sounded with a brazen clang of -victory, and Perior seemed to her conquered, brought captive in an old -bondage. She could hardly speak, hardly welcome him; his return crushed -every hope of his liberation, the joy of seeing him was a mere -desolation. With a settled dulness she listened to them--all three -talking and exclaiming. - -Perior had taken her hand, had shaken it warmly, looking at her with -kindest eyes; but now he listened to Lady Paton, and Lady Paton, of -course, after the first flood of rejoicing, condolences, and -questionings, was talking of Camelia. - -The resentment that had smouldered in Mary for many months seemed now to -leap, and lick her heart with little flames of hatred. How she hated -Camelia; she turned the black thought quite calmly in her mind--it was -not unfamiliar. - -Lady Paton was telling Perior about the cottages; she was rather proud -of Camelia's beneficent schemes, though gently teasing her about some of -their phases: "And, Michael, she is going to make them into veritable -palaces of art. Specially designed furniture--and Japanese prints on the -walls! Now they won't care about prints, will they?" - -"They ought to, Camelia thinks," laughed Perior, looking at Camelia, -who, hat and coat thrown aside, leaned forward in the lamplight, smiling -and radiant, the pathos that her thinner face had gained emphasizing -its enchanting loveliness. - -Mary looked at her too, at the curves of the figure in the perfect black -dress, at the narrow white hands, one lying on her knee, like a flower, -with the almost exaggerated length and delicacy of the fingers; at the -profile, the frank upraised eyes, the smiling mouth, the flashing white -and gold that rose from the nun-like white and black of the dress, and -the wide cambric collar falling about her shoulders and clasping her -throat. Beautiful! Mary felt the beauty with a sort of sickening. Of -course he looked at her, had no eyes but for her. Of course he had come -back. - -"They must like them," said Camelia, "I don't see why such people should -not grow into good taste; and taste is often such a negative thing--a -mere leaving out of all ugliness. I have a lot of these prints; I picked -them up in Paris--the arcade of the Odion, Alceste--cheap things, but -excellent in their way; then a few good photographs. The rooms are to be -very bare. I should ask for all decoration a vase of flowers on the -table--I think I shall offer prizes to my cottagers for the best -arrangement of flowers." - -"A very civilizing system!" Perior still laughed, for he found the -prints and the flower-arrangements highly amusing, and he still looked -at Camelia. - -So that first meeting was over. It had passed so easily, with an -inevitable ease, based on long years that would not be disowned. Yet -when he had gone, Camelia was conscious of a sinking of the heart. The -exhilarating moment could not last. Her friend had come back, fond, -gently mocking, tender, yet unimpressed, blind to the change in herself -she passionately clung to as consummated. As her love was noble, she -thought that she had grown to match it. Her self-complacency, though on -a higher plane, circled her more completely, and as the days went on, -his blindness gave her a new sense of defeat. The ease remained, a tacit -agreement to shut their eyes on a certain incident; it was done most -successfully; they were quite prepared to meet _tête-à-tête_, and the -inner wonder of each as to the other's unconsciousness betrayed itself -only in a certain gentle formality that grew between them. That he -should come--and so often--fulfilled the only hope left her, and yet her -heart was darkened at moments by the thought that in these visits there -was an effort. She missed something of the old intimacy; it was not -quite the same--how could it be? that, after all, would have been too -big a feat of forgetfulness. He did not laugh at her, nor grow angry and -rage at her, as he had used to do, yet she could not feel that he -approved of her the more. He was fond of her--that was evident, even -though he might find this rebuilding difficult, and undertake it from a -sense of duty; but the fondness was graver than before, at least, it -made no pretence of hiding its gravity. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -Mary came for Camelia one morning while Perior was with her, to tell her -that Jane Hicks was dying and asking for her. Mary saw that Camelia's -promptitude, where compunction blushed, gratified Perior, as did Jane's -devotion; she knew that he supposed the devotion based upon some new -blossoming of thoughtful kindness in Camelia, and the ironic bitterness -of this reflection was in no way made easier to Mary as she heard -Camelia, while they all three walked to the farm, confess dejectedly to -the one visit. - -"I should have gone again!" Camelia repeated with sincerest -self-reproach, and Mary could see that though he assented to the -reproach her contrition lifted her in his estimation. Perior waited -below while Camelia and Mary went up together. Camelia came down -weeping; Mary's face was quite impassive. - -The poor girl had died with her hand in Camelia's, her eyes fixed on the -lovely Madonna head that bent over her with a beautiful piteousness, -like a vision at the gates of heaven. Jane closed her eyes on that -vision. She had not had one look for Mary, though her perfunctory -thanks--the winding up of the trifling duties remaining to her on -earth--had been feebly breathed out to her some hours before. Mary saw -that she had been very unnecessary to Jane, and that the unknown -Camelia, Camelia's one smile, the one golden hour Camelia's beauty had -given her, made the brightness, the poetry, the symbolized radiance of -things unseen and hoped for that had remained with the dying girl during -the last months of her life. Mary was very still in walking back with -the others. Camelia sobbed, and stumbled in the heavy road, so that -Perior gave her his arm and held her, looking pityingly, more than -pityingly, at the bent head and shaking shoulders. Mary felt her own -lack of emotion to be unbecoming, but, indeed, she had none, was -conscious instead of a dislike for poor, dead Jane. - -For Mary was a most unhappy creature. Outside the inner circle, where -Perior and Camelia wondered about, and evaded, one another, the very -closeness of constant intercourse making blindness easy, Mary saw the -truth, that Camelia did not see, very clearly. With her preconceived and -half-mistaken ideas as to that truth, it remained one-sided. Perior -loved Camelia; loved, and had weakly crawled back to her, craving at -least the crumbs of friendship,--and that she was lavish with her crumbs -who could deny?--since all else had been refused to him. Mary spent her -days in a quivering contemplation of this fact. The bitter, sweet -consolation of the whole truth never entered her mind. Camelia loving, -and Camelia repulsed, was an imagining too monstrous for vaguest -embodiment. Camelia's own naïve vanity would not have surpassed in -stupefaction Mary's sensations, had such a possibility been suggested to -her. Camelia, who could have anybody, love Mr. Perior? She would have -voiced her astonishment even more baldly. Not that Mary thought Mr. -Perior nobody. To her he was everybody; but that knowledge was her -painful joy, a perception lifting her above Camelia. Camelia judged by -the world's gross standards, and, by those standards, she must stoop in -loving Perior. - -That Camelia should stoop in the world's eyes, that Camelia should do -anything but soar, were unimaginable things. So her ignorance made her -knowledge more bitter. The man she loved, adored,--her bleached, starved -nature spreading every flower, stretching every tendril, her ideal and -her rapture towards him,--that man did not see her, even. She was no -one; a dusty little moth beating dying wings near the ground, and his -eyes were fixed on the exquisite butterfly tilting its white loveliness -in the sunshine. Under her stolid silence Mary was burning, panting. His -misery, her doom, and Camelia's indifference,--at the thought of all -these a madness of helpless rebellion swam about her; and with a growing -sense of weakness came a growing terror of self-betrayal. For she was -dying, that was Mary's second secret; there was even a savage pleasure -in the thought of absolute and consummated wretchedness hidden so -carefully. Hysterical sobs rose in her throat when she thought of it, -and of their blindness. The sobs were nearly choking her one day as she -sat alone in the morning-room casting up accounts. - -Perior had been with Camelia in the library for two hours, and he had -not come into the morning-room, though over two hours ago poor Mary had -stationed herself there in the sorry hope of seeing him. The little -touch of abandonment stabbed more deeply than ever on this morning, when -her head was so heavy, her chest so hollow, breathing so difficult, all -her sick self so in need of pitying gentleness and sympathy; and though -no tears fell, that rising, strangling sob was in her throat. There was -shame, too; her very rectitude was crumbling in her weakness and -wretchedness; the wretchedness had seemed to exonerate her when, -exasperated by envy and long waiting, she had gone to the library door -and put her ear to the key-hole, like a base thing, to listen. - -Since everything had abandoned her she might as well abandon herself, so -she told herself recklessly; but she had only heard Camelia's clear, -sweet voice; and Camelia was reading Greek! Mary could only feel the -irony as cruel, and on regaining her place at the writing-table she -found herself shaking, and overwhelmed with self-disgust and a sort of -desperation. - -When Perior came in very shortly afterwards she could almost have risen -to meet him with a scream of reproach. The mere imagining of such a -strange revelation made her dizzy as he approached her. - -"I had not seen you. I am just off. How are you, Mary?" he asked. In -spite of the mad imaginings Mary's mask was on in one moment, the white, -stolid mask, as she turned her face to him. - -"Very well, thanks." - -"You don't look very well." - -"Oh, I am, thanks." Mary averted her eyes. - -Perior's brow had an added look of gloom this morning. His eyes followed -hers. The drizzling rain half blotted out the first faint purpling of -the trees. "What a dreary day!" he ejaculated, with a long, involuntary -sigh. He was not thinking of Mary; she saw that very plainly, though her -eyes were fixed on the blurred tree-tops. - -"Very dreary," she echoed. He looked down at her again, this time with a -certain pain and interest that Mary did not see. On his own thoughts, -the perplexing juggling of "If she still loves me as I love her, why -resist?" the ensuing fear of yielding, and yielding for no better reason -than that he could not resist, broke the thought of Mary. It could not -be a very big thought. Mary was a quiet, uneventful little person, -spending a contented existence under her aunt's wings, useful often as a -whip wherewith to lash Camelia, but pitiful mainly from his sense of the -contrast of which he really believed Mary quite unconscious. Something, -now, in her still face, in the lax weariness of her thin hand, lying on -the account book, roused in him a groping instinct. He looked at the -hand with a certain surprise. Its thinness was remarkable. - -"You do look badly, Mary," he said. "Tell me, are you dreary, too? Can I -do anything for you? We must have some rides when it grows finer." His -thoughts, as usual, gave Camelia an accusing blow. - -"You are bored, tired, unhappy like the rest of us, Mary. Is that any -consolation?" He smiled at her. She felt the smile in his voice, but did -not dare to meet it, bending her head over the account books. - -"Don't do those stupid sums!" - -"Oh, I like them!" Indeed, the scrupulous duties were her one frail -barrier against the black sea of engulfing thought. And then, her heart -just rising in the false but delicious joy of his kind presence, came a -call, a call not dreary like the day, but fatally sweet and clear, the -sound of it as if a flower had suddenly flung open rosy petals on the -grayness. - -"Alceste, come here! I want you." - -"Our imperious Camelia," said Perior with a slight laugh. "Well, -good-bye, Mary. Don't do any more sums, and don't look at the rain. Get -a nice, cheerful book and sit down at the fire. Amuse yourself, won't -you?" He clasped her hand and was gone. - -Mary sat quite still, moving her pen in slow curves, waves, meaningless -figures over the paper. The arrested sob seemed frozen, and no tears -came. She looked dully at the black zigzags on the paper while she -listened to the distant sound of voices in the hall, Camelia's laugh, a -lower tone from Perior, Camelia's cheerful good-bye. - -A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and while she shook with it Camelia -came in. Mary's coughing irritated Camelia, but she did not want to hurt -her feelings by departing before it after getting the newspaper she had -come for, so, walking to the table, she said, taking up and opening the -_Times_ with a large rustling-- - -"All alone, Mary?" - -"Yes," Mary replied. The coughing left her, and she clenched her -handkerchief in her hand. The madness rose again, lit by a keener sense -of horror. - -"But Mr. Perior came in, did he not?" Camelia scanned the columns, her -back to the light. - -"Yes," Mary repeated. - -"Well, what did he have to say?" Camelia felt her tone to be -satisfactorily detached. She wanted to know. That sense of something -lacking, something even awkward, had become almost acute this morning; -only her quiet gaiety had bridged it over. Mary was again looking out of -the window. An inner impulsion made her say in a tone as dull as her -look-- - -"He said he was dreary." - -The _Times_ rustled with a somewhat aggressive effect of absorption, and -then Camelia laid it down. Something in Mary's voice angered her; it -implied a sympathy from which she was to be shut out; he had not said to -_her_ that he was dreary. But she still kept her tone very light as she -walked to the fire. - -"Well, he is always that--is he not?" she commented, holding out a foot -to the blaze; "a very glum person indeed is my good Alceste." - -Mary did not reply, and Camelia, with a quick turn of conjecture that -seemed to cut her, wondered if there had been further confidences. She -paused for a moment, swallowed on a rising tremor of apprehension, -before saying, as she turned her back to the fire and faced the figure -at the table--the figure's heavy uncouthness of attitude making her a -little angrier--"What further moans did my melancholy friend pour into -your sympathetic bosom, Mary?" Mary, looking steadily out of the window, -felt the flame rising. - -"He said that he was bored, tired, unhappy." - -After a morning spent with _her!_ Camelia clasped her hands behind her -back, and tried to still her quick breathing. She eyed Mary, but she did -not think much of Mary. - -"Really!" she said. - -"Yes. Really." Suddenly Mary rose from her chair; she clutched the -chair-back. "Oh, you cruel creature! you bad creature!" she cried -hoarsely. - -Camelia stared, open-mouthed. - -"Oh, you bad creature," Mary repeated. Camelia never forgot the look of -her--the ghastly white, stricken out of sharp shadows, the splash of -garish color on either cheek, the pale intensity of her eyes. She -noticed, too, the sharp prominence of Mary's knuckles as she clutched -the chair-back, and in her amazement stirred a certain, quite different -discomfort. She could find no words, and stared speechlessly at the -apparition. - -"You are cruel to every one," said Mary. "You don't care about any one. -You don't care about your mother--or about _him_, though you like to -have him there--loving you; you don't care about me--you never did--nor -thought of me. Well, listen, Camelia. I am dying; in a month I will be -dead; and _I_ love him. There! Now do you see what you have done?" - -A fierce joy filled her as she spoke the words out. To tear the bleeding -tragedy from its hiding-place, and make Camelia shudder, scream at -it--it brought relief, lightness; she breathed deeply, with a sense of -bodily dissolution; and Camelia's look was better than screams or -shudders. Let the truths go like knives to the heart that deserved them. -As she spoke Mary felt her wrongs gather around her like an army. She -had no fear. She straightened herself to send to her cousin a solemn -look of power. - -"You did not know I was dying; of course you would not know it--for you -think of nothing but yourself. There, do you see that handkerchief? I -have been coughing blood for a long time. Nothing can be done for me. -You know how my father died. And when I am dead, Camelia, you may say to -yourself, 'I helped to make the last year of her life black and -terrible--quite hideous and awful.' Yes; say it. Perhaps it will make -you feel a little badly." With the words all the anguish of those -baffled, suffering months came upon her. The sobs rose, panting; the -tears gushed forth. Staggering, she came round the chair and dropped -into it, and her sobs filled the silence. - -Camelia stood rooted in terror. She expected to see the sudden horror -fulfil itself, to see Mary die before her eyes, Mary's curse upon her, -and all her misdeeds one vague, menacing blackness. To clutch at any -doubt was impossible. From the first moment of her uprising Mary's body -had been like a shattered casket from which streamed a relentless light. -Camelia's eyes were unsealed; she saw that the casket was shattered--the -light convicted her. - -"What have I done?" she gasped. "Tell me, Mary, what is it?" - -She found a difficulty in speaking. She did not dare approach her -cousin. - -"I will tell you what you have done," said Mary, raising her head, and -again Camelia felt the hoarse intentness of her voice, like a steady -aiming of daggers. "You have taken from me the one thing--the only -thing--I had. I love him! He is nothing to you; and you took him from -me." - -"Oh, Mary! Took him from you!" - -"Yes, yes; you did not know. He did not know. _I_ saw it all. He might -have loved me had you not come back. He must have loved me, when I loved -him so much! oh, so much!" and, sobbing again, she pressed to her eyes -the blood-stained handkerchief, careless now of its revelations. - -"Oh, Mary!" cried Camelia, shuddering. - -"I was so happy last winter. He would come and read, and ride. He was so -kind. Auntie, and he, and I--it was the happiest time of my life. But -you came, and he never looked at me again! Oh, how horrible! how unjust! -Why should you have everything?--I nothing! nothing! I suppose you -thought me contented, since I was ugly, and poor, and stupid. And you, -because you are beautiful, and rich, and clever, you have everything! -That is all that counts! I am not selfish and cruel; at least, I used -not to be. I have thought about other people always! I have tried to do -right, and what have I got for it? My life has been a cheat! and I hate -it! And I am glad to die, because I see that you, who are bad, get all -the love, and that I will never have anything! And I see that I am -bad--that I have been made bad through having had nothing!" - -"Oh, Mary! forgive me! oh, forgive me!" Camelia found her knees failing -beneath her. She stretched her clasped hands towards her cousin. - -"I did not know; indeed, I did not! Indeed, I love you, Mary!--oh, I do -love you! We all love you!" She felt herself struggling, with weak, -desperate hands, against Mary's awful fate and her own guilt. "How can -you say that, when we all love you? know how good you are!--how sweet -and good--love you for it!" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. -Mary, who herself no longer sobbed, observed her. - -"Oh, you are a little sorry now," she said, in a voice of cold -impassiveness that froze Camelia's sobs to instant silence. "I make you -uncomfortable--a little more uncomfortable than when I cough. It is -strange that when I never did you any harm--always tried to please -you--you should have found pleasure in hurting me. Do you remember all -the little jeers at me before him? You mocked my dulness, my ugliness. -He did not laugh. It made him sad, because he did not like to see you -unbeautiful in anything; but he must have seen me more stupid, more ugly -than before. And when he was with me for one moment you would take him -away. And you lied to keep him to yourself, like that day we were to -have ridden together; and if you had known that I loved him you would -have been all the more anxious to have him--to hurt me." - -"No, no, Mary!" Camelia's helpless sobs burst out again. - -"Yes; why can I speak to you like this? because I am dying, you see that -I am dying--that gives me my only advantage; I can tell you what I think -of you, and you don't dare reply. You would not dare say to me now that -I am a spy--that I have sneaking eyes. I hate you, Camelia! I hate you! -Oh! oh!" She rose to her feet suddenly, and at the change of tone--the -wail--Camelia uncovered her eyes. - -"I am going to die! I am going to die! And I love him, and he does not -care." Mary groped blindly to a sofa, fell upon it, buried her head in -the cushions. - -Camelia rose to her feet, for she had been kneeling, and stood listening -to the dreadful sobs. - -Her life had never known a comparable terror. The blackness of Mary's -point of view encompassed her. She felt like a murderer in the night. -She crept towards the sofa. "Oh, forgive me, say a word to me." - -"Leave me; go away. I hate you." - -"Won't you forgive me?" The tears streamed down Camelia's cheeks. - -"Go away. I hate you," Mary repeated. There was a compulsion in the -voice Camelia could not disobey. Trembling and weeping she went out of -the room. - -Mary lay there sobbing. She had never so realized to the full the extent -and depth of her woe, yet there was relief in the realization, relief in -the flinging off of secrecy and shame. That Camelia should suffer, -however slightly, restored a little the balance of justice, satisfied a -little the outraged sense of solitary suffering, atoned a very little -for fate's shameful unfairness. To poor Mary, sobbing over her one -triumph, the morality of the universe seemed a little vindicated now -that she had taken into her own hand the long-delayed lash of -vengeance. - -Her weakened religious formalities and conventionalities withered under -this devouring, pagan flame. It was good to hate, and to revenge one's -self, good to see the smooth and smiling favorite of the cruel gods, -weeping and helpless. She was tired of rightness--tired of swallowing -her tears. - -The best thing in her life had been turned against her; everything was -at war with her. Well, she would crouch no longer, she would die -fighting, giving blow for blow. She threw her hands up wildly in -thinking of it all--beat them down into the cushions. To have had -nothing, nothing, and Camelia to have everything! Oh, monstrous -iniquity! Camelia, who had done no good, happy; she, who had done no -wrong, unutterably miserable. - -For a long time she lay sobbing, still beating her hands into the -cushion, a mechanical symbolizing of her rebellion and wretchedness. So -lying, all the blackness of the past and future surging over her, -engulfing her, she heard outside the sound of a horse's hoofs on the wet -gravel. A moment afterwards running footsteps came down the stairs and -crossed the hall. Mary pulled herself up from the sofa, and, with the -outer curiosity of utter indifference, walked to the window. Camelia's -horse stood before the door, a groom at his head. The drizzling mist -shut out all but the nearest trees, flat, pale silhouettes on the white -background, against which the horse's coat gleamed, a warm, beautiful -chestnut. Mary's indifference grew wondering. Her sobs ceased as she -gazed. The gaze became a stare, hard, fixed, as Camelia, in a flash, -sprang to the saddle. Mary saw her profile, bent impatiently, the -underlip caught between her teeth, the brows frowning, while the groom -adjusted her skirt. In a moment she was off at a quick trot, and soon a -sound of galloping died down the avenue. - -Mary stood rigidly looking after the sound. A supposition, too horrible, -too hideous, had come to her, too hideous, too horrible not to be true. -Its truth knocked, fiercely insistent, at her heart. Her knowledge of -Camelia, acute yet narrow, and confused by this latter suffering, sprang -at a bound to the logical deduction. - -Camelia could not bear suffering, revolted against it, snatched at any -shield. She had gone now to Perior, that he might lift from her this -dreadful load of responsibility, cast upon her so cruelly by Mary. He -must tell her that he had never thought of Mary, and that the idea of -robbery was a wild figment of Mary's sick brain. Mary's brain, though -sick, was clear, clear with the feverish lucidity that sees all with a -distinctness glaring and magnified. She saw all now. The meanness, the -cowardice of Camelia's proceeding only gave a deepened certainty. - -Then indeed shame came upon Mary. She saw herself gibbeted between them, -knew too well what he would think. He would himself hang her up, since -truth demanded it, and since Camelia must be comforted. The glaring -lucidity dazzled Mary a little at times, and now the awful justice of -Perior's character assumed in her eyes a Jove-like cruelty, that more -than matched Camelia's dastardliness. The past hour seemed painless in -comparison with the present moment; its blackness, in looking back at -it, was gray. To be debased, utterly debased, in his eyes--that was to -drink the very dregs of her cup of agony. Her hatred of Camelia was her -only guide in the night. She went into the hall and took down her hat -and cloak. She could not wait for Camelia's return. She must herself see -the actuality of her betrayal. Camelia might lie unless she could hold -the truth before her face; might say that she had not ridden to -Perior's. Mary would see for herself, and then--oh then! confronting -Camelia, she would find words, if she died in speaking them. - -She ran down the avenue and turned off into the woods by a short cut -that led more directly than the curving high road to the Grange. Her -weakness was braced by the fierceness of her purpose. She felt herself a -flame, hastening relentlessly through the smoke-like mist. - -The woods were cold and wet. She pushed past dripping branches, splashed -through muddy pools; the inner fire ignored its panting frame. When she -arrived at the foot of the hill on which stood the Grange, she knew that -Camelia must have been with him there for an hour or more. She could not -see the house through the heavy atmosphere, but, hidden by the trees and -fog, she could see the road and be herself unseen. On the edge of the -wood was a little stile; she shuddered with wet and cold as she sat down -on it to wait. She would wait for Camelia to pass, and then, by the same -hidden path, she could go home and confront her. Beyond that crash Mary -did not look. It seemed final. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -But Mary was quite mistaken--as absolute logic is apt to be when dealing -with human beings. Camelia, indeed, had gone to Perior, but on a very -different errand from the one Mary's imagination painted for her. -Camelia was not thinking of herself, nor of throwing off the iron chains -of that responsibility with which she felt herself manacled for life. -Mary's story had crushed every thought of self, beyond that -consciousness of riveted guilt. It was of Mary alone she thought as she -galloped through the mist. With terror and pity infinite she looked upon -Mary's love and the approaching death that was to end it; their tragedy -filled everything, and at the feet of the majestic presences her own -personality only felt itself as a cowering criminal. It was as though -the ocean of another's suffering had flooded the complacent rivers of -her life. They overflowed their narrow channels; they were engulfed, -effaced in the mighty desolation; never again could they find their -flowering banks, their sunny horizons. - -This moan of a suffering universe, heard before only in vaguest -whispers, the minor key of the happy melody that she had known, making -the melody all the sweeter for its half-realized web of sadness--this -moan was now like the tumult of great waters above her head, and a loud -outcrying of her awakened soul answered it. She was guilty--yes, as -guilty as Mary knew her to be, for all the mistaken deductions of Mary's -ignorance. She loved Perior, and he did _not_ love her; but those facts -in no way touched the other unalterable facts--a cruelty, a selfishness, -a blindness, hideous beyond words. - -Yet now she did not think of this guilt, irrevocable as it was. - -Mary--Mary--Mary. The horse's hoofs seemed to beat out the cry! Mary and -her fate. Camelia stood with Mary against that fate; but her attitude of -rebellion was even fiercer, more determined than poor Mary's flickering -light could have sustained. Mary good--with nothing. Virtue _not_ its -own reward. Suffering, crushing, unmerited suffering, eating away the -poor empty life. She herself bad, and the world at her feet. Camelia -felt herself capable of taking the immoral universe by the throat and -shaking it to death--herself along with it. - -She was galloping for help, yes, to Perior. He must help her, he alone -could help her, to clutch the malignant cruelty, tear it off Mary, and -then give her some gleam of happiness before she died. Camelia -straightened herself in the saddle at the thought. "She shall not die," -clenched her teeth on the determination. She might be saved. Who could -tell? One heard of wonderful cures. And at least, at least, she should -not die unhappy. Camelia would wrench happiness for her out of despair -itself. She would fight the injustice of the gods until her last breath -left her. - -All the pitiful humanity in Camelia clung to the human hope of -retribution and reward. Her mind fixed in this desperate hope, she could -take no thought of the coming interview; that would have implied a -retrospective glance at her last visit to the Grange, and Camelia could -not think of herself, nor even of Perior. - -The Grange was desolate on its background of leafless trees. Camelia, as -she dismounted at the door, looked down at the whiteness which brimmed -the valley; the tree-tops emerged from it as from a flood; but where she -stood there was no mist--a clear, sad air, and a few faint patches of -blue in a colorless sky above. She rang, holding the horse's reins over -her arm. Her habit was heavy with the wet, and her loosened hair clung -damply about her throat and forehead. Old Lane, when he appeared, showed -some alarm. She could infer from his expression what her own must be. - -"Mr. Perior? Yes, Miss; in the laboratory with Job Masters. Just go up, -Miss, and I'll take the horse round to the stables." - -The laboratory was at the top of the house. Camelia found herself -panting from the swiftness of her ascension when she reached the door. -Entering, she faced the white light from the wide expanse of window, -which overlooked on bright days miles of wooded, rolling country, to-day -the sea of mist. Perior's back was to her, and he was bending with an -intent interest over a microscope; a collection of glass jars was on the -table, and Job Masters, his elementary features lit by the intelligent -gravity of close attention, was standing beside him. Perior was -saying-- - -"Now, Job, take a look at it." His gray head did not turn. - -"It's Miss Paton, sir," Job volunteered. At that Perior rose hastily, -and Camelia advancing, looked vaguely at Job, at the microscope, at the -jars of infusoria. - -A thought of the last visit had shot painfully through Perior on hearing -her name, but, after one stare at her white face, his fear, freed from -any selfish terror, took on a sympathetic acuteness. - -"I must speak to you," she said. - -"Very well. You may go, Job," and as Job's heavy footsteps passed beyond -the door, "What is it, Camelia?" he asked, holding her hands, his -anxiety questioning her eyes. - -For a moment, the press of all that must be said crowding upon her, of -all that must be said with a self-control that must not waver or -misinterpret through weakness, Camelia could not speak. She looked at -him with a certain helplessness. - -"Sit down, you are faint," said Perior, greatly alarmed, but, shaking -her head, she only put her hand on the back of a chair he brought -forward. - -"I have something terrible to tell you, Michael." That she should use -his name impressed him even more than her announcement, emphasized the -gravity of the situation in which he was to find himself with her. In -the ensuing pause their eyes met with a preparatory solemnity. - -"Michael, Mary is dying." He saw then that her eyes seized him with a -deep severity of demand. The shock, though not unexpected, found him -unprepared. - -"She knows it?" he asked. - -"Yes, she knows it. Listen. She told me everything. It was more horrible -than you can imagine. She told me how cruel I had been to her--how I had -neglected her--how I had cut again and again into her very soul. She -hates me, she hates her life, but she is afraid of death. She is not -going to die happily, hopefully, as one would have thought Mary would -die. She is dying desperately and miserably, for she sees that being -good means merely being trodden on by the bad. She has had nothing, and -she regrets everything." Perior dropped again into the chair by the -table. He covered his eyes with his hands. - -"Poor child! Unhappy child!" he said. - -The shuddering horror of the morning came over Camelia. She clasped her -hands, pressing them against her lips. It seemed to her suddenly that -she must scream. - -"What does it mean? What does a life like that mean?" Her eyes, in all -their helpless guilt and terror, met his look of non-absolving pity. - -"It means that if one is good one is often trodden upon. We must accept -the responsibility for Mary's unhappiness. My poor Camelia," Perior -added, in tones of saddest comprehension, and he stretched out his hand -to her. But Camelia stood still. - -"Accept it!" she cried, and her voice was sharp with the repressed -scream. "Do you think I am trying to shirk it? Do you think that I do -not see that it is I--_I_, who trod upon her? Don't say 'We'; say 'You,' -as you think it. You need have no compunctions. I could have made her -happy--happier, at least, and I have made her miserable. I have -done--said--looked the cruellest things--confiding in her stupid -insensibility. I have crushed her year after year. I am worse than a -murderer. Don't talk of me--even to accuse me; don't think of me, but -think of _her_. Oh, Michael! let us think of her! Help me to mend--a -little--the end of it all!" - -"Mend it?" He looked at her, taken aback by her words, the strange -insistence of her eyes. "One can't, Camelia--one can't atone for those -things." - -"Then you mean to say that life _is_ the horror she sees it to be? She -sees it! There is the pity--the awful pity of it! Not even a merciful -blindness, not even the indifference of weakness! Morality is a gibe -then? Goodness goes for nothing--is trampled in the mud by the herd of -apes snatching for themselves! That is the world, then!" The fierce -scorn of her voice claimed him as umpire. Perior put his hand to his -head with a gesture of discouragement. - -"That is the world--as far as we can see it." - -"And there is no hope? no redemption?" - -"Not unless we make it ourselves--not unless the ape loses his -characteristics." He paused, and a deepened pity entered his voice as he -added, "You have lost them, Camelia." - -"Yes; I can hear the canting moralist now, with his noisome explanation -of vice and misery. Mary has been sacrificed to save _my_ soul, -forsooth! _My_ soul!" - -"Yes." Perior's monosyllable held neither assent nor repudiation. - -"Yes? And what does my miserable soul count for against her starved and -broken life?" - -"I don't know. That is for you to say." - -"I say that if virtue is to give a reward to vice, life is a nightmare." -Perior again put his hands over his eyes. The thought of poor Mary, -conscious of injustice, the sight of Camelia writhing in retributory -flames, made him feel shattered. - -"But I didn't come to talk about my problematic soul," said Camelia in -an altered voice; "I came to tell you about Mary." She approached him, -and stood over him as she spoke, so that he looked up quickly. - -"She will probably be dead in a month. She knows it; and, Michael, she -loves you." Perior flushed a deep red, but Camelia whitened to the lips. -He would have risen; she put her hand on his shoulder. - -"Impossible!" he said. - -"No, listen. She told me. She lashed me with it this morning--that -hopeless love--for she thinks that you love me--thinks that I am playing -with you. She loves you. She has loved you for years." - -"Don't say it, Camelia!" Perior cried brokenly. "Mary's disease explains -hysteria--melancholia--a pitiful fancy--that will pass--that should -never have been told to me." - -"Ah, don't shirk it!" her hand pressed heavily on his shoulder. "Her -disease made her tell me, I grant you, but you could not have doubted -had you heard her!--as I did! You understand that she must never -know--that I have told you." - -"I understand that, necessarily, and I must ask you from what motive -you think your revelation justified; it must be a strong one, for I -confess that the revelation seems to me unjustifiable--cruelly so." - -"I have a strong motive." - -"You did not come to pour out to me the full extent of poor Mary's -misfortune for the selfish sake of relieving, by confession, your -self-reproach? And, indeed, in this matter I cannot see that you are -responsible. It is a cruelty of fate, not yours." - -Camelia looked away from him for a moment, looked at the microscope. A -swift flicker of shame went through her, one thought of self, then, -resolutely raising her eyes, she said, "Am I not at all responsible? Are -you sure of that?" - -"Responsible for Mary loving me?" Perior stared, losing for a moment, in -amazement, his deep and painful confusion. - -"No; that is fate, if you will. But had I not come back last summer, had -I not claimed you, monopolized you, absorbed you. Ah! you are flushing; -don't be ashamed for me! I swear to you, Michael, that I am not giving -myself a thought, had I not set myself to work to make love to -you--there is the fact;--don't look away, I can bear it--can you tell me -that Mary might not have had the chance she so deserved, of slipping -sweetly and naturally into your heart--becoming your wife?" - -"Camelia!" Perior turned white. "I never loved Mary, never could have -loved her. Does that relieve you?" He keenly eyed her. - -"Don't accuse me of seeking relief! That is a cruelty I don't deserve. -If you never could have loved Mary, it is even more dreadful for me--for -it is still crueller for Mary. That she should love you. That you -should not care! could never have cared!" - -At this Perior rose and walked up and down the room. "Don't!" he -repeated several times. His wonder at Camelia interfused intolerably his -sorrow for Mary. - -Camelia followed him with steady eyes. The eagerness of decisive appeal -seemed to burn her lips as she said slowly-- - -"Ah, had you seen her! Had you heard her crying out that she was -dying--that she loved you--that you did not care!" - -"You must not say that." Perior stopped and looked at her sternly, "I am -not near enough. It is a desecration." - -"Ah! but how can I help her if I don't? How can _you_ help her? For it -is you, Michael, _you_. Can't you see it? You are noble enough. -Michael--you will marry Mary! Oh!"--at his start, his white look of -stupefaction, she flew to him, grasped his hands--"Oh, you must--you -_must_. You can make her happy--you only! And you will--say you will. -You cannot let her die in this misery! Say you cannot, Michael--oh, say -it!" And, suddenly breathless, panting, her look flashed out the full -significance of her demand. In all its stupefaction Perior's face still -retained something of its sternness, but he drew her hands to his -breast. "Camelia, you are mad," he said. - -"Mad?" she repeated. Her eyes scorned him; then, rapidly resuming their -appealing dignity, "You can't hesitate before such a chance for making -your whole life worth while." - -"Quite _mad_, Camelia," he repeated with emphasis. "I could not act such -a lie," he added. - -"A lie! To love, cherish that dying child! A better lie than most -truths, then! You are not a coward--surely. You will not let her die -so." - -"Indeed I must. Any pretence would be an insult. As it is, if Mary could -see you here, she would want to kill us both." - -"Not if she understood," said Camelia, curbing the vehemence of her -terrified supplication, the very terror warning her to calm. "And what -more would there be in it to hurt her?" - -"That _I_ should know--and should refuse. Good God!" - -"Where is the disgrace?" Camelia's eyes gazed at him fixedly. "Then we -are both disgraced--Mary and I." Her smile, bitterly impersonal, offered -itself to no interpretations, yet before it he steadied his face with an -effort. He could not silence her by the truth--that he loved her, her -alone; loved now her high, frowning look, her passionate espousal of -another's cause. Mary's tragic presence sealed his lips. He said -nothing, and Camelia's eyes, as they searched this chilling silence, -incredulous of its cruel resolve, filled suddenly and piteously with -tears. - -"Oh, Michael," she faltered. Scorn and defiance dropped from her face; -he saw only the human soul trembling with pity and hope. He did not dare -trust himself to speak--he could not answer her. Holding her hands -against his breast, he looked at her very sorrowfully. - -"Listen to me, Michael. I mustn't expect you to feel it yet as I -do--must I? That would be impossible. I only ask you to _think_. You see -the pathos, the beauty of Mary's love for you! for years--growing in her -narrow life. Think how a smile from you must have warmed her heart--a -look, a little kindness. She adores you. And this consciousness of -death, this nearing parting from you--you who do not care--leaving even -the dear sight of you. Think of her going out alone, unloved, into the -darkness--the everlasting darkness and silence--with never one word, one -touch, one smile, to hold in her heart as hers, meant for her, with -love. Oh, I see it hurts you!--you are sorry; oh, blessed tears! You -cannot bear it, can you? Michael, you will not let her go uncomforted? -She is not strong, or brave, or confident. She is sick, weak, -terrified--a screaming, shuddering child carried away in the night. -Michael!"--it was a cry; she clasped his hands in hers--"you will walk -beside her. You will kiss her, love her, and she will die happy--with -her hand in yours!" Her eyes sought his wildly. He had never loved her -as he loved her now, and though his tears were for Mary, the power, the -freedom of his love for Camelia was a joy to him even in the midst of a -great sadness. He could not have kissed her or put his arms around her; -the dignity of her abasement was part of the new, the sacred loveliness, -and it was more in pity than in love that he took the poor, distraught, -beautiful face between his hands and looked at her a negation, pitiful -and inarticulate. She closed her eyes. He saw that she would not accept -the bitterness. - -"I will do all I can," he then said; "but, dear Camelia, dearest -Camelia, I cannot marry her." - -It was a strange echo. Camelia drew away from him. - -"What can you _do_? She knows you are her friend; that only hurts." - -"Does it?" He saw now, through the unconscious revelation, the greatness -of her love for him, and saw that in the past he had not understood. She -loved him so much that there was left her not a thought of self. Her -whole nature was merged in the passionate wish that he should fulfil her -highest ideal of him. He saw that she would have laid down her life for -him--or for Mary, as she stood there, and, for Mary, she expected an -equal willingness on his side. - -"It would only be an agony to her," Camelia said; "she would fear every -moment that she would betray herself to you, as she betrayed herself to -me. Can't you see that? Understand that?" Desperately she reiterated: -"You must pretend! You must lie! You must tell her that you love her! -You must marry her, take her away to some beautiful country--there are -places where they live for years; make a paradise about her. You -_must_." She looked sternly at him. - -"No, Camelia, no." - -"You mean that basest no?" She was trembling, holding herself erect as -she confronted him; her white face, narrowly framed by the curves of -loosened hair, tragic with its look of reprobation. - -"I mean it. I will not. You will see that I am right. It would be a -cruel folly, a dastardly kindness, a final insult from fate. And I do -not think only of Mary--I think of myself; I could not lie like that." - -Her silent woe and scorn, frozen now to a bleak despair, dwelt on him -for a long moment, then, without another word, she turned from him and -left him, making, by the majesty of her defeated wrong, his victorious -right look ugly. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -Camelia galloped home furiously. The tragedy was then to be consummated. -He would not put out a finger to avert it. Mary would go down into the -pit of nothingness, and her love, her agony, her strivings after good, -would be as though they had never been. - -"And _I_ live," thought Camelia, as she galloped, and her thoughts -seemed to gallop beside her; they were like phantom shapes pressing on -her from without, for she did not want to think. "_I_, thick-skinned, -dull-souled I. Yes, materialism wins the day. Morality is a lie, evolved -for the carpeting of lives like mine, for the preservation of the -fittest!--_I_ being fittest! To those that have shall be given, and from -those who have not shall be taken away--the law of evolution. Oh! -hideous, hideous! Oh, horror!--not even the ethical straw of development -to grasp at; Mary's suffering has warped her, lowered her. She has been -tortured into rebellion against her own sweet rectitude; she, who only -asked to love--hates; she, who lived in a peaceful renunciation, now -struggles, thinks only of herself." - -It was this last thought that seemed to lean beside her, look into her -eyes with the most intolerable look. Mary--inevitably lowered. The -blackness shuddered through her. Camelia on that ride tasted the very -dregs of doubt and despair, and knew the helplessness of man before -them. She could have killed herself, had not a sullen spark, the last -smouldering from the fire of resolution that had burned in her as she -rode to Perior, still lit one path through the darkness. She must throw -herself at Mary's feet, seek and give comfort through her own extreme -abasement. She must cling to Mary, supplicating her to believe in her -infinite love and pity. Could not that love, when all errors were -explained, reach and hold her? Camelia felt her defiance of eternity -clasp Mary forever. But when she reached home Mary was not there. -Camelia panted as she ran from room to room; her desire, thrown back, -rose stiflingly. She was afraid of seeing her mother, for at a look, a -question, she felt that her suspense of hard self-control would break -down; she might scream and rave. She sent a few words to Lady Paton by a -servant; she was tired and was going to rest--must not be -disturbed--then she locked herself into her own room. - -Some hours passed before she heard Mary's voice outside demanding -entrance, hours that Camelia was to look back on as the blackest of her -life, so black that all in them, every thought and impulse, made an -indistinguishable chaos, where only her suffering, a trembling leaf -tossing on deepest waters, knew itself. In looking back, she remembered -that she had not once moved until the knock came, and that, on going to -open the door, her hand had so shaken that it fumbled for some moments -with the key. - -Mary stood on the threshold. She was splashed with mud. Beside the -whiteness of her face, Camelia's was passive in its pain. Mary closed -the door, and, as Camelia retreated a little before her, leaned back -against it. Her eyes went at once over Camelia's wet habit and -dishevelled hair; she had expected a careful effacement of all signs of -the guilty errand; Camelia could not now deny the ride. The thought of a -brazen avowal made Mary close her eyes for a moment. She had to struggle -with a sick faintness, as she leaned against the door, before she could -put that monstrous thought aside and say, returning to her first -impulse, and opening her eyes as she spoke-- - -"I know where you have been." - -Camelia stood still. This unexpected blow confused the direct vision of -appeal and abasement that upheld her. She must face an unlooked-for -contingency, and her mind seemed to reel a little as she faced it. - -"You followed me, Mary?" she asked, with a gentleness bewildered. - -"Yes, I followed you." - -Camelia was now becoming conscious of the definiteness of Mary's heavy -stare. It was like a stone, and under the weight of it she groped, -staggering, in a wilderness of formless conjectures. Mary could not know -why she had gone. A pang of terror shot through her. Mary's next words -riveted the terror. - -"I saw you. I know why you went. I know everything," said Mary. -Camelia's horror kept silence, though the room seemed to whirl round -with her. Had Mary by some unknown means reached the Grange before she -did? Had she been hidden near the laboratory? Had she heard? Were all -merciful lies impossible? She felt her very lips freeze in a rigid -powerlessness. - -"You went to tell him that I loved him?" Mary's eyes opened widely as -she spoke, and she walked up to her cousin, close to her. - -"You told him that I loved him," she repeated, and Camelia in her -nightmare horror felt the hatred of the pale eyes. - -"You don't dare deny that you told him." No, Camelia did not dare deny. -She looked down spellbound at Mary. She was afraid of her, horribly -afraid of her. It was like the approach of a nightmare animal, its -familiar seeming making its strangeness the more awful. She did not dare -deny. She could not move away from her; she was paralyzed in her dread. -Mary looked at her as though conscious of her own power. - -"You told him, so that he might comfort you, tell you he had never loved -me, never could have loved me. You betrayed me to save yourself from -that reproach of robbing me." It was like awakening with a gasp that -Camelia now cried-- - -"No, no, Mary! Oh no." - -She could speak. She could clasp her hands. "No, no, no," she repeated -almost with joy. - -"You lie. You are lying. What is the good of lying to me now? It is easy -for you to lie. You went to ask him the truth, and he gave it to you. -For he would never have loved me, whatever I may have hoped--even -believed at moments." - -"No, Mary; no, no!" Mary's dreadful supposition made Camelia feel the -reality as a peace, a refuge. That world of black cruelty where Mary -wandered, that at least was untrue, an illusion. Not hatred, not deceit -surrounded her, but love, and pity, and tenderness. - -"I did not go for that, Mary," she cried. "Listen, Mary, you are wrong; -thank God, you are wrong. I did not go because I was sorry for myself; I -did not go basely. I was so sorry for you," said Camelia, sobbing and -speaking brokenly, while Mary looked at her in a stern tearless silence, -"I knew he would be sorry. I knew we both loved you, and I wanted him to -marry you, Mary." - -"_What!_" Mary's voice was terrible; yet Camelia clung to the courage of -her love, confident that the truth alone could now reveal it--all the -truth. - -"Yes, dearest Mary, yes. There was no hatred, only a longing to make you -happy--to help atone; only love, not hatred." - -"You are telling me the truth?" - -They were standing still before each other. Camelia could not interpret -the pale eyes. - -"Mary, I swear it before God." - -"And he will not marry me!" - -"He loves you, as I do." - -"He will not marry me!" - -"Let me only tell you--everything; it is not you only----" - -"You tossed me to him--and he refused me! How dare you! How dare you! -How dare you!" And Mary, a revelation of rage and detestation flaming up -in her eyes, distorting her face, struck her cousin violently on the -cheek. - -Camelia stood dazed. The blow interpreted, too well, Mary's attitude. -She could not resent, nor even wonder, could only accept the retribution -of cruel misunderstanding and bow her head. She covered her face with -her hands and wept. Except for this sound of weeping the room was still. -In the darkness of her humiliation--shut in behind her hands--Camelia -felt, at last, the silence. She looked up. Mary was once more leaning -against the door. Her eyes were closed. Camelia went to her, took her -hand, and Mary made no motion. Raising the hand to her lips Camelia -kissed it; its coldness chilled the smarting of the blow. Mastering her -terror Camelia put her arms around her, and, Mary sinking forward into -them, she gathered up the piteously light figure and carried it to the -bed. - -"Mary--Mary--Mary," she murmured, staring at the head which lay so -still, so solemnly. Was she dead? Camelia struck aside the thought of a -so cruel finality. Strengthened by her rebellion she sprang to open the -door, and the house resounded with her cries for help. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -The servant, as he showed Perior into the drawing-room, told him that -Miss Fairleigh was dying, and the imminence of the tragedy was -sorrowfully emphasized by Lady Paton's woe-stricken face, as she came in -to him. - -"Yes, Michael, dying," she said before he spoke; his look had asked the -question. He took her hands, and they sat down, finding a comfort in -being together, and Perior was in as much need of it as she, felt not -one whit stronger before the approaching end. - -"Tell me about it. It has been so sudden." - -Lady Paton sobbed out the sad facts. Her own blindness; poor Mary's long -concealment--too successful; the doctor's fatal verdict. - -"I was blind, too," said Perior, "though I always feared it." - -"Ah! that is the cruellest part of it! And her indifference--she does -not seem to care; she does not speak to any of us." - -"Not to Camelia? Is Camelia with her?" - -Perior's heart must spare some of its aching to his unhappy Camelia. - -"She has not once left her. She is so brave; I can only cry; but it has -made Camelia already different; a strength, a gentleness, yet a despair. -She feels it terribly, Michael, and the first shock was hers. Mary was -out all yesterday afternoon--in the wet and cold, and when she came in -she fainted in Camelia's room." - -Perior looked at her, pondering this sinister announcement. - -"I should like to see Mary--when she is able," he said. - -"Yes. She must have her friends about her, my poor, poor child. Ah -Michael! I can never forgive myself." - -"Why do you say that? You gave Mary all her sunshine." - -"Not enough! not enough! She must have seen that it was Camelia, only -Camelia, in whom my heart was bound up. She must have felt it." - -Perior sighed heavily. He, too, had regrets. Had he but known, guessed -what he had been to Mary! But he said, "Don't exaggerate that; Mary must -have understood; it was inevitable, quite, and pardonable. Camelia was -your daughter." - -"Ah! Camelia had so much, Mary so little!" and to this Perior must -perforce assent. - -Meanwhile Camelia sat by Mary's side. She divided the vigils with the -nurse who came down from London. She found that her eternal -self-reproach had strengthened her. She could bear its steady -contemplation and soothe her mother's more helpless grief. - -Mary was sinking fast. During the next three days she hardly spoke, -though her eyes followed the ministering figures that moved about her -bed. Conscious that she was dying, but wrapped in an emotionless -sadness, she watched them all indifferently, and slept quietly from time -to time. It was going to be much easier than she had thought. Hardly a -thread bound her to life; even her passionate hatred of Camelia was -dimmed by the creeping mists; even her love for Perior wailed, it -seemed, at a long distance from her; she listened to it as she lay -there; only at moments came a throb of pain for all the happiness she -had never had. Camelia meeting the calm eyes would smile tremulously, -but Mary gave no answering smile, and her eyes kept all their calm. - -Camelia had to hold firmly to the self-abnegation of perfect -self-control to keep down the cry of confession that would give her -relief, that would perhaps admit her to Mary's heart; it was not until -the third night, as she sat beside her, that the yearning allowed itself -to grow to hope. Mary's eyes, on this night, turned more than once from -their vacant gaze and dwelt upon her with a fixity almost insistent. - -Camelia dared, at last, to take in both her own the tragic hand that lay -on Mary's chest, and, after a timid pause, she raised it to her lips. It -lay resistless; she held it against her cheek; through the dimness, Mary -felt the tears wetting it. - -The merciful hardness about her heart seemed to melt. She knew a keener -pang, a longer aching, that did not end and give her peace again. It was -not calm, after all, not good to die with that unloving frost holding -one. She lay in silence, looking, in the faint light, at her cousin's -bent head, the ruffled outline of the golden hair. The thought of -Camelia's beauty bowed in this desolation touched her sharply, -intolerably. She felt her heart beating heavily, and suddenly, -"Camelia, I am sorry," she said. - -Camelia clasped the imprisoned hand to her breast, and leaned forward. - -"Sorry! Oh, Mary--what have you to be sorry for?" - -"I was wicked--I hated you--I struck you." - -"I deserved hatred, dear Mary." - -"I should not hate you. It hurts me." - -"Oh my darling!" sobbed her cousin, rising, and bending over her. - -"It hurts me," Mary repeated, but in a voice unmoved. - -"Do you still hate me, Mary?" - -There was a pause before she answered--and then with a certain -faltering, "I--don't know." - -"Will you--can you listen, while I tell you something?" said Camelia -almost in a whisper--for Mary's voice was hardly more, "I must tell you, -Mary, I deserve everything you said, and yet--you misjudged me. Will you -hear the truth?" Camelia clasped the hand more tightly to her breast. "I -am not going to defend myself--I only want you to know the truth; -perhaps--you will be a little sorry for me then--and be able to love -me--a little." - -Mary looked up at her silently, and, when she paused, said nothing; yet -her intent look seemed to assent. - -"It will not give you pain," Camelia said tremblingly, "the pain is all -mine here. Mary--I love him too." The words came with a sob. She sank -into the chair, and dropping Mary's hand she leaned her elbows on the -bed and hid her face. - -"I loved him, Mary, and--I imagined that he must love me. My vanity was -so great that I thought I could choose or reject him. I accepted Sir -Arthur--from spite--partly, and then I was dreadfully frightened. On the -very day I accepted Sir Arthur I sent for Mr. Perior. Mary, I made love -to him. I did not tell him I was engaged; I wanted to escape from that -blunder unscathed. I could not believe in his embarrassment, nor in the -reality of his scorn when he found me out. I broke my engagement--as you -know. I went to Mr. Perior's house. I entreated him to love me--I hung -about his neck, cried, implored. He did not love me; he rejected me. He -scorns me--he is sorry for me; he is my friend, but he scorns me. I was -not playing with him--you see that now. I adore him--and he does not -love me at all." - -Uncovering her face, Camelia found Mary's eyes fixed upon her. - -"Do you understand now, Mary, why I went to him? I loved you so--was so -sorry for you--so infinitely sorry--for had I not felt it all? I never -told him that you thought he might have loved you; but I thought it -myself, I thought that he might love you, indeed, when he _knew_ -you--knew the sweetness, the sadness of your hidden love. If he refused, -Mary, it was because he respected you too highly and himself--to act any -falsity towards you. It was not like my rejection; there was no shame, -no abasement for you. You have his reverent pity, his deep, loving -devotion. Don't regret, dear Mary, that through my well-meant folly he -really knows you now." She paused, and Mary still lay silent, slowly -closing and unclosing her hand on the sheet. - -"Believe me, Mary," said Camelia, the monotony of her recitative -yielding to an appealing tremor, "I have told you the truth--the very -truth. I have not hidden a thought from you." - -"You love him?" Mary asked, almost musingly. - -"Yes, dear, yes. We are together there." - -"I never saw it; never guessed it." - -"Like you, Mary, I can act." - -"And you wanted him to marry me," Mary added presently, pondering it -seemed. - -"Oh, Mary!" said Camelia, weeping, "I did. I longed for it, prayed for -it--I would have given my life to have him marry you. Mary, believe me, -when I tell you that to atone in however a little measure for your -dreary life, I would die--oh gladly, gladly." - -"Would it not have been worse than dying?" Mary asked in a voice that -seemed suddenly to subtly smile, though she herself lay unsmiling in the -shadowed whiteness of the bed. - -"What--worse?" - -"To see him marry me." Camelia gazed at her. - -"I think, Mary," she said presently, "I could have seen it without one -pang for myself; I would have been too glad for you to think of that. -And then--he does not love me. The iron entered my soul long ago. I have -long since lost even the bitterness of hope." - -"And he does not love you," Mary repeated quietly, raising her eyes and -looking away a little. - -"He does not, indeed." - -Camelia's quivering breaths quieted to a waiting depth. But Mary for a -long time said nothing more. Her hand lay across her breast, and above -it her face now surely smiled. - -At last she turned her eyes on her cousin. Looking at her very gently, -she said, "But I love you, Camelia." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -Camelia was sitting again by Mary's bed when Perior was announced the -next morning. - -"You must go and see him to-day," said Mary. - -"Why--must I?" - -"I should like to see him," Mary's voice had now a thread only of -breath; to speak at all she had to speak very slowly, "and you must tell -him first, that I know." - -"Mary--dear----" - -"I do not mind." - -"No, one does not, with him. I will see him, tell him. - -"Talk--be nice to him; do not be angry with him because he will not -marry me." Her smile hurt Camelia, who bent over her, saying-- - -"If I had not gone!--you would not be here now; we might have kept you -well much longer." - -"That would have been a pity--wouldn't it?" said Mary, quite without -bitterness. - -"Oh, Mary! Could we not have made you happy?" - -"Perhaps it is knowing that I can never be well that keeps me now from -being sad," Mary answered; "don't cry, Camelia--I am not sad." - -But Camelia cried as she went down the stairs. - -A pale spring sunshine filled the morning-room, where she found Perior. -She had hardly noticed the outside world for the last few days, and it -gave her now a sweetly poignant shock to see that the trees were all -blurred with green, a web of life embroidering the network of black -branches; beyond them a high, pale, spring sky. She saw the green really -before seeing Perior, for he was looking at it, his back turned to her -as she came in. Then, as he faced her, his aging struck her more -forcibly than the world's renewal of youth. As she looked at him, and -despite the memory of their last words together, despite the tears upon -her cheeks, she smiled. She had forgiven him. He had been right, she -wrong; and then--his sad face, surely his hair had whitened? The love -for Mary that overflowed her heart seemed to clasp him in its pity and -penitence, but she could only feel it as the overflow. - -"She wants to see you," she said, giving him her hand, and she added, -for the joy of last night must find expression, "She knows everything. -She followed me that day--and half guessed the truth--only half; I had -to tell her all. And she has forgiven me--for everything." Camelia bent -her forehead against his shoulder and sobbed--"She is dying!--and she -loves me!" - -"My darling Camelia," said Perior, putting his hand on her hair. - -To Camelia the words could only mean that he forgave--and loved--as Mary -did; but she felt the deep peace of truest union. - -"Then she is dying in the sunshine, isn't she?" he added, "not in that -horrible darkness." - -"Yes--but such a cold, white sunshine. It is because she feels no -longer. It is peace--not happiness; just 'peace out of pain.'" - -"And cannot we two doubters add, 'With God be the rest'?" - -"We must add it. To hope so strongly--is almost to believe, isn't it? -Come to her now." - -She left him at Mary's door. - -The nurse, with her face of hardened patience, rose as he entered. - -"I will leave you with Miss Fairleigh, sir. Call me if I am needed." - -Her look was significant. - -Perior felt his heart shake a little as he went round the white curtain. -He was afraid. If he should blunder--stab the ebbing life with some -stupidity! Something of this tender fear showed in his look at the dying -girl, and the fear deepened for a moment to acutest pain at sight of -her. Was that the Mary he had last seen sitting over the account -books?--the Mary he had fatuously told to keep cheerful? Remorse wrung -his heart. But as for the fear of hurting her, Mary was very far beyond -all little mundane tremors, and they faded away, ashamed for having -been, as he clasped her hand, and met her eyes; their still smile -quieted even his pain, and wrapped him in its awe and beauty. - -He sat down beside her, keeping her hand in his. - -"Dear Mary," he said. - -For a long time she did not speak; indeed Perior thought that she might -not wish to employ the coarser medium of communication, could not, -perhaps; her eyes, as they rested upon him, seemed amply significant; -but he could not fathom, quite, their ultimate meaning. Perhaps a great -sadness underlay their calm. But at last, very faintly and very slowly -she said-- - -"You saw Camelia." - -"Yes." - -"You know--that I was--cruel to Camelia?" - -"No, I did not know." - -"I was." - -"I cannot believe that, Mary." - -"I was, I misjudged her. I struck her. She did not tell you that?" - -"No," said Perior, after the little pause his surprise allowed itself. - -"I did, I struck her," Mary repeated, with a certain placidity. "You -understand?" she added. - -Perior was putting two and two together; the result was clearly -comprehensible. - -"Yes, I understand," he said. - -"Camelia understood too." - -"Yes," Perior repeated his assent, adding, "You have saved Camelia, -Mary; I don't think she can ever again be blind--or stupid." - -"Camelia--stupid?" Mary's little smile was almost arch. - -"That is the kindest word, isn't it?" Perior smiled back at her, "Let us -be kind, for we are all of us stupid--more or less; you very much less, -dear Mary." - -Mary's look was grave again, though it thanked him. "You are kind. -Camelia has been very unhappy," the words were spoken suddenly, and -almost with energy. - -"I don't doubt that." Mary closed her eyes, as if all effort, even the -passive effort of sight, must be concentrated in her words. - -"And I am afraid--she will be very unhappy about me." - -"That is unavoidable." - -"But--unjust. She is nothing--that I thought. Nothing is her fault. It -is no one's fault.--I was born--not rich, not pretty, not clever, not -even contented; it is no one's fault. I have been cruel. You must -comfort her," and Mary suddenly opening her eyes looked at him fixedly. -"You must comfort her," she repeated, adding, "I know that you love -Camelia." - -Perior, with some shame, felt the red go over his face. Mary observed -his confusion calmly. - -"You need not mind telling me," she said. - -"Dear Mary, I am abased before you." - -"That isn't kind to me," Mary smiled. "You do love her--do you not?" - -"Yes, I love her." - -"And she loves you." - -"I have thought it--sometimes," said Perior, looking away. - -"She has always loved you. You too have misjudged Camelia. She told -me--last night--she told me that you had rejected her." - -"Did she, Mary?" Perior looked down at the hand in his. - -"Yes--through love of me. You understand?" - -"Perfectly." - -"It brought us together," said Mary, closing her eyes again. - -She lay so long without speaking that Perior thought she must, in her -weakness, have fallen asleep, but at last she said, the words wavering, -for her breath was very shallow, "That is what Camelia needed. Some -one--to love--a great deal----" And with an intentness, like the last -leap of a dying flame, she added, looking at him, "You will marry -Camelia." - -"If Camelia will have me," said Perior, bending over her hand and -kissing it. - -A gleam of gaiety, of pure joyousness, shone on Mary's face. Humorously, -without a shadow of bitterness, she said, "I win--where Camelia failed!" - -The tears rushed to Perior's eyes. He could not speak. He rose, and -stooping over her, he took her in his arms and kissed her. - -"Ah!" she said quickly, "it is much better to die. I love you." She -looked up at him from the circle of his arms. "How could I have lived?" - -At the great change in her face he wondered if he had done well in -yielding to the impulse of pure tenderness; but still supporting her -fragile shoulders he said, stammering-- - -"Dear child--in dying--you have let us know you--and adore you." - -The light ebbed softly from her eyes as she still looked up at him. -"Perhaps--I told you--hoping it----" she murmured. These words of -victorious humility were Mary's last. When Camelia came in a little -while afterwards she saw that Mary's smile knew, and drew her near; but -standing beside her, holding her hand, she felt that Mary would not -speak to her again. Through her tears she looked across the bed at -Perior; his head was bowed on the hand he held; his shoulders shook -with weeping. At the unaccustomed sight a half dull wonder filled her. - -For a long time Mary smiled before her, as they held her hands; and -Camelia only felt clearly that the smile was white and beautiful. She -waited for it to turn to her again. Only on meeting Perior's solemn look -the sense of final awe smote upon her. - -"She is dead," he said. - -To Camelia the smile seemed still to live. - -"Dead!" she repeated. Perior gently put the hand he held on Mary's -breast. - -"Not dead!" said Camelia, "she had not said good-bye to me!" - -Perior came to her; his silence, that could not comfort, answered her. -She fell upon her knees beside the bed, and her desperate sobs wailed -uselessly against the irretrievable. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -It was many weeks afterwards that he told her what Mary had said. Her -woe, not selfish, but inconsolable, made it impossible that during the -first days of bereavement he should do more than help and sustain her by -the fullness of a friendship now recognized as deep and unrestrained. - -It was she herself who asked him one day if Mary had said anything that -he could tell her, had spoken of her with a continuation of the -forgiveness, her trust in which made life possible. Camelia, in her new -devotion to her mother, its vehemence almost alarming Lady Paton, -controlled for her sake all tears and lamentations, but lying on a sofa -this afternoon, alone in the twilight, the tears had risen, and they -were falling fast when Perior came in and sat down beside her. It was -then that she asked him about Mary. - -"She told me what you said to her the night before she died," Perior -answered, and Camelia let him take her hand. She lay reflecting for some -moments before saying-- - -"She wanted you to think as well of me as possible." - -"She wanted to make me happy. She knew that you were mistaken." - -"How mistaken?" Camelia asked from her pillow. - -His voice had been unemphatic, but in the slight pause that followed -her question she felt that his eyes dwelt upon her, and she looked up at -him. - -"You told her--that I did not love you." Camelia lay silent, her hand in -his, her eyes on his eyes. - -"You believed that, didn't you?" he asked. - -"How could I help believing it?" - -"Ah! that shows a trust in me! Well, Mary did not believe it. Mary told -me that I loved you." - -"And do you?" cried Camelia. She took her hand away, sat upright, and -faced him. Perior was forced to smile a little at the baldness of his -answering, "I do, Camelia." - -"You did not know till----" - -"Oh, I knew all along," Perior confessed, interrupting her. Camelia's -eyes widened immensely as she took in the astounding revelation. He -replied to their silent interrogations with "I have been a wretched -hypocrite. How I convinced you of the lie I don't know." - -"And you told that to Mary." He saw now that her gaze passed him, -ignored him and his revelation in its personal bearing. - -"I told her the truth. It did not hurt her. She was far above such -hurts. You had showed her that you were worthy of any love. To share her -secret made her happy." - -"Happy! Oh, Mary! Mary!" Camelia murmured, looking away from him. "It -must have hurt," she added. "Ah, it must have hurt." - -"She was as capable of nobility as you--that was all." - -"As I!" It was a cry of bitterness. - -"As you, indeed. I feel between you both what a poor creature I am. I -suppose I did for a test. You proved yourselves on me." - -There was silence for a little while. Camelia looked out of the window -at the spring evening. It was here they had sat together on that day of -their first meeting after her return. Her mind went back to it in all -the sorrow of hopeless regret. What had Mary been to her then? - -"What more did she say?" she asked at last in a voice of utter sadness. -She still looked out of the window, but when he answered, "She said that -you loved me," she looked at him. - -"Is that still true, Camelia?" he asked, smiling gravely and with a -certain timidity. - -"So you know, at last, how much." - -"My darling." His tone brought the tears to her eyes; they rolled down -her cheeks while she said brokenly, "And I told her; I gave her the -weapon--and she smiled at us. Oh, that smile!" - -"There was triumph in it. She asked me to marry you, Camelia, and I said -I would--if you would have me. But, I must not ask you now--must I?" He -sat down beside her on the sofa, and kissed her hand. - -"Ah, no; don't think of that. It would kill me, I think, if for one -moment I forgot." - -"You need not forget--yet you may be happy, and make me happy." - -"Oh, you don't know," said Camelia, clasping her hands and looking down -at them, "you don't know. Even you don't know how wicked I have been." - -"We all have such dark closets in our hearts. Don't shut yourself in -yours." - -"I don't shut myself. I am locked in. That is my punishment. Michael," -and she looked round at him without turning her head, "I think of -nothing else; that I made her miserable--that I made her glad to die. I -must tell you. You don't know how I treated her. I remember it all -now--years and years--so plainly. I robbed her of everything. If a -sunbeam fell on her path I stood between her and it." - -Perior was silent, but putting his hand over hers he held it faithfully. - -"Listen. Let me tell you a few--only a few--of the things I remember. I -don't know why you love me!--how you can love me! It hurts me to be -loved!" she sobbed suddenly. - -"If it will help you, tell me everything. And I must love you, even if -it hurts you." - -And, her hand in that faithful hand, her eyes on his, demanding -inflexible judgment, Camelia began the long confession--a piteous tale, -indeed. All the blots and failings gathered in a huge blackness; she -spoke from it. He felt as she spoke that the clasp of his hand was her -one link with revival. It was a piteous tale: for the robbery of Mary's -ride, the brutal taunts flung at her on that winter night--these were -but the bigger drops in the sea of selfish thoughtlessness. After each -incident, rounded with a succinct psychology that showed her pitiless -clearness of vision, she paused, as if waiting for him to speak. His -silence seemed to acquiesce, and she wanted no soothing denial. And even -now his hand held hers, and did not cast her off. When she had done, and -after the silence had grown long, he said-- - -"And so I might lay bare my heart to you." - -"I would not be afraid of its dark corner. You have never been meanly -selfish, never trodden on people." - -"But I might affirm other things. I will open the door if it will help -you to sit down with me in the doubled darkness." - -"No, dear Michael, no. Mine is enough." - -"I have heard you; and may I now tell you again that I love you?" - -"Not again. Not now. But I am glad that you love me. I feel it. I should -like to sit like this forever, just feeling it, with my hand in yours." - -This very debatable love-scene must be Perior's only amorous consolation -for many months. Of her quiet content in his presence there could be no -doubt. No barrier, no pain, was now between them. Their union was -achieved, as if by a mere wave-wash, effacing one misunderstanding--it -hardly seemed more now, nor their change of relation apparent; but under -all Camelia's courage was the fixed determination to allow herself no -happiness. Superficially there was almost gaiety at times; her regret -would never become conventional or priggish; but even Lady Paton did not -guess that Camelia and Michael were lovers, although a secret hope--very -wonderful, and carefully hidden--painted for her future rosy -possibilities. With all the sadness, with all the regret, these days -were the happiest Lady Paton had known; and as Camelia's devotion was -exclusively for her, she could not guess that the secret hope was -already realized. - -Yet Camelia did not leave her silent lover utterly bereft. After the -deep gravity of the first avowal her little demonstrations were of a -light, an almost mocking order. In this new phase she returned to the -teasing fondness of the old one; and sometimes the central tenderness -would pierce the lightness. - -Perior could afford patience. Reading one afternoon in the library (his -daily presence at Enthorpe was a matter of course), he heard steps -behind him, then felt her hand clasp over his eyes. - -"You are keeping on--loving me?" she demanded. - -"Yes, I am keeping on," said Perior, turning his page with a masterly -calm. He knew that the little outburst conceded nothing, and that even -when Camelia dropped a swift kiss on his hair he was by no means -expected to retaliate. - -For the lighter mood the cottages made endless subjects for conversation -and discussion. In talking--squabbling amicably--over their interior -civilization, Camelia felt that she and Perior had much the playful -gravity of children making sand pies at the seaside. - -Camelia insisted on her prints and photographs, and on hanging them -herself. She had fixed theories on the decoration of wall-spaces. - -Perior held the ladder and criticised. "They are quite out of place, you -know. That exotic art is most incongruous. It jars." Camelia was hanging -up a modern print after Hiroshighé. - -"It wouldn't jar on us, would it?" she asked, driving in a nail. - -"We are exotic mentally." - -"Let us train them to a more cosmopolitan out-look, then." - -"They would far prefer the colored prints from Christmas numbers." - -"Well, they shan't have them!" Camelia declared, and he laughed at her -determined tyranny. But when her tenants were duly installed Camelia was -forced to own that the honest forces of the soil were difficult to -manage. She came in to tea one afternoon with the announcement, that the -Dawkins had taken down all their prints and put up flower-entwined texts -and horrible colored advertisements. Mrs. Dawkins had said that her -husband objected to "those outlandish women"; they made him feel "quite -creepy like." - -Later on she had to confess that the Coles by no means appreciated their -photographs of the Sistine Sibyls, so charmingly placed along the walls, -and that from among them glared a well-fed maiden with upturned, -prayerful, and heavily-lashed eyes; testifying to the Coles' religious -instincts and to their only timid opposition. - -"How can they be so stupid!" cried Camelia. "And how can I!" - -"You can't grow roses on cabbages, Camelia," said Perior, "to say -nothing of orchids. You are demanding orchids of your cabbages." - -"Desire precedes function," Camelia replied sententiously, "if the -cabbages want to, very much, they may grow orchids. I shall still -hope." - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -On a beautiful October afternoon a visitor came to Enthorpe. - -Camelia was summoned to find Mrs. Fox-Darriel in the drawing-room. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, with a pastoral hat--rather Gallic in its conscious -innocence--tipped over her emphasized eyes, her gown of muslin and lace -very fluffy on very rigid foundations, looked with her triumphant -artificiality of outline quite oppressively smart. Camelia, after her -year's seclusion, felt her to be oppressive. - -It was rather difficult to smile on meeting her, their parting had such -painful associations--the dark turmoil of those days drifted over -Camelia's memory as she gave her friend her hand. - -"You are surprised to see me, aren't you, Camelia?" said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel. - -"Yes. Rather surprised." - -"No wonder, you faithless young woman. You haven't troubled to toss me a -thought for this twelvemonth. Well, I bear you no grudge; it is a -psychological phase that will, I hope, wear itself away. Yes, I am -stopping down in these parts again, twenty miles away, with the -Lambournes. You have not seen them yet, I hear. New importations. Mr. -Lambourne is a bloated capitalist, and as my poor Charlie is Labor -personified, I hope that my display of four new gowns daily in the -Lambourne ancestral halls--they will be ancestral some day--will result -in a beneficial return of favors. Charlie is going in very much for -companies; Mr. Lambourne's companies are extremely advantageous. Oh, I -uphold the uses of Lambournes in our modern world; they make us poor -penniless aristocrats so very comfortable; they are good, grateful -people." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel, while she talked, was looking Camelia up and down in a -slowly cogitating manner. - -"No, I can't stop to tea; I must be going back directly, it is a long -drive. I only came to have a look at you, and, if possible, to solve the -mystery. What's up, Camelia? That is what I want to know. Is this all -the result of last year's little _esclandre_?" - -Camelia evaded the question. - -"We have had trouble. You heard that my cousin was dead." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye travelled again over Camelia's black dress. -"Yes--I heard. Poor little thing. And she would never appreciate how -charming was the mourning being worn for her; that gown is really--well, -there is a great deal in it, a great deal. I don't know how you manage -to make your clothes so significant. You've got all Chopin's Funeral -March into those lines. Well, it makes you feel badly, of course." - -"Yes. Very badly." From the very patience of Camelia's voice Mrs. -Fox-Darriel was keenly aware of barriers. How Camelia had disappointed -her! A certain baffled, angry affection rose within her. - -"You certainly treated her horribly, my dear. I understand regrets." -Camelia made no reply, and looked at her with a steady sadness. - -"And--she was in love with the vial of wrath. You knew that, I suppose." - -"I knew that I was in love with him, Frances." - -At that Mrs. Fox-Darriel gasped. Her eyes took on an unblinking fixity. -"So you own to it?" - -"Yes, I certainly own to it." - -"Camelia! You are not going to--" The conjecture made her really white. - -"To what?" and Camelia smiled irrepressibly. - -"Camelia, I am fond of you. I did wish best things for you. I did hope -to see you _somebody_. You would have been. You _can_ be. Sir Arthur -will be on his knees before you if you lift a finger." - -"Oh! I hope not," cried Camelia. - -"You know it. You know it. Lady Elizabeth hasn't a chance. She has -become literary--is writing the life of her great-grandfather, deep in -archives--that means hopelessness.--Camelia!" and Mrs. Fox-Darriel's cry -gathered from Camelia's impassive smile a frenzied energy. "You are -not--tell me you are not--going to marry that man--relapse into a -country matron! He will swamp you. You have nothing in common. It is -calf-love, pure and simple. I felt it all along; hoped he would see the -incongruity of it--take your poor little cousin, who was cut out for -submission and nurseries." - -"Oh, I don't think a superfluity of either will be expected of me," said -Camelia, with a laugh really unkind. - -"Oh, heavens! You are going to marry him?" - -"Yes, immediately," said Camelia, somewhat to her own surprise. She had -not expected her rather indefinite views on this subject to crystallize -so suddenly and so irrevocably. "Console yourself, Frances," she added, -really feeling some compunction before Mrs. Fox-Darriel's tragic -contemplation, "it won't be my funeral. He dug me out, and I am going to -dig him out. You may hear of me yet--as his wife." - -"Ah!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel had found the calm of her despair. "It is the -same old story. His indifference has done it all. It may be brutal, but -I must say it, you threw yourself at his head. The flattery at last -penetrated his priggishness; Endymion stooped to Selena." - -Camelia's serenity held good. - -"You can't make me angry. I like your disinterestedness, Frances. Let me -thank you for Endymion; I am sure the simile would flatter his -forty-five years." - -"And I came hoping----" - -"Hoping what my kind Frances?" - -"That I was to be a link; that I would find you sane again--willing to -pay me a visit, and meet _him_." - -"But, as you see, I am on Latmos, and like it." - -"Yes, I see. I am disillusionized, Camelia; I confess it. I didn't -expect that sort of floppiness from you. And there is a -self-righteousness about your whole manner that is insufferable, quite; -I tell you so frankly." Mrs. Fox-Darriel, as she spoke, shouldered her -closed parasol, and clasped her hands over it in a militant antagonism -of attitude. "The sheep looking suavely from its fold at the goat. We -are all goats to you now." - -"Come, let us kiss through the bars, then." - -"Oh, you are miles away--æons away!" - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel submitted drearily. "You are lost! done for! And the -name, the power, the future you might have had! You were clever." - -"I rather doubt that." - -"Ah! of course you doubt it; you must doubt it. As the wife of a crusty -country squire it would be a corroding cleverness merely. You turn your -back on it." - -"We won't be hopelessly provincial. You will see us in London. He may -get into Parliament." - -"Us! He! Alas! he will swamp you," she repeated. "He will turn you into -a pillar of salt--looking back, and being sorry. _You_ to be wasted!" -was the last Camelia heard. - -When she had gone Camelia went slowly across the lawn; Perior, she knew, -was lurking about the garden waiting for her. Some of Mrs. Fox-Darriel's -remarks had cut--so far less deeply, though, than her own thoughts -during past months. It was the strong revival of these thoughts that -pained her more than the mode of revival. - -It was dusk, a pensive dusk, the evening sky faintly barred with pink. -Perior was walking up and down the garden between rows of tally growing -flowers. Was the thought of his patience and loneliness, of her -selfishness in prolonging them, a mere sophistry meant to hide her own -longing for happiness? As she walked down the path towards him her mind -juggled with this thought; it was very confusing. - -"Who do you think it was?" she asked, putting her hand in his, a little -_douceur_ Perior had never presumed upon. - -"Mrs. Jedsley? Mrs. Grier? Lady Haversham?" he asked affably, but -scanning, as she felt, the sadness of her face. - -"No--the past has been having a flick at me--Mrs. Fox-Darriel the whip." - -"Ah yes. I never liked her." - -"There is not much harm in her." - -"No, perhaps not," Perior acquiesced. - -"I told her," said Camelia, after a little pause in which they turned a -corner of the garden, and walked down it again by an outward path. - -"Well, what did you tell her? She has hurt you. I can see that." - -"No, not she. She asked me if I had never seen that Mary loved you, so, -in reply, I said that I had only seen that _I_ loved you." - -"Did that excellent piece of truth-telling pain you?" - -"No; it was a delicious mouthful. But, she said too, that the flattery -of my love had pierced your indifference--or your priggishness, she -called it"--and Camelia gave him a rather arch glance, "and I didn't -really wonder, not _really_; but you were so much more indifferent than -I was, weren't you?" and she paused in the path to look at him, not -archly, but very seriously. Her candor was so charming, with its little -touch of fear, that Perior's answer could not resist an emphasis. - -"Dearest," he said, and Camelia's wonder was not unpleasant, and his -daring went unrebuked, as he put his arm around her. - -"That means you were not?" - -"It means a great deal more. I was in love with you when I was nothing -to you. I've always been in love with you--horribly in love with you. -Indifference! Great heavens! that was what I prayed for, that was what I -tried to feign, for I thought you such an abominable little siren. All -the time that you were picking me up, and putting me down, and whisking -past me, and torturing and teasing me, all the time I was adoring you, I -couldn't help myself! adoring you with all your crimes upon you! -thinking myself a fool for it, I grant." - -"Putting you down? No, I never did that," Camelia demurred. - -"Well, I thought so. And at all events you know that you were most -comfortably indifferent until you found out that you couldn't get me for -the asking." - -"No, no!" cried Camelia. "From the first, if you had really let me think -you loved me, told me so, nicely, and begged a little, I should have -fallen straight into your arms, and perhaps never have found out how bad -I was!" - -"And that would have been a pity, eh? No," he added, with an -argumentative gravity that touched and made her smile sadly. "You were -never _bad_. It was always half my fault. I misjudged you, and you -danced to my lugubrious piping." - -"This is the very madness of devotion! Oh, dear Alceste, with you, -perhaps, with you I have not dealt so badly; but, _but_----" She walked -on again, turning away her head. - -"Don't," said Perior gently. - -"Ah, I must, I must remember." - -For a long time they were silent during the rounding of the whole -garden, where the high walls grew dark against the sky, and the flowers, -in the faint light, were ghostly. - -"Michael," she said at last, "I rebel sometimes against my own -unhappiness. I want to crush it--I am afraid of it; but I am more afraid -of being happy." - -"Why can't they go together?" he asked. - -"Ah! but can they?" - -"They must, sooner or later. Then you won't be afraid of either. Doesn't -this all mean," he added, "that _now_ I may tell you how much I love -you?" and he stopped to look at her. Her face was like a white flower in -the dusk. Far away, over long sweeps of thin purpling cloud, shone one -star, faint and steady. He saw together her face, the sky, and the star. - -"Oh!" said Camelia, "_do_ you know me? Even now, do you know me? I'm not -one bit good! I am still the horrid child who clamored for your love; my -love for you the only good thing in me! You love me, all the same? You -don't mind? don't expect anything? I want so much, but I will have -nothing, not a kiss, not your hand holding mine,--there, let it go,--on -false pretences." - -"I can only retaliate. _I_ am not one bit good. Dear, horrid child, will -you put up with me?" - -"Oh, I never minded!" she cried. "I loved you, good or bad." - -"And I you; only I minded. That is all the difference. There isn't a -falsity between us, Camelia," he added. - -"No, there isn't." - -"Then, may I kiss you, and hold your hand?" - -"Yes; only--first--first--" she held him off, smiling, yet still -doubting, still tremulously grave, "I am not good enough; no, I am not -good enough." - -"Quite good enough for me," said Perior. "I am getting tired of your -conscience, Camelia." - -THE END. - - -Typographical errorscorrected by the etext transcriber: - -befere=> before {pg 274} - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Confounding of Camelia, by -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - -***** This file should be named 41917-8.txt or 41917-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/9/1/41917/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/41917-8.zip b/41917-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 43f3d86..0000000 --- a/41917-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/41917-h.zip b/41917-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 7aecfdc..0000000 --- a/41917-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/41917.txt b/41917.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 26858a6..0000000 --- a/41917.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9273 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Confounding of Camelia, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Confounding of Camelia - -Author: Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Release Date: January 26, 2013 [EBook #41917] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -The Confounding of -Camelia - -By -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Author of -"The Dull Miss Archinard," Etc. - -New York -Charles Scribner's Sons -1899 - -Copyright, 1899, by -Charles Scribner's Sons - -MANHATTAN PRESS -474 W. BROADWAY -NEW YORK - - -_TO - -"CHARLIE" AND "JIMMIE"_ - - - - -The Confounding of Camelia - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -When Camelia came down into the country after her second London season, -descended lightly upon the home of her forefathers, her coming -unannounced, and as much a matter of caprice as had been her long -absence, a slowly growing opinion, an opinion that had begun to form -itself during Camelia's most irresponsible girlhood, became clearly -defined, a judgment fixed and apparently irrevocable. The Patons had -always been good, quiet people; absolutely undistinguished, were it not -that the superlative quality of their tranquil excellence gave a certain -distinction. There were no black sheep in their annals, and a black -sheep gives, by contrast, a brilliancy lacking to unaccented bucolic -groupings, strikes a note of interest at any rate; but none of the Paton -sheep were even gray. They fed in pleasant, plenteous pastures, for it -was a wealthy, though not noticeably wealthy family, and perhaps a -rather sheep-like dulness, an unimaginative contentment not conducive to -adventurous strayings, accounted for the spotless fleeces. - -Their cupboards had never held a skeleton--nor so much as the bone of -one. The family portraits, none even pretending to be Sir Joshuas or -Vandycks, only presented a respectable number of generations, so that -the mellow perspective of old ancestry, remarkable at least for a -lengthy retrogression into antiquity, made no background to their -commonplace. Sir Charles, Camelia's father, was the first Paton weighted -with an individuality that entailed nonconformity, and since Sir -Charles's individuality had confused all anticipations, further -developments of the wild streak could not be unexpected. Many of the -quiet, conservative people, who had known Camelia, her father and -mother, and Patons of an earlier epoch, pronounced with emphasis that -Camelia was spoiled; there was a tenderness in the term, an implication -of might-have-beens; and other people, more bitter and perhaps more -sensitive, remarked that not her head-turning London successes, of which -big echoes had rolled down to Clievesbury, but the inherent, the no -doubt inherited defects of Miss Paton's character were responsible for -her noticeable variation from family traditions. Did not that portion of -Blankshire, which lay about the dim old village of Clievesbury, send up -to the capital every year its native offerings of maidenhood? A London -season had never induced in these well-balanced young ladies the merry -arrogance so provokingly apparent in Miss Paton. Old Mrs. Jedsley it -was, the last rector's widow, who most openly denounced Camelia, and -that, despite her long friendship for the Patons; denounced her -frivolity, her insincerity, her egotism, and her wonderful gowns--their -simplicity did not deceive Mrs. Jedsley's keen eye; the price of one -would keep the parish in flannel for a year she declared, and, no doubt, -include the school feast. Mrs. Jedsley prided herself on her impartial -faculty for seeing disagreeable truths clearly and for announcing them -unflinchingly. Her fondness for Lady Paton--"poor Lady Paton"--could not -blind or silence her. Poor Lady Paton was more than ever effaced, Mrs. -Jedsley said; one might have thought that Sir Charles had required as -much submission as a woman's life could well yield, but the daughter had -called forth further capabilities. - -"The very way in which she says 'Oh, Camelia!' is flattering to the -girl. Her mother's half-shocked admiration encourages her in the belief -that she is very naughty and very clever; and really while Camelia talks -Lady Paton looks like a hare under a bramble." - -The simile hit the mark so nicely that the alarmed retirement of Lady -Paton's attitude was pictorially apparent forthwith. And, "Ah, well!" -Mrs. Jedsley added, "What can one expect in the child of such a father! -The most gracefully selfish man who ever lived. Charles Paton would have -smiled you out of house and home, and left you to sit in the snow, while -he warmed himself at your fireplace." - -Indeed this application of the laws of heredity might have induced a -certain charitable philosophy on Camelia's behalf. The love of -adventure, of prowess, of power, had shown itself in Charles Paton; but -much had been forgiven--even admired--with a sense of breathlessness, in -a cloud-compelling younger son (his good looks had been altogether -supreme), which, when seen flaunting indecorously in the daughter, was -highly unpopular. Charles Paton at a very early age had found the family -traditions "devilish dull" (and, indeed, it could not be denied that -dull they were); he entered the army, kicked over the traces, and was -"wild" with all his might and main. Clievesbury disapproved, but at the -same time Clievesbury was dazzled. - -Surrounded by this naughty atmosphere, reverberating with racing and -betting, dare-devil big-game shooting, and the extreme fashion that is -supposed to reverse the "devilish dull" morality of tradition, Charles -Paton--like his daughter--returned to Clievesbury, and there fell most -magnanimously and becomingly in love with little Miss Fairleigh, the -eighth daughter of a country baronet--a softly pink and white -maiden--wooed and married her and settled down, after a fashion, to -carve out an army career for himself. He carved to good purpose, luck -giving him the opportunity. He carried his life as lightly and gallantly -as a flag; sought peril, and the tingling excitement of the strangest -feats. His reckless bravery won him a knighthood; his fame, his happy -good-nature, and extreme good looks, made him a hero wherever he went. -Charles Paton's yellow curls, his smile, the Apollo-like line of his -lips, were as well known as his martial exploits. - -He was vastly popular, and his little wife in the shadow by his side, -looked up, like the others, and adored where they admired. Sir Charles -liked a sunny atmosphere, and though the hearthstone flame in its steady -commonplace did not count for so much as the wider outdoor effulgence, -it was very cosy to come back to, when domesticity was a momentary -necessity. He would not have liked a change of temperature, and -tolerated the wifely worship very graciously. He was fond of her too; -she was very pretty, not clever--(an undesirable quality in a wife)--far -more of a help than a hindrance, though how much of a help he perhaps -never realized. That broad triumphal road down which the hero marched -was swept and garnished by the indefatigable wife. The dustiness and -thorniness of daily life were kept from him. Lady Paton packed and paid, -and dashed from post to pillar. She was a delicate woman who, petted and -made much of, might have allowed herself an occasional headache and a -tea-gown existence. The years in India were not easy years; through them -all she unwaveringly adored her husband, and in many phases of a varied -life showed the steely fibre so often and so unexpectedly displayed by -the most delicately inefficient looking women. - -Camelia was the fifth child; the others died, two in India and two in -England, away from the poor mother. This last one was little more than a -baby when ill-health and the death of his brother decided Sir Charles on -a return to England. Lady Paton rejoiced in the home-coming. With her -pretty baby--a girl, alas! but the estate was unentailed--and her great -and glorious husband by her side--the future seemed to open on an -unknown happiness. But Lady Paton was to know few compensations. Sir -Charles found the role of country gentleman very flavorless, and his -attempts to evade boredom left his wife more lonely--and too, more -conscious of loneliness, than in busier days. - -When Camelia was eight her father died. One saw then that Lady Paton was -supremely adapted to eternal mourning. As a widow, she reached a -black-encompassed repose, a broken-hearted finality of woe. Camelia was -the one reason for her life. The child had never to enforce her will, -her mother's devotion yielded to the slightest pressure. Camelia was -hardly conscious of ruling, nor the mother of being ruled. As the -stronger egoism, Camelia domineered inevitably. She was a gay, kind -child, happy in the unfettered expansion of her individuality; she -delighted in its exercise, and in all sorts of unconventional -acquirements. She read voraciously and loved travel. Lady Paton had by -no means reached the end of packing and paying days. Camelia hated -beaten tracks; the travelling must be different from other people's; she -managed in a tourist-ridden Europe to find the element of adventurous -experience. Camelia was keen on experiences. Lady Paton did not -appreciate them properly; but then Lady Paton saw life from no artistic -standpoint. She thought undiscovered Greece and Poland more trying than -the most trying places in India. The steppes depressed her; she dared -not mention wolves, but her mind dwelt dejectedly upon them. She could -hardly think of the cooking in certain out-of-the-way corners in Spain -without shuddering. But she bore all with apparent placidity, and her -helpful qualities won her daughter's approval just as they had won her -husband's. - -There was nothing rude or uncouth in Camelia's domineering spirit, it -was too happy, too spontaneous, too sure of its own right. Even after -these two years of London her severest detractors could not accuse her -of the grosser forms of vanity, nor of affectation, nor of the ugly -thing that goes by the name of "fastness." Her unerring sense of the -best possible taste made "fast" girls seem very tawdry, and her coolly -smiling eyes told them that she found them so. Even with the fact of her -serene indifference to them growing into the consciousnesses of the -people about Clievesbury, they still owned, generously, but perforce, -that she was neither strident nor slangy, nor given to any form of -posing. The change in Camelia, if change there were, was a mere -evolution. She had tasted the joys of a wide effectiveness. She was only -twenty-three, and more than once had been told that she was the only -woman in London fitted to hold a "salon," a "salon" that would be a -power social, artistic, and political. Authors talked to her about their -books, painters about their pictures; her presence at the opera was -recorded as having judicial importance; a new pianist was made if he -played at one of her musicals. She was a somebody to whom the -Clievesburyites were nobodies indeed. - -Camelia smiled at her own power. She did not think more highly of -herself, but less well of other people, for she measured at once the -comparative worth of her own attributes in a world of mediocrity. She -saw through the flattery, valued it at its proper rate, but enjoyed it, -and indulged in a little air of self-mockery that to appreciative minds -crowned her beauty irresistibly. But she was rather disappointed in -finding most people so stupid. It was difficult to hold to one's -standard in a world where the second-best passed so fluently. By those -standards Camelia saw herself very second-best; but were there then no -clever people to see it with her? She caught herself in a yawning -weariness of it all. A lazy month or so in the country appealed to her; -other motives, too, were perhaps not wanting. With a little retinue of -friends she reappeared at Clievesbury, and, by degrees, old neighbors -discovered that little Camelia had developed into a rather prickling -personality. On calling they found Lady Paton very much in the -background. Camelia seemed to make no claim, and yet she was the -important personage, and to ignore her prominence was to efface oneself -with her mother. It was thought--and hoped--that Lady Haversham, the -magnate of the county, would vanquish that complacent sweetness, the -aerial lightness of demeanor that glanced over one's head while one -spoke, and "positively" said Mrs. Jedsley "makes one feel like a cow -being looked at along with the landscape." - -But although Lady Haversham held rule in the country, in London she, -too, was a nobody, and Camelia very much the contrary. Lady Haversham -knew right well that in going to see her old friend Lady Paton, Camelia -was her objective point, and to try a fall with Camelia upon her native -heath, her intention. Lady Haversham knew that in the eyes of the -world--the world that counted--she was a mere country mouse creeping -into the radiant effulgence of the young beauty, and this unpleasant -consciousness gave her quite a drum-like sonority of manner--a fatal -manner, as she felt helplessly while she beat out her imposing phrases -beneath the clear smiling of Camelia's eyes. Lady Haversham tried in -the first place to exclude Camelia, and addressed herself with most -solicitous fondness to Lady Paton; but Camelia's silent placidity stung -her into self-betrayal. Camelia evidently cared nothing for Lady -Haversham's graciousness--or lack of it; seemed, indeed, unconscious of -the cold shoulder turned so emphatically upon her. Lady Haversham -thumped and rumbled, and knew herself worsted. - -"Manner! Unpleasant manner!" she said to Mrs. Jedsley later on in the -day, "the child has no manners at all! That takes in London nowadays, -you know. Anything in the shape of arrogant youth and prettiness is sure -of having its head turned. And as to prettiness, I should call her -curious-looking rather than pretty." And by this Mrs. Jedsley knew that -Camelia had snubbed Lady Haversham, without trying to--there was the -smart; Camelia was making no effort at all to be unpleasant, to impose -herself, but, unmistakably, she only thought of the good people about -her home as cows in the landscape. - -"I suppose she finds us all very provincial," said Mrs. Jedsley, not -averse to planting the shaft, for she had felt Lady Haversham's -graciousness to be rather rasping at times. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -On the sunny autumn day with which this story opens, Miss Paton was in -the morning room at Enthorpe Lodge, waiting for some one--a some one who -to her was not a nobody; and though her attitude hardly denoted much -anxiety, her mind was alert and very conscious of a pleasing and yet -exasperating suspense. Her friend Mrs. Fox-Darriel was with her. Miss -Paton leaned against the mantelpiece as she talked, her eyes often -swerving to the clock, but calmly, with no perceptible impatience, or -passing in a quiet glance over her hand, the falling folds of her white -dress, her friend's face and figure--figure and face equally artificial, -and perhaps affording to Miss Paton's mind a pleasing contrast to her -own distinctive elegance. - -There is in Florence a plaque by one of the della Robbia; a long -throated girl's head leans from it, serenely looking down upon the -world; a delicate head, with a clear brow, a pure cheek, a mouth of sad -enchanting loveliness; Camelia's head was like it; saint-like in -contour, but with an added air, an air of merry irresponsibility. The -outward corners of her eyes smiled into a long upward curve of shadow, -her brows above them made a wing-like line, wings hovering extended, and -a little raised. The upward tilt pervaded the corners of her mouth, a -sad mouth, yet even in repose it seemed just about to smile, and its -smile sliding to a laugh. The very moulding of her cheek and chin showed -a tender gaiety. As for coloring it might have been the coloring of a -pensive Madonna, so white was her skin, so palely gold her smooth thick -hair. She was slender too, with the long narrow hands and feet of an -Artemis, and on seeing her one thought of a maiden-goddess, of a St. -Cecilia, and, without surprise over the incongruity, of an intimately -modern young taster of life, whose look of pagan joyousness took neither -herself nor other people seriously, said "que voulez-vous," to all -blame, and gently mocked puritanical earnestness. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel was plunged into the depths of an easy-chair, a type -without hints and whispers to baffle and fascinate. She was thoroughly -conventional and not in the least perplexing. Her elaborate head, a -masterpiece of wave and coil and curl, rested against the high-chair -back, its lustre a trifle suspicious where the light caught too gold a -bronze on the sharp ripples. - -She was considered a beauty, and her steely, regular face looked at one -from every stationer's shop in London. Miss Paton's photographs were to -be procured at no stationer's, one among the many differences that -distinguished her from her friend. - -On Camelia's "coming-out" in all the dryad-like freshness of her one and -twenty years, Mrs. Fox-Darriel, smartest of the "smart," kindly -determined to "form" and "launch" her. She was very winning, and Camelia -seemed very willing. But Mrs. Fox-Darriel soon recognized that she was -being led--not leading, soon recognized that Camelia would never follow. -The first defeat was at the corsetiere's visible symbol of the "forming" -process. Under Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye, Miss Paton's nymph-like slimness -was measured for stays of all sorts and descriptions; Camelia, when the -stays were done, surveyed her figure therein confined, with reflective -rather than submissive silence. - -The week after she went to Paris, and when she returned it was with a -stayless wardrobe. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was fairly quelled as Camelia swept -before her in these masterpieces of the Rue de la Paix. - -"They are not aesthetic," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel--"I own that--not a -greenery-yallery whiff about them; nor too self-conscious; but my dear, -why? Don't you like my figure?" - -Camelia turned candid eyes upon the accurate waist, the rigid curves and -right angles. "I can't say I do, Frances," she owned, wherewith Mrs. -Fox-Darriel winced a little. "I don't think it looks alive, you know," -said Miss Paton. "Of course one must know how to dress one's -nonconformity. I think I have succeeded." And Camelia went to court -looking like a glorified Romney, with hardly a whalebone about her. -Their future relationship was forecast by this declaration of -independence. The stayless protegee conferred, did not receive lustre. - -Inevitably Mrs. Fox-Darriel found herself revolving about the young -beauty--a satellite among the other satellites, and more than Camelia -herself was Mrs. Fox-Darriel impressed by Camelia's effectiveness. - -On this morning from the depth of her laziness she observed her young -friend's glances at the clock with some wondering curiosity; it was -difficult to imagine a cause for the stirring of Camelia's contemplative -quiescence under country influences, but Mrs. Fox-Darriel was quick to -see the faintest ripple of change, and to her well-sharpened acuteness -the ripple this morning was perceptible. - -"No new guests coming to-day?" she had asked, receiving a placid -negative. "And what are you going to do?" she pursued, patting the -regular outline of her fringe. - -"I thought of a ride with Mr. Merriman and Sir Harry. Do you care to -come?" - -"No, no, I have too much of Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman as it is." - -"It is dull down here, Frances. Perhaps you had best be off to Homburg. -I am bent on recuperative vegetating, you know." - -"Whom are you waiting for?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel asked, coming to the point -with a circumspection rendered rather ridiculous by the frank promptness -of Miss Paton's answer. - -"I'm waiting for Mr. Perior, Frances," and she laughed a little, -glancing at her friend with a rapid touch of ridicule, "and he is -half-an-hour late; and I want to see him very badly." - -"Mr. Perior?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel's vagueness was not affected. "One of the -vegetables, my dear? Has not the curiosity of the neighborhood exhausted -itself?" - -"Ah--this vegetable isn't curious, I fear, not a shoot shows at least. -If he is curious he will pretend not to be, and pretend very -successfully." - -"That is subtle for a vegetable. Perior, the name is familiar. Who is -this evasive person?" - -Miss Paton's serene eyes looked over her friend's head at the strip of -blue and green outside framed by the long window. She was asking herself -with an inward smile for her own perversity, whether she had not come -down into the country for the purpose of seeing the "evasive person." -She would not mind owning to it in the least. Pickles after sweets; she -anticipated the tart taste of disapproval pleasantly. - -"Who is he?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel repeated. - -"He is my oldest friend; he doesn't admire me in the least--so I am very -fond of him. I christened him 'Alceste,' and he retaliated with -'Celimene.' He is forty odd; a bachelor; he lives in a square stone -house, and taught me very nearly everything I know. My Greek is almost -as good as my skirt dancing." - -"The square-stone gentleman didn't teach you skirt-dancing, I suppose. I -begin to place him. The editor; the family friend; the misanthrope." - -"Yes, my 'Alceste.' He has reason for misanthropy. His life has been a -succession of disappointments. I am one of them, I fear." - -"Dear me, Camelia!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel sat upright, "have you ever dallied -with this provincial Diogenes?" - -Miss Paton smiled over the supposition. "His disappointments are moral, -not amorous. Why do I tell you this, I wonder?" - -"To show me that you don't care for him perhaps," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -who to tell the truth, was rather alarmed. Since she had resigned -herself to a planetary, a reflected brilliancy, her star at least must -never wane; its orbit must widen. Camelia's whole manner seemed suddenly -suspicious. She was evidently waiting for this person, pleased, -evidently, to talk of him, and though Camelia might be trusted for a -full appreciation of her future's possibilities, Mrs. Fox-Darriel was -hardly satisfied by the frankness of her "Oh! but I do care for him; he -preoccupies me." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflected for some moments on the dangers of -country-house propinquity and retrospective intimacy before saying -pleasantly-- - -"What does he look like?" - -Camelia laughed again, soothing Mrs. Fox-Darriel somewhat by the -good-humored glance which seemed to pierce with amusement the anxiety on -her behalf. - -"His eyes are thunderous; his lips pale with suppressed anger." - -"Dear me! I am really anxious to see this vial of wrath." - -"And since that is his footstep on the gravel, you shall see him -immediately," said Camelia. - -A moment after Mr. Perior was announced. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Mr. Perior was a tall man, well built, yet carrying himself with a -certain ungainliness. He had an air of eagerness reined back. His face -was at once severe and sensitive. - -He gave no notice to Mrs. Fox-Darriel, whose head twisted round to -observe his entrance, and walking up to Miss Paton he took her -hands--she had put out both her hands in welcome--and, looking at her -kindly, he said-- - -"Well, Celimene." - -"Well, Alceste." - -The smile that made of Camelia's face a changing loveliness seemed to -come and go, and come again while she looked at him, as a butterfly's -wings fold and open while it rests upon a flower. She rarely laughed -outright, but her face in gravity was unfamiliar; one could hardly -imagine it without the shifting charm. - -"You might have come before," she said--her hands in his, "and I -expected you." - -"I was away until yesterday." - -"You will come often now." - -"Yes, I will." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye--a none too friendly eye--travelled meanwhile up -and down the "vial of wrath." Clever, eccentric, he had evidently made -an impression upon the not easily impressed Camelia, and his -clean-shaved face, and the rough gray hair that gave his head a look of -shaggy heaviness, seemed to express both qualities significantly. - -"Did you ride over?" Camelia asked. "No? Hot for walking, isn't it? -Frances, my friend Mr. Perior." - -"You live near here, Mr. Perior?" said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, glancing at his -boots, which were peculiarly solid and very dusty. - -"Only five miles away," he said. Mr. Perior's very boots partook of -their wearer's expression of uningratiating self-reliance. - -"We have heard of you in London too, I believe. You are editor of--what -review is it, Camelia?" - -"I was the editor of the _Friday Review_, but I've given that up." - -"He quarrelled with everybody!" Camelia put in, "but you can hear him -once a week in the leading article--dealing hatchet-blows right and -left. They don't care to keep him at closer quarters." - -Mr. Perior looked at her, smiling but making no repartee. - -"And Camelia has been telling me that you are responsible for her -Greek." - -"Is Camelia ashamed of her Greek? She needn't be. She was quite a good -scholar." - -"But Greek! For Camelia! Don't you think it jars? To bind such dusty -laurels on that head!" - -"Laurels? Camelia can't boast of the adornment--dusty or otherwise." - -"Oh! leave me a leaf or two. You are disloyal. I am glad of my Greek. -When one is so frivolous the contrast is becoming. And every twig of -knowledge is useful nowadays in a woman's motley crown, provided she -wears it like a French bonnet." - -Perior observed her laughingly--Mrs. Fox-Darriel had as yet seen no -hatchets. - -"No danger of your being taken for a blue-stocking, Camelia." - -"No, indeed! I see to that!" - -"You little hypocrite," said Perior. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eyebrows arched into her fringe. She got out of her -chair trailingly. - -"I will go into the garden. Lady Paton is there, Camelia? I think so. I -know that you have reminiscences. I am in the way." - -"You are, rather," said Perior, when she had gone out. "A very -disagreeable face that, Camelia; how do the women manage to look so hard -nowadays?" - -"Thanks. She is a dear friend." - -"I am sorry for it. I hate to see eyes touched up; it gives me the -creeps. I am sorry she is a dear friend." - -"I am afraid I shall often give you cause for sorriness." Camelia stood -by the mantelpiece, smiling most winningly. "Come, now, let us -reminisce. I saw you last in London. Why didn't you stop there longer?" - -"I had enough of London to last me for a lifetime when I lived there," -said Perior. "I do go up for a bout of concerts now and then," he added, -and looking away from her he took up a large photograph that stood on -the table beside him. "Is this the latest?" - -"How do you like it?" she asked, leaning forward to look with him. - -"It makes a very saintly little personage of you; but it doesn't do you -justice. Your Whistler portrait--the portrait of a smile--is the best -likeness you'll ever get." - -Camelia looked pleased, and yet a trifle taken aback. - -"What a nice Alceste you are this morning!" she said. "Tell me, what are -you doing with yourself down here? Growing more and more of the stoic? I -expect some day to hear that you have left the Grange and moved into a -tub. How do you get on without your pupil?" and Camelia as she stood -before him made ever so faint a little dancing step backwards and -forwards, expressive of her question's merriment. - -"I have existed--more comfortably perhaps than when I had her." - -"Now tell me, be sincere," she came close to him, her own gay steadiness -of look exemplary in the quality she recommended, "_Are_ you crunchingly -disapproving? Ready to bite me? Have you heard dreadful tales of -frivolity and worldliness?" - -"Not more than are becoming to a pretty young woman with such capacities -for enjoyment." - -"You don't disapprove then?" - -"Of what, my dear Camelia?" - -"Of my determination to enjoy myself." - -"Why should I? Why shouldn't you have your try like the rest of us? I am -not going to throw cold water on your laudable aspirations." - -Camelia still looked at him steadily, smilingly, and a little -mockingly. Their eyes at these close quarters could but show a -consciousness of familiarity that made evasions funny. Camelia's eyes -were gray, the sunlit gray of a brook--reflecting broken browns and -greens, _yeux pailletes_, as changing as her smile; and Perior's eyes, -too, were gray, but the fixed, stony gray that is altogether another -color, and they contemplated her fluctuations with an apparently -unmoved, though smiling calm. - -She laughed outright, and then Perior permitted himself a dry little -responsive laugh that left his lips unparted. - -"What are you up to, Camelia?" he asked. - -"We _do_ see through one another, don't we?" she cried joyfully. "I see -you are going to pretend not to mind anything. 'That will sting -her!--take down her conceit! I'll not flatter her by scoldings!' Eh! -Alceste?" - -"You little scamp!" he murmured, while Camelia, sitting down on the -sofa, swept her white draperies over her feet and motioned to the place -beside her. "You will not--no, you will not take me seriously." - -"If you see through me, Camelia," said Perior, taking the seat beside -her with a certain air of resignation, "you see that I am very sincere -in finding your behavior perfectly normal--not in the least surprising. -You are merely gay, and happy, and self-centred; and behaving as all -girls, who have the chance, behave," he added, putting his finger under -her chin with a paternal pat and a look of gentle ridicule. - -"Well done! That was very neat! Do you want me to show signs of -discomfiture. I won't. You know that I am quite individual, and that -for years you have thought me a selfish, hard-hearted little scoundrel." - -"Oh no; not so bad as that." - -"What have you thought, then?" she demanded. - -"I have thought that, like other girls, you can't evade that label----" - -"Oh, wretch!" Camelia interjected. - -"That, like other girls," Perior repeated with an unkind emphasis, "you -are going to try to make a 'good match.'" His face, for all its attempt -at lightness, took on a shade of irrepressible repugnance as he spoke. -"The accessories don't count for much. You may be quite individually -naughty, but in your motives I see only a very conventional conformity." - -"That's bad--bad and crude. The good match is, with me, the accessory; -therein lies my difference, and you know it. You know I am not like -other girls. You saw it in London. You saw," Camelia added, wrinkling up -her nose in a self-mockery that robbed the coming remark of fatuity, -"that I was a personage there." - -"As a noticeably pretty girl is a personage. You really are beating your -drum rather deafeningly, Camelia." - -"Yes; I'll shock you by mere noise. But, Alceste, I am not as conceited -as I seem; no, really, I am not," and with her change of tone her look -became humorously grave. "I know very well that the people who make much -of me--who think me a personage--are sillies. Still, in a world of -sillies, I am a personage. It does come round to that, you see." - -"Yes; I see." - -Camelia leaned back in her end of the little sofa, her arms folded, her -head bent in a light scrutiny of her companion's face. The warm quiet of -the summer day pervaded the peaceful room, a room with so many -associations for both of them. They had studied, read there together for -years; laughed, quarrelled, been the best of friends and the fondest of -enemies. Perior, as he looked about it, could call up a long vista of -Camelias, all gay, all attaching, all evasive, all culminating and -fulfilling themselves with an almost mathematical inevitableness, as was -now so apparent to him, in the long, slim "personage" beside him, her -eyes, as he knew, studying him, her mind amused with conjectures as to -what he really thought of her, she herself quite ready to display the -utmost sincerity in the attempt to elicit that thought. Oh no, Camelia -would keep up very few pretences with him. Perior, gazing placidly -enough at the sunlit green outside the morning-room, knew very well what -he thought of her. - -"Are you estimating the full extent of my folly," she asked presently, -"tempering your verdict by the consideration of extenuations?" - -This was so apt an exposition of his mental process that Perior smiled -rather helplessly. - -"See," she said, rising and going to the writing-table, "I'll help you -to leniency; show you some very evident extenuations." From a large -bundle of letters she selected two. "Weigh the extent of my influence, -and find it funny, if you like, as I do." - -"I wonder if you quite realize the ludicrous aspect of our -conversation," said Perior, taking a thick sheaf of paper from the first -letter. - -"Quite--quite. Only you push me to extremes. I must make you own my -importance--my individuality." - -"Ah, from Henge," said Perior, looking at the end of the letter. "He was -my fag at Eton, you know; dear old Arthur!" - -"Yes, and you quarrelled with him five years ago, about politics." - -"We didn't quarrel," said Perior, with a touch of asperity; "he was -quite big enough not to misunderstand my opposition. Must I read all -this, Camelia? It looks rather dry." - -"Well, I should like you to. He is one of the strongest men in the -government, you know." - -"Quite. He is the man for me, despite past differences of opinion. The -man for you, too, perhaps," he added, glancing sharply up at her from -the letter; "his devotion is public property, you know." - -"But my reception of his devotion isn't," laughed Camelia. - -"I am snubbed," said Perior, returning to the letter, and flushing a -little. Camelia noted the flush. Dear old Alceste! Shielding so -ineffectually, under his sharp blunt bearing, that quivering -sensitiveness. - -She put her hand through his arm, sinking down beside him, her eyes over -his shoulder following his, while he read her--certificate. Perior quite -understood the smooth making of amends. - -"Well, what do you say to that?" she asked when he had obediently read -to the very end. - -"I should say that he was a man very much in love," said Perior, folding -the letter. - -"You are subtle if you can trace an amorous influence in that letter." - -"It doesn't call for subtlety. Samson only abandons himself so -completely under amorous circumstances. I hope you are not going to -shear the poor fellow." - -"For shame," said Camelia, while Perior, looking at her reflectively, -softly slapped the palm of his hand with Arthur Henge's letter. "I am -his comrade. I help him; I am on his side, if you please, and against -the Philistines." - -"Oh, are you? And this? Ah! this is from the leader of the Philistines, -Rodrigg. Yes, I heard that Rodrigg was in the toils." Perior examined -the small, compact handwriting without much apparent curiosity. - -"That is simply nonsense. There was a time--but he soon saw the -hopelessness. He is my friend now; not that I am particularly fond of -him--the grain is rather coarse: but he is a good creature, far more -honest than he imagines, simple, after a clumsy fashion. He aims at -distinguished diplomatic complexity, I may tell you, and, I fancy, comes -to me for the necessary polishing. Read his letter." - -Perior had looked at her, still smiling, but more absently, while she -spoke. - -"Oh! Rodrigg is more cautious," he said glancing through the great man's -neatly constructed phrases. "You are not with the Philistines; he feels -that." - -"Politically no; but I have a good deal of influence with him. You see -those reviews he mentions; I went through a lot of heavy French and -Italian reading for him--sociology, industrialism--and saw the result in -his last speech." - -"Really." - -"Ah, really. Don't be sarcastic, Alceste, to me. One of those men will -probably be Prime Minister some day. You can't deny that they are -eminent men." - -"And therefore you are an eminent woman. Well, the logic isn't too lame. -I'll conclude, Camelia, that you may do quite a lot of harm in the -world." - -"You don't believe that a woman's influence in politics can be for -good?" - -"Not the influence of a woman like you--a--a _femme bibelot_." - -"Good!" cried Camelia, gently clapping her hands. - -"It is as that, you know, that these men court you. An _objet d'art_ for -their drawing-rooms." - -"You are mistaken, Alceste." - -"If I am mistaken--if they cherish ideals, they are unlucky devils." - -"No, Alceste, I am well justified in keeping my self-respect intact. It -is not for my _beaux yeux_ that I am courted--yes, yes--that wry look -isn't needed! I know in what hideously bad taste I am talking, but one -can't use artistic methods with you. As I say, I have my finger in any -number of pies besides the pie political. You should see the respect in -which I am held by the writers and painters. And I _have_ good taste; I -know that. You can't deny it, since you helped it to grow. What other -woman in London has a collection to equal mine? Degas--Outamaro--Oh, -Alceste, don't look so funnily! Do you really imagine that I am not -conscious of the baldness of my exposition? But what is the good of -putting on a wig for you!" - -"And all this to convince me----" - -"Yes, to convince you." - -"Of what, pray?" - -"That I am not a little insignificance to be passed by with indulgence." - -"Should you prefer severity?" and Perior, conscious that she had -succeeded in "drawing" him, could not repress "You are an outrageous -little egotist, Camelia." - -Camelia, her hands clasped over her knee, contemplated him with more -gravity than he had expected. - -"No," she demurred, "selfish, but not egotistic. There is a difference, -isn't there? Egotism is subjective, selfishness objective. I wonder," -she added, "what you _do_ think of me. Not that I care--much! Am I not -frank? I must care, since I am shuffling about before you; getting a -cuffing for my pains!" She rose suddenly, laughing, not in the least -bitterly, and walked to the window. - -"Mamma and Mary," she announced. "Did Frances evade them? They disconcert -her. Frances, you know, goes in for knowingness--cleverness--the modern -vice. Don't you hate clever people? Frances doesn't dare talk epigrams -to me; I can't stand it. You saw a lot of Mamma and Mary last winter, -didn't you? Took Mary out riding. Now, come here, Mr. Perior, and tell -me _how_ she looked on horseback." - -Camelia was smiling irrepressibly as he joined her, and they watched the -approach of the two ladies across the lawn. Certainly the angular, -thick-set form of the younger gave no hint of pleasing possibilities -under circumstances so trying as the equestrian. - -"_I_ never could wheedle Mary into the saddle. I should like to see her -on horseback immensely." Camelia's eyes twinkled: "A sort of cowering -desperation, wasn't it?" - -"No, she rode rather nicely," said Perior concisely. There was something -rather brutal in Camelia's comments as she stood there with such -rhythmic loveliness of pose and contour. - -"I wish Mary did not look so much like a milk pudding," she went on; "a -raisinless milk pudding--so sane, so formless, so uneventful." - -Perior did not smile. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Lady Paton was a thin, graceful woman, her slenderness emphasized, like -her daughter's, by a very small head. Since her husband's death she had -worn black, and even now it seemed to invade her delicate whiteness -rather overwhelmingly, rising closely about her throat, falling over her -fragile hands, enfolding her with a soft solemnity. Her white hair was -smoothed thickly under the transparent cambrics of an exquisite cap, and -framed the sweetness of a faded face, in profile like Camelia's. -Camelia's eyes were her father's, and her smile; Lady Paton's eyes were -round like a child's, and her smile half-frightened, half-explanatory. -With all the gentlewoman's mild dignity, her look was timid, as though -it besought indulgence for a lifelong sense of insignificance, a look -that aroused in Perior his grimmest scorn for a world in which such -flower-like moral loveliness is inevitably victimized by garish -egotisms. He had known Sir Charles, a charming companion, a good -fellow--in the somewhat widely licensed sense the term implies, but not -fit to untie his wife's shoe-strings when it came to a comparison. -Camelia now had stepped upon her father's undeserved pedestal, and -Perior, watching the new epoch of incense-burning, had smiled more and -more grimly. He was devoted to Lady Paton, and had been so since the -days when a raw, sensitive, high-strung youth, fresh from college, her -Madonna head had roused in him poetical idealizations, and her husband's -gay indifference a chafing resentment. With years he had grown rather -fond of Sir Charles, could make allowances for him, and, too, had no -longer idealized Lady Paton; but though he now saw her, sweet but dull, -lovely in unselfishness, yet weak in all except a submission noble in -its own way, the fragrant charm still stirred him with an almost -paternal tenderness, a pity, even a reverence. She was too obtuse to see -her own cramped and imprisoned life, but he saw it, and her -unconsciousness was part of the pathos. He was very fond of her, and she -of him, so that with all his protective partisanship there was, too, a -willing filial deference. - -This little corner of appreciation and affection was the softest spot in -Perior's character. He took both her hands now and said, looking at her -with a whimsical gentleness, "So you are back at last! And glad to be -back, too, are you not?" - -"Oh, very. And Camelia seems to like it so much," she smiled round at -her daughter; "she was beginning to look quite fagged; already the -country has done her good." - -Camelia smiled back with a humoring lightness. - -Mary Fairleigh stood quietly behind her aunt. Her expressionless face -certainly did suggest a lacteal dulness. The Fairleighs were not -responsible for her short nose and clumsily-cut mouth. Impecunious -Maurice Fairleigh, third son, had "done for himself" when he married his -younger sisters' nursery governess. Maurice had no money--and not many -brains, and poor Miss Hockey had neither brains nor beauty, nor family -nor money. Her flaxen hair and vacant blue eyes captured Maurice's -vagrant fancy during a lazy summer. He was very young, that fact was the -only excuse possible; but, as the Fairleighs said, there was no -accounting for Maurice's folly. Maurice himself, after a very little -time, could no longer account for it. He was a good-natured fellow, and -his wonder at himself did not become too painfully apparent to his wife; -but the short years of their married life were by no means a success. -Maurice was very delicate, and the struggle to make both ends meet was -but grudgingly aided by disapproving relatives. Lady Paton, only, was -sympathetic, practically sympathetic too; but during the greater part of -Maurice's matrimonial venture she was in India, and, as the other -Fairleighs said, Angelica never had the wit to resent anything. Maurice -died at Davos-Platz, and Mrs. Fairleigh, when her daughter was sixteen, -departed her seemingly very pointless existence. Her last years had been -sweetened by Lady Paton's devoted kindness, and she left Mary to this -guardian angel. Since that time Mary had lived at Enthorpe Lodge; a -grave, good little girl, solemnly submissive to her cousin, painstaking -in dutiful gratitude toward her aunt. Camelia had always found this -gratitude irritating, and Mary's manner--as of one on whom Providence -had laid the patiently-borne burden of obscurity and dependence, very -vexing. Camelia intended as little as her mother to recognize a -difference, and did not realize that her own dominant characteristics -necessitated Mary's non-resistance. - -She laughed at Mary's gravity, tried to tease her out of her stolid -acceptance of the role of poor relation, but, inevitably, she came to -treat Mary with the tolerant carelessness she seemed only to expect. As -for Lady Paton, she never surmised about Mary, nor analyzed her. Lady -Paton accepted people and things as they appeared, and without -conjecture. Mary was a dear, good girl. It was indeed impossible that -her uninteresting virtues should arouse enthusiasm, and her aunt's -appreciation from its very fulness was calmly unemotional. - -Lady Paton having become in these latter days a sort of decorative -adjunct to her daughter--for Camelia used her mother to the very best -advantage,--lace caps, sweetness and all,--it was upon Mary that the -duller duties fell. Mary managed bills and servants, and household -matters; wrote little notes, ran little errands, chose embroidery silks, -and sent for the books to Mudie's,--the tender books with happy -matrimonial endings that Lady Paton liked. She read these books aloud, -and talked to her aunt--as Camelia never did, never could. Lady Paton -listened to her daughter, but she and Mary talked about her. Mary's -conversation required no adjustment of amazed faculties, no quelling of -old-fashioned alarms, nor acceptance of a wondering incompetence. - -The little prattle of gardening and gowns, and Camelia's doings went on -happily, unless hushed in an absorbed observance of that young heroine -herself,--flinging pretty missiles of speech far above the heads of her -mother and cousin. - -Both dull dears; such was Camelia's realistic inner comment, but Mary -was an earthenware dear, and Mamma translucent porcelain. Camelia, who -appreciated and loved all dainty perfection, appreciated and loved her -mother, with much the same love that she would have given a slender -white vase of priceless ware, displayed on a stand of honor in her -knowingly grouped drawing-room. She was a distinctly creditable and -decorative Mamma. As for Mary, she was not decorative; a harmless, -necessary hot water jug. - -Camelia, now, as her mother spoke to Perior, went to her side and gave -the muslin that fell over her shoulder a little touch and settling. - -"You have had a nice walk round the garden?" she said, smiling, "your -cheek is just the pink of a sweet-pea." - -"And how are you, Mary?" Perior asked, turning to Miss Fairleigh. "You -might have more color I think." - -"Mary has a headache," said Lady Paton, the fluttering smile with which -she had received her daughter's commendation fading, "I think she often -has them and says nothing." - -"You must play tennis with the Mappuck girls. You need more exercise," -Perior continued. "They are at it vigorously from morning till night." - -"Oh--really," Mary protested, "it is only Aunt Angelica's kindness--I am -quite well." - -"And no one must dare be otherwise in this house," Camelia added. "Go -and play tennis at once, Mary. I don't approve of headaches." Mary -smiled a modest, decorous little smile. - -"Nor do I," said Perior, and then as Lady Paton had taken a chair near -her work-table, he sat down beside her, while Mary sank from her -temporary prominence, and, near the window, took up some sewing. Camelia -remained near her, looking out at the smooth green stretches of the -lawn, lending half an ear to the talk behind her, but keeping up at the -same time a kindly little flow of question and reply with her cousin. -How were the flowers getting on? and the hay making? Had she seen that -morning her poor village people? The questions were rather perfunctory; -and while she spoke Camelia aided the faltering march of a burnished -little beetle up the window, and helped him out on to the fragrant -branch of syringa that brushed the pane. - -"I hear that you are embarked on a season of parties," said Perior to -Lady Paton. - -"Yes, Camelia has so many friends. She thought she would like it here if -she could keep it gay with people." - -"You will like it too. You were lonely last winter." - -"Ah, Camelia was not here; but I was not lonely, Michael; you were too -kind for that; and I had Mary. You don't think Camelia looks thin, -Michael?" She had always called the family friend by his Christian name. -Perior had Irish ancestry. "She has been doing so much all spring--all -winter too; I can't understand how a delicate girl can press so many -things into her life--and studying with it too; she must keep up with -everything." - -"Ahead of everything," Perior smiled. - -"Yes, she is really so intellectual, Michael. You don't think she looks -badly?" - -"She is as pretty a little pagan as ever," said Perior, glancing at Miss -Paton. - -"A pagan!" Lady Paton looked rather alarmed. "You mean it, Michael? I -have been troubled, but Camelia comes to church with me. It is you who -are the pagan, Michael," she added, finding the gentle retort with -evident relief. - -"Oh, I wasn't speaking literally. I have no doubt that Camelia is a -staunch church-woman," he smiled to himself. Camelia was a brazen little -conformist, when conformity was of service. - -"No, not that. I don't quite know. I have heard her talk of religion, -with Mr. Ballenden, who writes those books, you know, scientific, -atheistic books, and Camelia seemed quite to overpower him; the -illusions of science, the claims of authority." Lady Paton spoke with -some little vagueness. "I did not quite follow it all; but he became -very much excited. Controversial religion does not interest me, it -confuses me. It is the inner change of heart, Michael," she added with a -mild glance of affection, "the reliance on the higher will that guides -us, that has revealed itself to us." - -Perior looked somewhat gloomily on the ground. The thought of Lady -Paton's religion, and Camelia's deft juggling with negatives, jarred -upon him. - -"You don't agree with me, Michael?" Lady Paton asked timidly. - -"Of course I do," he said, looking up at her, "that is the only -definition needful. We may interpret differently, from different points -of view." - -"You would find, I think, greater peace in mine, Michael. May you come -to it in time!" - -They were both silent for a moment, and both looked presently at -Camelia. - -"She is so much admired, and so unspoiled by it. So frank, so -unaffected. She is found so clever." - -"So she tells me," Perior could not repress. - -"And so humorous," Lady Paton added, taking his smile in its kindest -sense, "she says the most amusing things." - -"Mr. Perior," said Camelia, turning rather abruptly, "if Mamma is -singing my praises I give you leave to repress her sternly." She joined -them, standing behind Lady Paton's chair, and, over her head, looking at -Perior. "I know how trying such praises are, heard outside the family -circle." - -"In which I hope I may include myself. I enjoy Lady Paton's -interpretation." - -"Mamma would not believe the biting intention of that speech. Cuff! -cuff! cuff! _Il me fait des miseres_, Mamma!" - -Lady Paton's smile went from one to the other. - -"You have always teased Michael, Camelia, and he has always been so -patient with you." - -"Every one is patient with me, because I am a good girl. 'Be good, sweet -maid--' I believe in a moral universe," and Camelia over her mother's -head wrinkled up her nose roguishly as she made the edifying statement. -"Mamma," she added, "where is my flock this morning? I fancied that you -were shepherding some of them. I want to trot them out before Mr. -Perior. I want to study his expression as Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman -present themselves. Sir Harry the mere superlative of Mr. Merriman's -fatuity. I imagine that by some biological adaptation of function they -use their brains for digestive purposes, since I am sure they never -think with them." - -Lady Paton took refuge from a painful recognition of the inhospitable -nature of these remarks in a vague smile. Lady Paton had a faculty for -misunderstanding when either misunderstanding or disapproval was -necessary. If Camelia hoped by her brisk personalities to shock her -former preceptor she failed signally, for laughing appreciatively he -asked, "And for what purpose were these latest sports of evolution -imported?" - -"Purpose! Could one pin a purpose to such aimless beings? They came -because I like to have beautiful things about me, and, in their way, -they are beautiful. Then, too, with a plant-like persistency they turn -to the sun, and I do not flatter myself in owning that I am their sun. -It would have been cruel to deny them the opportunity of basking." - -"The hunting, dancing, yachting species, I suppose." - -"Yes; their lives comprise a few more movements, but very few. It is a -mere sort of rhythmic necessity." - -Perior laughed again, and his eyes met hers, as she leaned above her -mother's chair, in quite a twinkling mood. - -Mary, near the window, paused in her stitching to look at them both with -a seemingly bovine contemplation. - -"And who are your other specimens?" asked Perior, less conscious -perhaps than was Camelia of the purely dual nature of the conversation. -She enjoyed this little display before him, and her enjoyment was -emphasized by the presence of two alien listeners, it defined so well -the fundamental intellectual sympathy. - -Her smile rested on him as she replied, "You saw Mrs. Fox-Darriel." - -"Yes." - -"My only other guest just now is Gwendolen Holt, in appearance a -youthful replica of Mrs. Fox-Darriel, but in character very embryotic." - -"A very pretty girl," said Lady Paton, finding at last her little -foothold. - -"A spice of ugliness--just a something to jar the insignificant -regularity of her face, would make her charming. As it is, her -prettiness is a bore. You will stay to lunch, Alceste, and see these -people?" - -"I can't say that you have made me anxious to see them." - -"Have you no taste for sociology?" - -"You will stay and see _us_, however, will you not?" said Lady Paton, -advancing now in happy security. "I want a long talk with you." - -"Then I stay." - -"His majesty stays!" Camelia murmured. - -"How are the tenants getting on?" asked Lady Paton, taking from the -table a soft mass of white wool, and beginning to knit. She was one of -those women whose hands are always uselessly and prettily busy. - -"Mary and I drove past the cottages yesterday--I wish you had come, -dear--you would have liked to see them. So pretty they are, among their -orchards, with such beautiful gardens full of flowers." - -"Yes, don't they look well?" said Perior, much pleased. "I am trying to -get the people to devote themselves to fruit and flower growing. It pays -well." - -"And do the cottages themselves pay?" Camelia inquired mischievously. "I -hear that, asking the ridiculous rents you do, you need never expect to -make the smallest profit--or even get back the capital expended." - -"Thank Heaven the money-making epoch of my life is over," said Perior, -folding his arms and looking at her rather defiantly. - -"But what blasphemy against political economy! Cottages that don't pay! -It's very immoral, Alceste. It is feminine. You are pauperizing your -tenants." - -"I don't at all disbelieve that a little infusion of femininity into -political economy would be a very good thing. Besides, the cottages will -pay in the end." - -"The rents are lower than the lowest in the village. Lord Haversham was -telling me about it yesterday." - -"Oh, Haversham!" laughed Perior. - -"He was very plaintive. Said that times were hard enough for landlords -as it was, without your charitable visionaries and your socialistic -theories." - -"The two accusations don't fit; but of the two I prefer the latter." - -"It is a mere egotistic diversion then?" - -"Yes, a purely scientific experiment." - -"And your tenants have bath-tubs, I hear. Do they use them with Pears' -soap every morning?" - -"I flatter myself that they are fairly clean. That alone is an -interesting experiment. Dirt, I firmly believe to be the root of all -evil." - -"Ah, we come down to the bed-rock of ethics at last, don't we? Well, how -is the laboratory getting on? Have you found traces of original sin in -protoplasm?" - -"I think I have spotted perverse tendencies," Perior smiled. - -"What a Calvinist you are!" - -"Michael a Calvinist, my dear child!" Lady Paton looked up from her -knitting in amazement. - -"An illogical Calvinist. Instead of burning sinners he washes them! and -I've no doubt that to some of them the latter form of purification is as -disagreeable as the former. He puts them into model cottages, with -Morris wall-papers." - -"I beg your pardon. No Morris wall-papers." - -"Camelia, my dear, how extravagantly you talk," said Lady Paton, her -smile reflecting happily Perior's good-humor. Michael did not mind the -teasing--liked it perhaps; and though she did not understand she smiled. -Camelia sank down to a low chair beside her mother's, and taking her -mother's hand she held it up solemnly, saying, "Mamma, Mr. Perior is a -tissue of inconsistencies. He despises humanity; and he works for it -like a nigger." - -"You are an impressionist, Camelia. Don't lay on your primaries so -glaringly." - -"Confess that you are a philanthropist, though an unwilling one." - -"I confess nothing," said Perior, looking across the room at Mary with a -smile that seemed to invite her participation in his well-borne baiting. - -"Is not your life one long effort to help humanity--not _la sainte -canaille_ with you--but, and hence your inconsistency, the gross -_canaille_, the dull, treacherous, diabolical _canaille_?" - -"Not to hurt it, rather; and as one is oneself gross, dull, treacherous, -and diabolical, that may well engage one's energies. There would be less -cant and more comfort in the world if we would merely avoid treading -upon our neighbor's corns. Let us cultivate the negative virtues. What -do you say, Mary? You have a right to a strong opinion, since I never -saw you hurt anybody." - -Mary, thus unexpectedly appealed to, started, grew red, and laughed an -embarrassed and apprehensive laugh. Camelia cast a glance upon the long -strip of rather foolish embroidery lengthening under her cousin's -fingers. - -"My philosophy!" she declared. "People who make a row about things are -such bores." - -Lady Paton, still smiling, quite at sea, but conscious of a pleasant -atmosphere, bent her eyes upon an intricate turn in the futile garment -upon which she was engaged. - -"Do you avoid your neighbor's corns, my young lady?" Perior inquired. - -"I never think of such unpleasantnesses," Camelia replied lightly. "As I -haven't any corns myself, I proceed upon the supposition that other -people enjoy my immunity. If they don't, why, that is their own -fault--let them cut them and give up tight boots." - -Perior, looking on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his hands -clasped, laughed again. - -"Little pagan!" he said. - -"Frank, healthy paganism, an excellent thing. I don't own to it, mind; -but is not the soul in our modern sense a disease of the body?" - -"Oh, Camelia!" said Lady Paton, looking up with eyes rounded. Camelia's -smile reassured her somewhat, and she glanced for its confirmation at -Perior. - -Mary Fairleigh, in her distant seat, carefully drew her silk about the -contour of an alarming flower. - -"Never mind, Lady Paton, she doesn't shock me at all," said Perior. - -"I am glad of that, Michael; she will make herself misunderstood. -Camelia dear, it is one o'clock. The others must be in the drawing-room. -Shall we go there?" - -"Willingly, Mamma. I'm very hungry. Did you order a _good_ lunch, Mary?" - -"I hope you will like it." Mary paused in the act of neatly rolling up -her work. "Fowls, asparagus----" - -"_Don't_," Camelia interposed in mock horror; "the nicest part of a meal -is unexpectedness!" She laughed at her cousin; but Mary, securing her -work with a pin, murmured solemnly, "I am so sorry." - -"Mary, you are as silly as your own fowls!" cried Camelia; she gave her -cousin's flaxen head a pat, and then, as Lady Paton had taken Perior's -arm and led the way, she drew herself up in a mimicry of their stately -progress, and followed them demurely. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Michael Perior was an unfortunate man; unfortunate in his temperament, -which was enthusiastic, sensitive, and idealistic; unfortunate in the -circumstances with which that temperament found itself called upon to do -battle. To a man who had expected less of life the circumstances might -have been more amenable and far more endurable, but Perior had the -ill-luck to be born with an unmanageable instinct for the best, with an -untamable scorn for the second-best. It is not necessary to go into the -details of a life which had not spared these qualities nor improved -while disillusionizing him. Two blinding buffets met him at its -threshold. His father was ruined in a lawsuit, which by every ethical -standard he should have won, and Perior was in consequence jilted by the -girl whom he had enshrined in his heart as the perfect star of his -existence. At twenty-three he found himself under a starless sky, with a -heart stupefied at its own emptiness, and in a world of thieves and -murderers--for his father died under the shock of disaster, and Perior -did not pick his phrases. - -The abject common-sense of his ex-_fiancee_ could be borne with perhaps -more philosophy. He accepted the starlessness as in the nature of -things, and his own brief belief in stars as typifying the ignorance of -youth; but his father's death--the crushing out of life rather than its -departure--was tragedy, and it was with the sense of inevitable and -irretrievable tragedy that he began life. He had been thought clever at -Oxford, and had considered himself destined for Parliament. With a huge -load of debts upon his back, and an unresigned mother to support, all -thoughts of the career for which he had fitted himself were out of the -question. He turned to its only equivalent, and took up journalism. He -was much in earnest; he believed in a right and in a wrong, and was -intolerant of expediency. In a world of interested motives he bore -himself with unflinching disapproval. He would limit his freedom by no -party partiality, and in the laxity of public life his keen -individuality made itself felt like a knife cutting through cheese. At -the end of years of very bitter struggle he found himself in a position -of some eminence, editor of a courteous, caustic review, whose chief -characteristics were a stubborn isolation and a telling of truths that -made both friends and foes blink. No half-measures, no half-truths. -Conformity with the faintest taint upon it was intolerable to him. His -idealism had not evaporated in the storm and stress, it had condensed, -rather, into a steely resistance to ugly reality. Insincerity, -injustice, meanness, hurt him as badly in middle-age as they had at -twenty-five, but he now expected them, and by a stoical presage braced -himself against disappointment. The stoicism was only a rather brittle -crust, hastily improvised by Nature's kindly adaptation; he was soured, -but his heart was still soft; he expected nothing, and yet he was hurt -by everything. It was now some time since he had promised himself that -Camelia should never hurt him. Camelia had occupied his thoughts for a -good many years. The pretty child, with her face of subdued saint-like -curves, and her smile of frank unsaintliness, had seemed to claim him -from the very first home-coming. By a final irony of fate poor Mrs. -Perior died only a few months before the Grange was freed from its last -encumbrances. She had not made life easier for her son. She had always -refused to believe in the necessity for letting the Grange, had always -resented the lodgings in South Kensington, had always considered herself -injured, and had not been chary in demonstrations of injury. Perior had -looked forward with pride to the time when he should reinstate her in -her own home, and her death made a mockery of his own home-coming. - -It was in Camelia's early girlhood that ill-health, overwork, and a -violent row with the powers of political darkness, made this home-coming -definite. The battered idealist sought rather sulkily a retreat from the -intolerable contemplation of a wider world's misdeeds. Young Camelia, so -different from her dully worthy ancestors, so different even from her -dashing but not intellectual papa, charmed him as the woods and flowers -of spring charm eyes weary with city winter. She was too young to be -taken seriously; that was a lifted weight, in the first place. The -joyous receptivity of her mind afforded to his scholarly instincts just -the foothold he required to excuse to himself an indulgent and -thoughtless affection. As friend and adviser of Lady Paton, he drifted -easily into a paternal attitude towards the fatherless Camelia; he was -over twenty years her senior, and her eagerness for knowledge appealed -to him. As she had said, he taught her nearly everything she knew; she -rebelled against other methods, and Perior himself would have felt -robbed had governess or tutor supplanted him. During those quiet and -pleasant years he felt that on a melancholy walk he had picked a handful -of primroses--their pale young gold irradiated his solitude. He did not -say to himself that Camelia would never disappoint him, nor own that the -handful of primroses meant much in his life, but hopefulness seemed to -emanate from her, and insensibly he lived in the sunny impression. Her -very defects were charming, the mere superfluity of exuberant vitality, -and with this conviction he observed her happy, youthful selfishness as -one observes a kitten's antics, and treated her claims for dominion with -gentle ridicule. Camelia laughed with him at herself, and this gave them -an irresistible sense of companionship; consoling too, since no defect -so humorously recognized could be deep; his primroses still kept their -dew. But as she grew older, Perior began to realize uncomfortably that -Camelia could laugh at the deepest defect, recognize it, analyze it, and -stick to it--a deft combination. This faculty for firm sticking despite -obstacles gave the paternal Perior food for reflection, and, as he -reflected, he felt with a sudden little turn of terror that he was in a -fair way to take Camelia seriously after all. His terror struck him as -very cowardly, a shrinking from responsibilities--his, of a truth, to a -certain extent. That lightly assumed guardianship meant much in her -life. Had he failed in some essential? Was she not the product of her -training? He owned with a sigh that the note of true authority it had -not been his right to emphasize; yet in defending himself from the -probable pain of a deep affection, had he not weakened his claim to a -moral influence? And had he defended himself? Perior turned from the -question. Camelia respected him, he knew that; and yet his very -frankness with her--he, too, had laughed at himself for her benefit--had -given her a power over him. He was not at all afraid of seeming -priggish, but he was shy before certain contingencies; he knew that he -should blunder if he preached, and that Camelia would force him to smile -at the blunder and to blur the sermon. - -At the age of eighteen he caught her more than once managing, -manipulating the plastic elements about her with a skill approaching -deceit. The very absence of a necessity for deceit alarmed him; she had -so few temptations, there was no way of testing her, yet, that once or -twice, when circumstances by a little twist or turn opposed her, he had -caught her--too dexterous. Perior had not controlled himself, nor taken -the advantage he might have seized. He had immediately lost his balance, -exaggerated what Camelia regarded as a quite permissible and pretty -compromise into a fault worthy of biting denunciation, and in so doing -had given her a point of vantage from which she laughed--not even -angrily. Perior for many years had thought most goodness negative, and -preferred to see it tested before admiring, but he had forgotten to -apply his philosophy in this case. He lost his temper, and Camelia kept -hers, kept hers to the extent of soothing him by a smiling confession of -her misdoing, an affectionate declaration that she was wrong and he -quite right--"But don't be cross, dear Mr. Perior." What was he to do? -She did not care if she were wrong. Perior thought he would be wiser in -the future; he would give Camelia no further opportunity for facile -confession; but though the first sting of unexpected disappointment was -over, many unmerited aches were still reserved to him--all the more -painful from the fact that he had never intended to ache for Camelia. -Mary Fairleigh had come to the Patons when Camelia was sixteen, and -Camelia's treatment of her cousin was another and more constant cause -for growing discontent. Perior could not define the discomfort with -which he watched Camelia's indifferent kindness, or, worse still, an -unkindness as unintentional. He assumed by degrees an attitude of -compensatory gentleness towards poor Mary; it held, however, no sting -for Camelia; she seemed to watch his doing of the things she left undone -very complacently. It was by degrees that his dismay took refuge in a -manner of unshocked indifference which he hoped would prove salutary. It -did seem to irk and perplex her somewhat, and he had the consolation of -thinking that many of her perversities might be intentionally engineered -for his benefit. Perior, too, had learned to smile, and Camelia was -baffled. He would not scold her. After all, he counted for very little, -so Camelia assured herself as she entered upon her London life, and he -should see that she could be indifferent with far more effectiveness. -Perior saw little of her during those years. The little he saw on his -rare visits to London confirmed his grim conviction. She was a pretty, -clever, foolish, worthless creature; her frankness threw no dust into -his eyes. She might own herself a self-seeking worldling, and she did -not overshoot the mark. Many were the corns she danced over in her quest -of power and happiness. Her sincerity was insincere--it adapted itself -too cleverly. Perior had seen her flatter, when only he and she knew -that she was flattering; had seen her make her effect by pliancy or by -resistance; had watched her smile light for those who could serve her, -or stiffen to a sweet blankness for the incompetent. He recognized in -her his own scorn for the world without his ideal, which would not -permit him to stoop and use it; but, so Perior thought, Camelia knew no -ideals; reality did not hurt her--she met it with its own weapons. One -did not conquer an immoral world by moral methods; and if one lived in -it, not to conquer it would be intolerable. The scorn no doubt excused -her to herself, but it hedged her round with a sort of stupidity from -which Perior's quick recognition of moral beauty preserved him. Ethical -worth had come to be everything to him. Camelia simply did not see it. -He himself had armed her with that scientific impartiality before which -he felt himself rather helpless, before which good and bad resolved -themselves into very evasive elements. She told him that her science was -more logical than his, it had made her charitable to the whole world, -herself included, whereas he was hard on the world and hard on himself. -His very kindness lacked grace, while her unkindness wore a flower-like -color. He was sorry for people, not fond of them--but Camelia was -neither fond nor sorry. They were shadows woven into the web of her -experience, her business was to make that experience pleasant, to see it -beautifully. It was this love of beauty--beauty in the pagan sense--that -baffled him in her. She had put appreciation and an exquisite good taste -in the place of morality. Life to her was a game, to him a tragic, -insistent conundrum. These, at least, were Perior's reluctant -conclusions. - -When he walked away from Enthorpe Lodge his mind was to a certain extent -already reverting to the daily preoccupations of cottages, perverse -protoplasm, and his weekly article for the _Friday Review;_ but also -dwelling with the dual peculiarity observable in our meditations, upon -the people he had just left, Lady Paton, Mary, Camelia's guests, and -Camelia herself. It seemed really unnecessary to remind himself of that -promise he had made himself some time ago; Camelia could not disappoint -him; he knew just what to expect from her; she could not hurt him. Yet -the promise had been made at a time when she was hurting him very badly, -and even now, while he recalled it with some vehemence, he was feeling a -most illogical smart. - -The country road wound among dusty hedges and through the little -village. About half a mile beyond it lay a remnant of the Perior estate, -once large, second only in importance to the Haversham's, now sadly -shrunken and dislocated. By degrees, and during years of only meagre -competence, he had built upon this pretty bit of land a cluster of -cottages, his playthings; to make them unnecessarily delightful was his -perverse pleasure. - -Perior was by no means a paternal landlord; the lucky occupants of the -cottages were never reminded of the propriety of gratitude. Indeed -Perior had enraged neighboring landowners by remarking that the cottages -were none too good for the rent--a saying big with implications, and -perhaps intentionally spiteful. Indeed intentional spite was attributed -to many of his actions. It was a great fox-hunting country; and one of -the finest coverts, rich in foxes lovingly preserved by Perior's -forefathers, lay on his estate. Now it was currently reported that -Perior had had all the foxes shot! A murder would have made him less -unpopular. Malicious insanity seemed the only explanation. - -He did not scruple to proclaim his blasphemous heresies on the sacred -sport. He grew angry, said he abominated it, would do all in his power -to stamp it out, and at least would see that no animal should be -"tortured" on his property. The foxes had certainly disappeared from -Mandelly Woods, and good, honest sportsmen could hardly trust themselves -to mention the criminal fanatic's name. It must be owned that Perior's -love of animals approached the grotesque. He entertained at the Manor a -retinue of battered cats and outcast dogs, many garnered from London -streets. He could hardly bear to have surplus kittens drowned, and only -by the firmness of the housekeeper was the necessary severity -accomplished. He was exaggerated, peculiar, unpractical; the kindest -said it of him. He had sent two clever village boys to the University, -one the son of the village poacher and ne'er-do-weel, a handsome lad -with a Burns-like streak of genius, who had distinguished himself at -Oxford, and disappointed many pessimistic prophecies by turning out more -than creditably. At the present moment the son of one of Perior's -field-laborers came every day to the Grange for a coaching in the -humanities. Perior was a fine master, and Camelia was none too well -pleased when she heard of her successor. These experiments in sociology -aroused only less hostile comment than the black affair of the foxes. - -Our misanthropic gentleman paused at an angle of the road to survey his -cottages, each set in its own happy acres, stretching flower-beds and -young orchards into the sunny country. His tenants all had a pleasant -look of successful adaptation. One was a cobbler, and made most of -Perior's boots; a fact rather apparent. - -It was evening by the time he reached the tall gates through which the -roadway led up to the Grange, a high-standing, unpretentious, gray stone -house, rather bleakly situated on its height, but backed by a further -rise of wood, and, despite its vineless severity of outline, gravely -cheerful in aspect. An immaculately-kept lawn stretched in a gradual -slope before it, shaded by two yew trees, and the light grace of -beeches. Under the windows of the ground floor were beds of white and -purple pansies, and at one side, near the shrubberies, were long rows of -irises, also purple and white. From the other side of the house the -ground descended very abruptly, giving one the realization of height, -and a long view over woods, hills, and valleys to the distant sunset. - -The house within carried out consistently the first impression of -pleasant bareness. The wainscotted walls were reflected in the gleaming -floors. No tenderness of draperies, no futile ornament. In the -drawing-room three old portraits of three dead Mrs. Periors looked -quietly from the walls; some good porcelain was on shelves where there -was no danger of its breaking; the faded brocade of the furniture was -covered with white chintz sprigged with green. The library, where the -light came serenely through high windows, was lined with books; here and -there on the peaceful spaces a good engraving or etching; philosophical -bronzes above the shelves. The writing-table was spacious; opposite it -was Perior's piano--he played well. This was the room he lived in. Now, -when he entered, an old setter, glossily well-groomed, looked up with an -emotional thudding of the tail, and of two cats curled exquisitely in -the easy-chair, one only opened placid eyes, while the other, after -arching itself in a yawn, advanced towards him with a soundless mew. - -Perior was devoted to his cats, and adored his dogs. After stooping to -pat these animals, he took up a letter from the table. Arthur Henge's -writing was familiar, though of late years Perior had rarely seen it. -The old friendship had borne pretty sharp twinges--had survived even -Perior's ruthless handling of Henge's pet measure some years ago: Henge -had believed ardently in the bill, and thought Perior responsible to a -certain extent for its failure. That Henge had not been embittered by -this political antagonism had deeply touched Perior. He always -remembered the fact with a delightful, glowing comfort. His respect and -fondness for Henge were a staff to him. The two men were intrinsically -sympathetic, though they had hardly an opinion in common. Arthur Henge -was an optimist, and deeply religious, his wide humanism going hand in -hand with a fervent churchmanship. He was aided towards a happy view of -things by happy circumstances. He was one of the richest men in England, -and one of the most powerful; he held a high place in the present -Government. No sword of Damocles in the shape of a peerage hung over his -career in the Lower House, and at the same time the baronetcy, hoary -with an honorable antiquity, had the consequence and standing of many -greater but less significant titles. He was young, handsome, and -serious. Above all small cynicisms and hardness, his experience of life -seemed only to have taught him a wise, fine trust, and, perhaps in -consequence of this attitude of mind, it was impossible not to trust -him. - -This was the man who had fallen in love with Camelia Paton. The fact was -town talk, though it was surmised that despite his evident absorption he -had not yet given her occasion to accept him. That he was courting her -was not yet apparent, but his devotion remained gravely steady. Lady -Henge was supposed to be the cause of this adjournment of decisive -measures. Lady Henge was even more serious than her son, and her -influence over him was paramount. - -Now with all her ready qualities Camelia seldom pretended to -seriousness. To Perior there was something highly distasteful in the -whole matter. That Camelia should be the object of such comment, that -her achievement of the "good match" should be canvassed, infuriated him. -No blame could attach itself to Arthur's reticence; if reticence there -were it was on the highest grounds. It was the world's base, -materialistic chatter that jarred, its weighing of her charm and -loveliness against his wealth and prominence merely. Perior weighed -Camelia's merits against Arthur's. In his heart of hearts he did not -consider Camelia fitted to make a high-minded man happy--and some dim -foreboding of this fact no doubt chilled her lover's resolution. Perior, -however, was not logical. He might not approve of Camelia, but that Lady -Henge should disapprove nettled him. Arthur no doubt was a fool in -loving Camelia, but Perior wished to be alone in that knowledge. As for -the world's gross view of Henge as one of the greatest "catches" in -England, of Camelia as lucky if she got him, Perior's blood boiled when -he thought of it,--and that Camelia, with all her reliance on her own -attractions, was quite aware of the world's opinion and was not angered -by it. - -She, too, thought Henge a great "catch," no doubt; a great catch even -for Camelia Paton. - -Perior read the letter now, standing near the window and frowning very -gloomily. It was natural that Henge should write to him in this strain -of only thinly-veiled confidence. - -Henge knew of the long paternal intimacy with Camelia, and relied -perhaps too much on a paternal sympathy. Henge and his mother were -coming down to Clievesbury to spend some weeks at Enthorpe. He avowed -no intention, but the whole note, its very restraint, was big with -intention. He seemed, too, to emphasize his mother's pleasure in coming, -and Perior felt in the emphasis a touch of triumph. He hoped to see a -great deal of Perior, there was in the concluding passages of the note -quite a prophecy of future relationship, nearer than any they had known. -But through it all Perior fancied just the hint of an appeal--a quite -unconscious appeal, none the less significant for that. - -Camelia was to be put on trial before Lady Henge, and to Arthur the -process would be painful. The Henges had stately requirements; and -although Perior imagined that, were these requirements not satisfied, -Arthur had almost determined to overlook them, he felt the keenness of -the hope that all would be satisfactory, the support that the hope found -in Perior's intimacy with Camelia. - -Lady Henge shared her son's respect for Perior, and to her Perior's -friendship could interpret many phases in Camelia's charming character -perplexing to the anxious mother's unaided vision. - -"I am glad my mother is to know her better; she has seen only the -surface as yet," wrote Arthur. Arthur's love was a surety not quite -trustworthy, but the lifelong friendship of a man like Perior must -convince grave Lady Henge of many depths. Perior felt that his rigidity -was to be made use of. His well-known earnestness was to vouch for -Camelia's. His brow was very black as he finished the letter. He was -nearly angry with Arthur. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -"Mrs. Jedsley is in the drawing-room," Camelia announced, "so I ran -away. I am really afraid of her." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel laughed slightly; she put down the book with which she -was solacing a lazy afternoon on the sofa, and, looking at Camelia's -cloth dress and sailor hat, asked her if she had been out again. - -"Yes, just back. I only stayed in the drawing-room long enough to show -Mrs. Jedsley that she scared me. It's those eyebrows, you know, that -lack of eyebrow rather, emphasized by an angry redness in the place -where they should be. No, I cannot face her." - -"She is rather _epatante_. I suppose you were walking with your brace of -suitors." - -"No, I don't know where they are. I was walking by myself. I think I -must have walked eight miles," Camelia added, stretching out her feet to -look at her dusty shoes. - -"You certainly are an unsociable hostess, but those boys are becoming -bores. Whom do you expect next week? You must have something to leaven -the lump of pining youthful masculinity." - -"That poet is coming--the one who writes the virile poems, you know, and -whose article of faith is the _joie de vivre;_ and Lady Tramley, dear -creature, Lord Tramley, and--would you specify Sir Arthur as leaven?" - -"Do you mean to imply that he _isn't_ pining?" - -"I imply nothing so evident." - -"Wriggling, then--that you must own." - -Camelia was sitting near the window, opened on its framing magnolia -leaves, and said rather coolly as she took off her hat-- - -"No, _I_ am wriggling. _I_ must decide now." - -This was a masterly assurance. Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflecting that nothing -succeeds like unruffled self-confidence, and that Camelia's had never -shown a ripple of doubt, owned to herself that her slightly stinging -question was well answered. - -"Don't wriggle, my dear; decide," she said, accepting the restatement -very placidly, "you could not do better. To speak vulgarly--the man is -rich beyond the dreams of avarice." - -"Beautifully rich," Camelia assented. - -"Ah--indeed he is." - -"And he himself is wise and excellent," Camelia added; "I like him very -much." - -"He is coming alone?" - -"No, Lady Henge comes too." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel gave her friend a sharp glance. - -"That's very serious, you know, Camelia. I think you must have -decided--to suit Lady Henge." - -Camelia smiled good-humoredly. "I will suit her--and then see if he -suits me." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel lay reflecting on the sofa. Camelia accepted frankness -to a certain point, beyond that point she repulsed it. It was rather sly -of her, Mrs. Fox-Darriel thought, to keep up these needless pretences. -Camelia must be anxious for the match--anxious to a certain degree, and -her careful preservation of the false dignity of her position was really -rather mean. As for Mrs. Fox-Darriel, she desired the match with a -really disinterested fervor. She felt a certain personal pride in -Camelia's success; she had resigned supremacy, and only asked Camelia to -uphold her own. Camelia as Lady Henge would, from a very charming -person, have become a very important personage, a truly momentous -friend. Her fondness for the child would ensure the child's loyalty. A -near friend of the Prime Minister's wife--who knew? The thought flitted -pleasantly through Mrs. Fox-Darriel's mind, and the thought, too, of all -that Camelia, in an even less exalted position, could do for the -impecunious Hon. Charlie, Mrs. Fox-Darriel's husband. There was really -no possibility of a doubt in Camelia's mind. Mrs. Fox-Darriel simply did -not believe her, and regretted her lack of candor; but at the same time -she felt a little anxiety. There were certain phases in Camelia that had -always baffled her investigations, an unexpectedness that Mrs. -Fox-Darriel had encountered more than once. - -"It is really the very best thing you could do," she observed now, "and -I wouldn't play with him if I were you. I know that he is the image of -fidelity, and yet the Duchess of Amshire is very anxious for him to -marry her girl, that ugly Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Henge favors that -match, and he really is under his mother's thumb." - -"Decidedly I must waste no time," said Camelia, laughing, "and decidedly -it would be the best thing I could do, since the Marquis was snapped up -by the American girl--swarming with millions. I think I should have been -a Marchioness, Frances, had not that strange look, between a squint and -a goggle, in his eyes made me hesitate." - -"Oh, the Marquis! You know that this is far better. This man means a -lot." - -"He swarms with millions too," said Camelia. "Come, Frances, preach me a -nice little worldly sermon on the supreme utility of riches--without the -gloves now." - -"I usually remove them when I approach the subject," Mrs. Fox-Darriel -sighed with much sincerity. "My poor Charlie! How we keep our heads -above water I really don't know, and, as it is, the sharks are nibbling -at our toes! Supreme! Money, my dear, is the only thing! Once you've -that foundation you may begin to erect your sentiments, your -moralities." - -"And how few people are honest enough to say so. You and I are honest, -Frances; it buys everything, of course." - -"Well, almost everything. One must thank Nature for beauty and -cleverness." - -"Beauty and cleverness in rags have a sorry time of it in this world. -But money, of course, especially if not too new, buys friends, power, -good taste, morality. Poverty makes people base and cringing--makes -criminals. One is jumped on in this world, scrunched into the earth, -into the dirt, if one hasn't money, and yet the hypocrites talk of -compensation! Of all the sloppy, canting optimism with which people try -to make themselves comfortable that is the sorriest! And while they -talk they go on scrambling and scrunching for all they are worth; nasty -beasts! They kick a man on the head, and say 'the stupor compensates for -the pain.' That is the current theory about the lower classes." - -"Yet you enjoy the world, Camelia." - -"I am not jumped on." - -"You jump on other people, then?" - -"Not in a sordid manner; I don't have to soil my feet. Why shouldn't I -enjoy it?" - -"And you think that Sir Arthur's millions would emphasize the -enjoyment?" - -"Widen it, certainly. But don't be gross, Frances. A great deal depends -on him. I am not offering myself for sale, you know." - -"No, I don't think you would. You have no need to." - -"He would really be glaringly golden, wouldn't he, were he not draped -with the mossy antiquity of his name?" said Camelia, drawing a white -magnolia flower within the window frame, and bending her head to the -scented cup. - -"An ideal husband, from every point of view," Mrs. Fox-Darriel resumed; -"clever, very clever, and very good--rather overpoweringly good, -Camelia." - -"I think goodness a most charming phenomenon, I shouldn't mind studying -it in a husband." - -"Mrs. Jedsley is good. Why don't you study her?" - -"There is nothing phenomenal in her goodness, it is a product of -circumstance only. There is Mary," Camelia added, tipping her chair a -little towards the window for a clearer view of the lawn below. "Mary -in a Liberty silk, of yellow-green, and smocked. Why, Mary, why wear a -Liberty gown, especially smocked?" - -"I have sometimes suspected that your colorless little cousin is here to -play the part of a discord that resolves into and heightens your -harmony," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel; "or is it the post of whipping-boy that -she fills?" - -Camelia continued to look from the window placidly, only raising her -eyebrows a little. - -"No, Mary never gets a whipping, not even when I deserve one. Mamma is -very fond of Mary; so am I," she added. Mrs. Fox-Darriel took up her -book with a little yawn that Camelia for all her placidity resented. - -"How can you read that garbage?" she inquired smilingly, glancing at the -title. - -"The _bete humaine_ rather interests me." - -"Even interpreted by another? The man is far more insupportable than -Zola, inasmuch as he is clever, and an artist." - -"That's why I read him. You seem to know a good deal about garbage, my -dear." - -"I know a good deal about everything, I fancy!" said Camelia, with her -gayest laugh. "I took a course of garbage once, just enough to make up -my mind that I did not care for the flavor. We have a right to choose -the phases of life we want to see represented." - -"I like garbage," Mrs. Fox-Darriel said stubbornly. - -"Yes, you are very catholic, I know. I am more limited." Camelia still -eyed the lawn, sniffing at the magnolia. Now she rose suddenly and went -to the mirror. - -"Mary puts on a sailor hat--so," she said gravely, setting hers far back -at a ludicrous angle. "Poor Mary!" She tilted the hat forward again, and -briskly put the pin through it. "I am going down to harry Mrs. Jedsley. -Good-bye, Frances." - -"Good-bye. I shall be down to tea presently." - -"The _bete humaine_ will spoil your appetite!" laughed Camelia as she -went out. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel heard her running down the corridor and the light -rhythm of her feet on the stairs. - -"Pretty little minx!" she said good-humoredly; and her thoughts turned -to Sir Arthur. What a lucky girl was Camelia! It was rather tiresome, -perhaps, to sit by and watch her triumphs. Mrs. Fox-Darriel found the -role of second-fiddle a little dull; still, it was well worth while to -play it. She got up and went to the window, where the magnolia still -swayed faintly from the suddenness of Camelia's departure. Tapping the -sill lightly with her finger-tips, Mrs. Fox-Darriel looked out, yawning -once more, at the translucent blue of the sky, the still shining of the -little lake beyond the trees, the sun-dappled lawn, and at Mary -Fairleigh on the lawn in the funny Liberty dress. Mr. Perior was walking -beside her, in riding costume, a whip in his hand. Mrs. Fox-Darriel -surveyed them as they walked slowly away from the house. He had -evidently just joined Mary; and as Camelia herself appeared on the lawn -her departure took on an amusing aspect. - -Now it really was too bad of Camelia, she could have no use for him -herself. The sun flashed from her hair as she bounded gaily across the -turf and caught Perior's arm with a schoolgirl familiarity. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel drew back sharply, but still observed from the screen of -magnolia leaves Mary's slow return to the house, and Camelia's skipping -step as she led Mr. Perior towards the garden. He held the whip clasped -in his hand behind his back, and, as he walked, switched his calf in its -leather gaiter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel fancied some temper in the action. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -When Mrs. Fox-Darriel descended to the drawing-room a quarter of an hour -later, she found Lady Paton and Mary alone with Mrs. Jedsley, who as yet -showed no intention of departing. Mrs. Jedsley was very stout, but of a -vigorous bearing. Her firm, wide face was dashed with rather choleric -notes of red on cheeks, chin, and eyebrows. Her eyes were witty and -humorous. Mrs. Fox-Darriel, very indifferently, felt these quickly -travelling eyes taking in every gleam and glitter of her tea-gown. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel always jingled a little as she walked; she was one of those -women who dangle lorgnettes at the ends of swaying neck-chains, and -circle their wrists with a multitude of bangles, and now, as she sank -into a chair beside Lady Paton, and smiled a languid acceptance of tea, -the infinity of pendent jewels and the linked gold that draped her -person, chimed out quite a harmonious clatter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel always -gave Lady Paton a fluttered look, the look of a child shrinking from a -too persistently obtrusive rattle, and she handed her the tea and bread -and butter with gently scared glances. - -"What delicious tea," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel affably, "and the pouring of -tea is an art in its decadence. Really, dear Lady Paton, you have -spoiled me for all cups poured by other hands. Your aunt's hands add a -distinct charm, do they not?" she added, looking at Mary,--"and her -cap." Indeed Lady Paton's caps and hands resembled one another in -blanched delicacy. - -"Oh yes," Mary replied hastily; she was not accustomed to this suave -mode of address from Mrs. Fox-Darriel. - -"I saw you walking in the garden just now," pursued that glittering -personage; "you made quite a picture in your pretty dress, I assure -you." - -"Oh! do you like it?" Mary's face was transfused by a blush of surprised -pleasure. - -"It is really charming," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel unblinkingly, while Mrs. -Jedsley's eyes travelled up and down poor Mary's ungainliness. - -"Against the deeper shades of green, you know, and with your golden -hair, you looked quite--quite like an Albert Moore. Has your friend, Mr. -Perior, gone? I saw him with you." There was a subtly delightful -intimation in this question that filled Mary with a half painful, half -delicious embarrassment. - -"Mr. Perior is with Camelia," she said, the crude fact hardly jarring on -the dulcet echo of Mrs. Fox-Darriel's question. He was her friend, Mary -knew, felt it with a wave of gratitude that quieted many aches, but was -it then so evident--so noticeable? - -"Ah yes! Camelia is rather fond of teasing him, I am afraid," said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, observing Mary's flush, and noting as an unkindness of -nature that her hair, the only grace she possessed, should grow so -thickly at the back and with such unbecoming scantiness around the high -brow. Mary's whole being had been quivering with the pain of her -dispossession, but a grateful warmth now stole through the chill of -bereavement. - -Her flush had not died when Camelia came in, Perior following her. -Camelia's face was imperturbably gay, but from a certain severity and -tension in Perior's expression, Mrs. Fox-Darriel surmised that the -pastoral promenade had not been altogether peaceful. - -It was hardly possible, of course, that the indifference of this stiff -provincial should pique Camelia into an attitude that might compromise -real interests; no, hardly possible; yet Mrs. Fox-Darriel, with some -acuteness, determined that all her efforts should tend to make such an -absurdity impossible indeed. - -Ugly Mary was evidently in love with the unattractive Diogenes; but -Camelia need not know that. Mrs. Fox-Darriel almost laughed at herself -while she meditated; Camelia could hardly intend more than the -purposeless capturing of Diogenes; Camelia's head was perfectly sound -when it came to decisive extremes. Only--well--women, all women, were -such _fools_ sometimes. That bounding, pursuing step across the lawn had -given Mrs. Fox-Darriel a new impression of Camelia. - -"Look, Mamma, is not this beautiful? Look, Frances." Camelia held out a -branch of white roses, buds and leaves climbing on lovely curves to a -heavy, swaying flower;--"it is such a perfect spray that I am going to -attempt a Japanese arrangement with this bit of pine. Mary, will you -fetch me that bronze vase out of the morning room--with its little -stand, you know--and have it filled with water; and, Mary,--" Mary was -departing obediently, "a pair of scissors--don't forget. If there is -anything I dislike," Camelia went on, hers was always a temperate manner -of speech, "it is a heavy mass of flowers bunched together with all the -individuality, all the form and vitality, of line quite lost." - -She smiled at Mrs. Jedsley as she spoke, skimming caressing finger-tips -over her rose branch, and adding, "You may see me at your place -to-morrow, Mrs. Jedsley. Mr. Perior has been giving me a dreadful -scolding on my neighborly deficiencies. To-morrow I make a conscientious -round of calls--and pour balm into all the wounded bosoms." Mrs. -Fox-Darriel glanced quickly at Perior to see how he relished this -offensive obedience; Perior, as he stood before the fireplace, was -looking at his boots. Mrs. Jedsley's eyebrows grew very red. - -"I won't be at home to-morrow," she said decidedly, "and if I were -conscious of wounds I'd keep at a good distance from you, Camelia." Lady -Paton looked from her daughter to Perior, an alarmed appeal, but he did -not raise his eyes nor seem to notice Camelia's graceful promises. - -"Mrs. Jedsley, _why_ are you always so unkind to me?" Camelia asked, -laughing. "I assure you that you may trust my balms. Mrs. Jedsley, I -will wager you--do you ever bet?--that by to-morrow night the whole -county-side will be singing my praises. I like people to sing my -praises--I like to feel affection and sympathy about me; now Mr. Perior -has been telling me that there is a distinct absence of these elements -in my atmosphere. I begin to feel the vacuum myself. Won't you help me -to fill it--help my regeneration?--No, Mary, that is the wrong vase--how -could I arrange flowers in that? On the stand, was it? The house-maid's -stupidity, then; and I bought together the stand and the proper vase to -go with it. No; don't take the _stand_ back with you, you goosie! put it -here. Now, Mrs. Jedsley," she added, when Mary had once more departed, -Perior having relieved her of the stand and carried it, not at all -graciously, to Camelia, "tell me how I can best please every one most? -You know them all so well--their pet pursuits, their pet hobbies. Mrs. -Harley has orchids, of course; I shall immediately ask her to take me to -the conservatory. And Mrs. Grier--that pensive little woman with the -long, long nose--has she not a son at Oxford, a boy she dotes on? Isn't -she very fond of music?" - -Mrs. Jedsley was stirring her third cup of tea with an entirely -recovered composure. "Yes, Mrs. Grier plays the violin, and has a son -she dotes on; if you flatter her nicely enough, she will certainly join -in the 'Hallelujah.'" - -"Well, that is nice to know." Mary had now brought the correct Japanese -vase, and Camelia neatly trimmed from her branch while she spoke a few -superfluous leaves and twigs. - -"Is not Mrs. Grier a dear friend of Lady Henge's?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel -asked in an aside to Lady Paton--to the latter a very welcome aside, as -in murmured acquiescence she found a momentary refuge from the -bewildered sensations her daughter's projects gave her. - -Yes, Lady Henge and Mrs. Grier were great friends, both musical, both -deeply interested in charitable work. Mrs. Grier, a sweet woman,--"and -you know," said Lady Paton, bending gently towards her guest, "her nose -is not so long. That is only Camelia's droll way of putting things, you -know." - -"Oh, yes,"--Mrs. Fox-Darriel's smile was very reassuring--"you and I -understand Camelia, Lady Paton. It doesn't do to take her _au grand -serieux_." Indeed, Mrs. Fox-Darriel smiled inwardly, feeling that all -disquiet on Camelia's account was very unnecessary, and convinced that -she knew her very thoroughly. - -"You won't be at home to-morrow, then?" asked Camelia, looking around -from her vase as Mrs. Jedsley rose to go. - -"No, my dear; and I'm afraid you won't find me of use at any time. I -haven't any particular foibles. You won't discover a handle about me by -which to wind me up to the required musical pitch." - -"You traduce yourself, Mrs. Jedsley; with your charitable heart, do you -mean to tell me that, were I to wrap Clievesbury in red flannel, fill it -with buns and broth, you wouldn't think me charming, and make sweet -music in my ears?" - -"I never denied that you were charming, balefully charming, you naughty -girl," said Mrs. Jedsley with a good humor that implied no submission. - -"Here is a rose for you. May it give you kind thoughts of me." Camelia -fastened one of the rejected buds in the lady's portly bosom, and when -she was gone, Lady Paton, leaving the room with her, she added, "Mary, -is the piano tuned?" - -Mary went to the Steinway. "Lady Henge is a composer, as you know." She -turned a face sparkling with mischief to Perior, who maintained his -silence beside the mantelpiece. - -"You have heard her? Yes? Well, you shall hear her again. That's enough, -Mary," she added, lightly; "we hear that the piano needs tuning." - -Now Mary had a certain little pride in the neat execution of Beethoven's -Sonatas, that many hours of faithful practice had seemed to justify, and -while Camelia stood back to admire her flower arrangement, both Perior -and Mrs. Fox-Darriel noticed the flush that swept over Mary's face. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -By the time Sir Arthur and Lady Henge arrived, Camelia had fulfilled her -prophecy and become a popular person. Under the blighting indifference -of her first appearance Clievesbury had naturally retaliated with -severity, but that the first impression had been erroneous the most -severe owned--after Camelia had called on them. Camelia found the -process of winning the whole neighborhood great fun, and its success -gave her a delicious sense of efficiency. She cared nothing, absolutely -nothing, for her neighbors, but once she determined to be cared for by -them she found the facility of the task highly flattering to -self-esteem. - -She drove from place to place, sweet, modest, adaptable. She dispensed -pretty compliments with a grace that disarmed the grimmest suspicion. -She showed a pretty interest in every one. Indeed why should they not -like her? Camelia thought she really deserved liking; and though she -laughed at herself a little for the complimentary conclusion, her -kindness struck her as rather nice. It was motiveless, was it not? -almost motiveless, a game that it pleased her to play. Certainly she did -not care to appear before Lady Henge on a background of unpopularity; -the background must harmonize, become her; she would see to that. At -the bottom of her heart Camelia cared very little for Lady Henge's -approval or disapproval; Lady Henge was part of the game; but Camelia -had determined that the game required Lady Henge, like everybody else, -to find her charming; the game required Arthur Henge to propose--then -she might accept him; but she must make quite secure the possibility of -refusing him. So Camelia aimed steadily at one result, and was not at -all sure of her own decision once the result was reached, and this -indecision gave her a happy sense of freedom. - -She must capture Sir Arthur; this visit was definite, the last test; but -once captured, Camelia wondered if she would care to keep. Theoretically -she owned to a hard common-sense ambition that would make rejection -doubtful; but when the moment for decision finally arrived, Camelia felt -that this trait in her character might fail her; she did not really -believe in it, though she paraded it, flaunted it. Every one might think -her a hard-headed, hard-hearted little worldling--as far as practice -went they were right, no doubt, in all honesty she must own that she -gave them no occasion to think anything else; but she reserved a warm -corner of unrevealed ideals--ideals she never herself looked at, where a -purring self-content sat cosily. - -Lady Henge and her son arrived on a Monday. Lady Henge was nervous, -though her massive personality concealed the tremor, and unhappy--for -she felt Arthur's fate to be a foregone conclusion. She was not a clever -but an immensely conscientious woman. She lived up to all her -principles, and she took only the highest view of everything. Her son's -love for the pretty Miss Paton, who meddled frivolously with politics -(Lady Henge meddled ponderously), and made collections of Japanese -pictures, had thrown her into a dismal perturbation. She could not like -Miss Paton; her cleverness was not disinterested; her sense of duty was -less than dubious, she lived for pleasure, for admiration; she was no -fit wife for a Henge. - -The most imperative of the Henges' stately requirements was that solemn -sense of duty which Lady Henge embodied so conclusively. - -She felt the tremor quieted, the unhappiness soothed, however, on seeing -Camelia in her home. Indeed, Camelia's background was masterly. By the -end of the first day Lady Henge was owning to herself that the glare of -London had perhaps been responsible for her former unfavorable -impression. Camelia's manner was perfect; she was quiet and gentle; her -wish to please was frank but very dignified. Lady Henge felt that in no -way was her favor being courted, and she was quite clever enough to -appreciate that. Lady Paton was left to take all the initiatives, and -behind her mother Camelia smiled with an air of happy obscurity. - -The following days emphasized the initial approval. The image of the -excellent Lady Elizabeth faded by degrees from Lady Henge's mind, and -the ache of disappointment with it. She wonderingly expanded into -confidence under Camelia's gentle influence. - -She was a shy woman; she had been afraid of Camelia; but with tender -touches the shyness and the fear seemed to be pressed away. There was -nothing to be afraid of. Was it possible? She doubted sometimes, when -alone and deeply thoughtful; but with Camelia quiet satisfaction was -irresistible. - -Perior watched the little comedy, convinced of its artificiality. That -doubt of her final choice which preserved for Camelia her sense of -independent pride free from all tarnish of self-interested scheming, he -could not have believed in. Her motives were, he thought, very clear to -him--as they must be to everybody else. He could not credit her with -love; a girl so dexterously managing her hand was held by no compulsory -force of real feeling. She was going to marry Arthur Henge, because he -was a good match, not because she loved him; any girl might have loved -him certainly, but Camelia was capable of loving no one. He was very -sore, very angry, very moody. Lady Henge's transparent bids to him for -sympathy in irritating his scorn for Camelia irritated him, too, against -her, against Arthur even. Why couldn't they let him alone? They should -get neither yea or nay from him, for, after all, Perior was -inconsistent; the scorn did not shake his rather negative loyalty to his -pupil, and beneath that there lay another and a deeper feeling, the -feeling that made it possible for Camelia to hurt him. - -"I was talking to her--to Miss Paton--about Woman's Suffrage to-day," so -Lady Henge would start a conversation, "she seems to have thought rather -deeply on the subject of a widened life for women--the development of -character by responsibility--the democratic ideal, is it not?" Lady -Henge combined staunch conservatism with a devout belief in Humanity. - -Perior answered "Yes, I suppose so," to the question. - -"She has, I see, a great deal of influence down here in the -country--more than I could have expected in such a gay young creature. -Mrs. Grier spoke to me of her good-heartedness, her generous help in -charitable matters. Mrs. Grier, as you know, is deeply interested in the -improvement of the condition of the laboring classes. I shall count upon -Miss Paton next year; her aid would be very effective; she could help me -with some of my clubs--a pretty face, a witty tongue, popularize one; -she has promised to address the Shirt Makers' Union. She takes so much -interest in all these absorbing social problems,--interest so -unassuming, so free from all self-reference." - -They were in the drawing-room after dinner. Perior seemed, in watching -Camelia fulfil herself, to find a searing fascination, for he was often -at Enthorpe Lodge of late. The faint flavor of inquiry in Lady Henge's -assertions only elicitated, "I'm sure she'd be popular." No; he would -not be held responsible for Camelia; and again he determined that Lady -Henge should on the subject of Camelia's full fitness get from him -neither a yea or a nay. - -Lady Henge's clear brown eyes had turned contemplatively upon her son -and Camelia, who were sitting on an isolated sofa in a frank -_tete-a-tete_. - -Perior's glance followed hers, and while she read in Arthur's absorbed -attitude and expression the wisdom of submissive partisanship--the utter -futility of further resistance, Perior studied the half grave, half -playful smile with which Camelia received her lover's utterances. She -seemed to feel Perior's scrutiny, for her eyes swerved suddenly and met -his, and the smile hardened a little as she looked at him. - -"She is very lovely," Lady Henge said with an irrepressible sigh. "It is -a very unusual type of loveliness," at which Perior looked away from -Camelia and back at his companion. "He is very fond of her," Lady Henge -added--a little tearfully, Perior suspected. - -"He has taken it seriously for quite a while, I believe." - -"Oh yes, yes indeed," Lady Henge, conscious of having herself made the -only barrier to an earlier declaration, spoke a little vaguely. -"Arthur's wife will have many responsibilities," she went on; "I think -that--if she accepts Arthur--Miss Paton will prove equal to them." The -"if she accepts Arthur" Perior thought rather noble, "and her gaiety -will be good for him, he needs such sunshine. I must not be so selfish -as to think that _I_ could give it him. And then--with all her gaiety," -here a recrudescence of the vein of urgency crept once more into Lady -Henge's voice, "she has depths, Mr. Perior--great depths, has she not? -Neither Arthur nor I take life lightly, you know," and Lady Henge held -him with a waiting pause of silence. - -"Yes, I know you don't," he said, and then found himself forced to add, -"there are many possibilities in Camelia." - -At all events, he might have said much more. Again he looked across at -Camelia as he spoke, and again her eyes met his. She rose abruptly, and -crossed the room. - -"Lady Henge," she said, standing before her guest in an attitude of -delicate request, "won't you play for us? We all want to hear you--and -not as mere interpreter, you know--one of your own compositions, -please." - -If there were a vulnerable spot in Lady Henge's indisputable array of -virtues it was a touching egotism in regard to her musical capabilities. -She fancied herself the pioneer of a new school, and hoped for a rather -shallow smattering of form and polyphony to more than atone by an -immense amount of feeling. She smiled now, drawing off her gloves -immediately, even while saying, with the diffidence of a master-- - -"I am afraid my _poemes symphoniques_ are not quite on the after-dinner -level, my dear. You know I can't promise a comfortable accompaniment to -conversation." - -"Don't degrade us by the implication," smiled Camelia; "we are at least -appreciative." - -"My music is emotionally exhaustive," said Lady Henge, shaking her head -and rising massively. "In my humbler way I have tried to do for the -abstract what Wagner did for the concrete. I do not depict the sea, but -the psychological sensations the sea arouses in us." Lady Henge was -moving towards the piano, her very back, with its serene, brocaded -breadth, imposing by its air of large self-confidence a hush upon the -babble of drawing-room flippancy. - -"Oh, good gracious!" Gwendolen Holt ejaculated in an alarmed whisper to -her neighbor Mr. Merriman. - -"Poor dear Lady Henge," murmured Lady Tramley, leaning back in her -delicate thinness, and fixing sad eyes upon her musical friend. - -"Awfully bad, is it?" Mr. Merriman inquired. - -"Awfully," said Gwendolen. - -"Well, it's all one to me," said Mr. Merriman jocosely. - -"I paint the soul of man, as influenced by the forces of nature," still -delivering explanatory comments, Lady Henge had seated herself at the -piano. "My symphonic poem--'Thalassa,' shall I give you that?" and from -a careful adjustment of the piano-stool, she looked up at Camelia, who -had followed her. - -Sir Arthur, on his solitary sofa, showed some dismay at the imminence of -his mother's performance. Perior, who had heard Lady Henge play, fixed -enduring eyes on the cornice. Camelia dropped into the vacant seat -beside him. - -"Hold your breath, Alceste," she murmured, her smiling eyes still gently -observant of Lady Henge, who, after a majestic turn up and down the -key-board, had paused in a menacing attitude, one hand lifted in a -heavily pouncing position. - -"She'll have our heads under water in a minute. Ah! here comes the -splash!" The very walls quivered as that fierce hand fell. A volcanic, -incoherent volume of sound hurtled forth upon the stillness. From -thenceforward they might have been sitting amidst the clamorous -concussions of a thunder-storm, Lady Henge, high priestess of terrified -humanity, making valiant warfare with the angry gods. The wind, or -rather the effect of the wind upon the shrinking mind of man, shrieked -in long sweeps down the key-board--Lady Henge's execution with the flat -of her hand being boldly impressionistic; the waves beat out their -stormy rhythm in crashing chords of very feeble construction, but in -noisiness immensely effective, leaping, bounding, shouldering, -swallowing one another with a splendid inconsequence as to time or key. -A chaos of stammering phrases cried out fitfully above the steady -bellowing of the bass. - -Physically the composition was most certainly exhausting. Lady Henge's -fine, flushed profile, bent with brooding intensity above the key-board, -evinced a panting effort to cope with the mighty requirements of her -creation. - -"It sounds as if she were being tossed in her cabin, doesn't it?" -Camelia's soft voice murmured under the safe cover of the tumult, her -face keeping the expression of grave attention, "and horribly seasick. -One hears the bottles breaking, and the basins clashing, and the boots -being hurled from side to side. Anything but abstract. Intimately -descriptive rather--don't you think?" A side glint of her eye evidently -twinkled for sympathy; but Perior solemnly stared at the ceiling. - -"The construction too," Camelia said more soberly, "she plunged us into -the free fantasia--and perhaps at the end she may fish us out with the -dominant phrase--but I haven't caught it yet; ah, this thudding finale -announces the journey's end." And she jumped up as Lady Henge, with a -fine, tense look of soul-experience, rose from the piano. The dazed and -wilted listeners chimed out the polite chorus usual on such occasions. -Camelia led Lady Henge to her chair. "Thank you--so much," she said. -Lady Henge smiled dimly, her eyes fixed on vacancy. - -"It was like a glorious wind blowing about one. It made me think of -Wordsworth's sonnets--of the soul in nature," said Camelia. Perior still -looked stolidly at the ceiling, and she felt his silence to be ominous. - -"Such music," she added, "gives one courage for life." She was angry -with Perior. Lady Henge pressed her hand. - -"Thanks, my dear. Yes--you _felt_. One must hear, of course, a -composition many times before entering into the sanctuary of the -artist's meaning." Camelia's mouth retained its sympathetic gravity. -Perior said nothing; and faint, relieved little groups of talk twittered -like birds after a storm. - -"And you, Mr. Perior," Lady Henge, fanning herself largely turned to -this silent critic. "You, too, are a musician as I know, a musician at -least in appreciation. What do you think of my 'Thalassa'? Frankly -now--as one artist to another." Perior moved his eyes slowly from the -ceiling, and dropped them to Camelia's face. He grew very red. - -"Frankly now," Lady Henge reiterated with genial urgency. - -"I think it is very bad," said Perior. The sentence fell with a thud, -like a stone. - -Lady Henge flushed, and her fan fluttered to stillness; Camelia, her -eyebrows lightly lifted, met Perior's square look. - -"Bad," Lady Henge repeated, with a pathetic mingling of deprecating -pride and pain, "really bad, Mr. Perior?" - -"Very bad," said Perior. - -The unmitigated sentence reduced her to feeble plaintiveness. - -"But why? This is really savage, you know." - -"Excuse me, I know I seem rude," he looked at her now with something of -an effort. "You see I tell you the uncompromising truth. Your piece is -weak, and crude, and incoherent!" - -Now that she met his eyes, Lady Henge saw that it gave him pain to speak -so. Camelia standing over them smiled unruffled. - -"It is a case of Berlioz and the Conservatoire, Schumann and the -Philistines, Lady Henge. Mr. Perior is an old classicist--understands -nothing outside strictest adherence to form. Your more modern march of -the _Davidsbuendler_ could say nothing to him." Perior did not look at -her. - -"If you will allow me, Lady Henge, I will come some day and go over a -lot of Schumann with you. I think you will recognize the difference. His -power and genuineness are apparent. And Schumann has a great deal to -say." - -He smiled at her as he spoke, a very sweet smile--asking tolerance for -the friend in spite of the critic's unwilling arrogance. Lady Henge was -soothed, though decidedly shaken. - -"You are severe, you know." - -"But you prefer severity to silly fibs." - -"I may be silly," Camelia here put in with a touch of coldness, "if so, -I stand convicted with you, Lady Henge, for I found your 'Thalassa' -neither crude, nor weak, nor incoherent; but I can't be accused of -fibbing. You will play your symphonic poem to me again, won't you? and -we will leave Mr. Perior to the pleasures of iconoclastic conservatism." -After so speaking, Camelia went back to her seat beside Sir Arthur. - -He had a book in his hand, and was turning the leaves vaguely, he put it -down as he looked up at her. For a man well over thirty, Sir Arthur had -certain boyish traits, as a frank nervousness of glance now revealed. - -"Well?" Camelia smiled, feeling a something in the silence. - -"It was bad, wasn't it?" said Sir Arthur. - -"Bad?" - -"Yes, poor mother." - -"I don't think it bad." - -Sir Arthur surveyed her with pained hesitation. - -"Why do you say that?" he demanded, with an abruptness of wounded -tenderness that put Camelia alertly on her guard. - -"Why do you say _that_?" she asked, rounding innocent eyes at him. - -"I saw you laughing at it, with Perior--not that he laughed. I heard -what he said too, I prefer that, you know." - -Camelia herself was feeling wounded, was smarting under a sense of angry -humiliation. This added and unexpected blow brought the blood vividly -to her face, and the sincerity of her discomfort seemed even to herself -to warrant the sincerity of her quick question. - -"You suspect me of lying?" - -Camelia hardly thought that she had lied; neither the flush nor the tone -of voice was acted. - -Sir Arthur looked away. "I saw you laughing," he repeated. - -"I _was_ laughing," Camelia declared. "Not at Lady Henge," she added. - -Sir Arthur kept a silence in which doubt and a longing to believe -evidently struggled. - -"I said to Mr. Perior that the rocking passage with the chord -accompaniment made me feel seasick--from its realism; that touch of -levity doesn't imply insincerity in my admiration--I always smile at the -birds in the 'Pastoral.' Why should I be insincere? If I had not liked -it, I would have said so." - -Sir Arthur's long breath escaped with the relief of recovered joy. - -"Don't be insincere;--dearest," he added, looking at her; and seeing the -surprise with which she received the grave, impulsive word, he went on -quickly, yet gently. - -"You know you often want to please people--to make every one like -you;--even I have fancied it--forgive me, won't you, at the price of a -little falseness. When one feels as I do, the least flaw cuts into one -like a knife." With Camelia's triumph there now mingled a bitter -distaste; she could hardly bring herself to look into his honest, -adoring eyes; the quickness of her breath and wavering of her glance -were, again, quite spontaneous, and that she knew them to be effective, -deepened her humiliation. - -"To see you laugh at mother--and then praise her--I thought it; and I -can't tell you how it pained me. You forgive me?" - -Her self-disgust now seemed to lend her a certain sense of atoning -self-respect. "How good you are!" she said, looking at him very gravely, -and this recognition of his goodness restoring still more fully that -sick self-respect, she was able to smile at him, to think that she must -not exaggerate the little _contretemps_, and to ask herself whether she -might not fall in love with Sir Arthur--simply and naturally. Dear man! -The words were almost on her lips--her eyes at least caressed him with -the implication. - -He looked embarrassed, but very happy. "No--no! Please don't say that! -How divinely kind you are. I have been insufferable. It is noble of you -to understand--. Can't we get away from all these people--if only for a -moment. Let us go into the garden--it is very warm." She would rather -not have gone into the garden, but she could not refuse him, she felt -that to some extent she would like to justify his faith in her, and to -shake from her that snake-like imputation of baseness. She glanced at -Perior as she went out; he was talking most affably with Lady Henge, and -did not look at her. His lack of faith stung perhaps more than Sir -Arthur's faith. It was unmerited too, more unmerited than Sir Arthur's -trust, so she told herself, stepping down from the terrace on to the -gravel-path, and the sense of unmerited scorn sharpened that wish to -justify herself--as far as might be--to the kinder judge. - -"No, Sir Arthur, you are good," she went on, pausing before him, her -hands clasped behind her after a little-girl fashion habitual with her; -"and I am horrid--it's quite true--but not as horrid as you thought me. -I do like to please people. I am often pettily, impulsively false; it's -quite, quite true. I do like your mother's piece, but probably not as -much as I implied to her by my praise--not as much as greater things: -and Mr. Perior's silence made me angry too; but I probably was a little -insincere, and that every one is the same is no excuse for me. I don't -want to be like every one, and you don't want me to be, do you? But if I -had _not_ liked it, you would not have wished me to express myself with -the bludgeon-like directness of our rugged friend, would you?" Camelia -asked the question with real anxiety, conscious though she was that she -had thought the composition quite as ridiculous as Perior had declared -it. After all, his ugly sincerity justified her kindly fibbing; and as -for the laughing, she was sorry she had laughed, since Sir Arthur had -seen her. His erectness of moral vision would so distort that -unintentional meanness that she could not be asked to confess it; but -her partial confession, all the same, left her confused by the stinging -of small, uncomfortable compunctions. These, however, did not show -themselves in her eyes, nor in the pure lines of her face. Her silvered -garments and exquisite whiteness gave her in the moonlight an angelic -look that might well humble modest manhood before her. Sir Arthur had -never felt himself so near to the girl he loved, nor his love so well -justified. - -"No, I don't think it's necessary to give a person the truth like a box -on the ear," he said, and he would have taken her hands, but Camelia -again put them behind her back, and stood smiling at him. - -"Poor old Perior," he added, and they walked slowly for a little way -down the path. "You can understand it, though, can't you? He thought you -were fibbing, and that made him give mother the ruthless _coup de -dent_." - -This was very true, and so Camelia knew, knowing, too, that she _had_ -been fibbing. "But that didn't justify the _coup de dent_," she -declared, "and why should he think I was fibbing?" The bit of audacity -was so inevitable that she hardly felt a qualm over its enunciation. On -Perior's loyalty she relied as she relied on the ground beneath her -feet. - -"Well, he knows that you are clever, and that your taste has not been -distorted--as mother's has--by fancied talent." Sir Arthur was all -candid confidence. - -"He was _very_ nasty," said Camelia, "and I shall tell him so. And now -that I have made my little confession, and that you have absolved -me--for I am absolved, am I not?--shall we go in?" Camelia drew back -from the proposal she saw looming in the moonlight; there was time, -ample time, for that, now that she was sure of him, quite sure. A warm -little thrill of pleasure went over her at the thought that it was she -who was not ready, was not sure, though she had never liked him more. - -"Must we go in?" Sir Arthur looked up at her as she stood on the step -above him. He was very handsome Camelia thought with some complacency. - -"I think we must," she said prettily, adding, "I promised to do my skirt -dancing for them, you know. You must tell me it is delightful when I -have done, even if you laugh at me while I am dancing." Sir Arthur had -held out his hand, and she put hers in it. - -"You absolve me, don't you?" he said. "You forgive me? You are not -angry?" - -"Angry? Have I seemed angry?" - -"You had the right to be." - -"Not with you," said Camelia, and at that he kissed her hand, and they -went back into the drawing-room. - - * * * * * - -Camelia as she undressed that night decided that Perior was responsible -for her still smarting irritation. It was too tiresome. Of course, -apparently she had not behaved nicely; but, in neatly analyzing the -whole affair, she could find herself guilty of nothing worse than a -little humorous gaiety--that took an old friend's sympathy for -granted--(could one not think things one did not say? she had only -thought aloud--to him), and a little kindly hypocrisy practised every -day by models of uprightness. Perior's rudeness set a standard by which -social conventions were guilty of black falseness. It was too bad of -him, and her anger put him aside with a sense of relief. The only really -serious part was the stinging sequel. How closely Arthur Henge must have -watched her to catch that irrepressible glint of the eye. He had caught -it, though, and she had lied about it--well, yes--lied, deliberately -lied to a man she respected. - -Of course it made her feel uncomfortable--of course it did. "I am not -the vain puppet _he_ thinks me," she said, leaning on her -dressing-table, and looking gravely at her illuminated reflection--the -_he_ being Perior--"the very fact of my worrying over such a trifling -incident proves that I am not. It is _his_ fault that I should feel so." -She paused for a further turn of silent meditation before adding, "My -only fault was in having trusted to his sense of fun, in having been -amused. The rest followed inevitably. I could not have told Arthur Henge -that I found his mother ridiculous, now _could_ I, you foolish -creature?" and irrepressibly Camelia smiled at her lenient accuser in -the glass. At this point of the colloquy a gentle tap at the door -ushered in Mary. Mary, in a dressing-gown of just the wrong shade, was -not an interesting object, and Camelia glanced over her reflection in -the mirror without turning. She continued her own train of thought, -hardly listening to Mary, though vaguely conscious that the awkward -inquiries after her comfort were rather pointless. - -"I thought you might want something, Camelia. I thought you looked -rather pale," said Mary, drawing near with some timidity. - -"No, thanks. I should have asked Grant, you know," replied Camelia, her -elbows still on the dressing-table. She absently watched Mary lift her -discarded gown from the floor, fold it, and lay it neatly over the back -of a chair. "Don't mind about picking up those things, Mary," she -added, yawning a little, and wishing rather that Mary would go. "Grant -can do all that." - -"I like to tidy up after you." Mary's smile was slightly forced. "See, -Camelia, you need me to look after you--your pearl necklace under a -chair." - -"It must have caught in my bodice," said Camelia, glancing at the -necklace as Mary laid it on the dressing-table. "That certainly was -stupid of me. Thanks, dear." Mary still lingered. - -"You don't want anything, you are sure? You feel quite well--and--happy, -Camelia?" The question was so odd that Camelia turned her head and -looked up, surprised, at Mary's rather embarrassed countenance. - -"Happy?" she repeated. - -"Yes; I fancied you might have something to tell me." This initiative -was certainly amazing in the reserved Mary, and Camelia stared. - -"Something to tell you?" Then her deliberate departure for the moonlit -_tete-a-tete_ with Sir Arthur coming luminously to her mind, she began -to laugh. "Why, Mary, did you come in a congratulatory mood?" - -Mary's badly mastered nervousness melted somewhat. "Oh, Camelia--_may_ -I?" her face lighted to an almost charming eagerness--a charm that our -aesthetic heroine was quick to recognize. "_May_ I?" - -"May you? No, you little goose," Camelia said good-humoredly. "Upon my -word, Mary, you should have had your portrait painted at that moment; -you never looked so--significant. Are you so anxious to get rid of me -then?" The charming look had crumbled into inextricable confusion. - -"Oh, Camelia, how can you?--how could you think----?" - -"Now, Mary, imaginative efforts are bad for you; don't indulge them." - -"I hoped--I only wanted----" - -"Yes, of course, you want me to be happy; and very nice it is of you -too. Be patient, Mary; you shall congratulate me some day. I haven't -decided _when_ that shall be. I haven't really quite decided _how_ I -shall be happy--there are so many ways--the choice of a superlative is -perplexing. When I choose you need not come to me, I promise you." -Camelia rose, stretching her arms above her head, and smiling very -kindly at her cousin. - -Her own words made her feel comfortable. Still smiling, she put her arm -around Mary's neck and kissed her. "I shall tell you _immediately_. Now -run to bed, dear, for _you_ look pale." When Mary was gone, Camelia -finished undressing, and got into bed in a frame of mind much reassured -as to her own intrinsic merit. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -The little moonlit episode had very thoroughly mended the rift within -the lute. Camelia's seeming frankness of confessional confidence more -than atoned for every doubting qualm. Sir Arthur evidently put doubts -and distresses behind him. He allowed himself to be wholly in love. He -wondered resentfully at himself for the mixed impulses he had known, -since all were now merged in one fixed determination. - -The country influences of green trees and summer sky seemed to have -breathed a heretofore unrealized gentleness into his fair one. Her -playful sallies, her little audacities, delighted him now unreservedly, -for under the tantalizing shifting and shimmering of surface moods, the -translucent depths of a loyal and lovely nature, were at last fully -revealed to him. - -Camelia felt the resultant ardor hovering during all their constant -companionship, but she evaded it. The conquest had been so easy, was so -complete, that fitness seemed to require a compensatory dallying. The -atmosphere of adoration, submissive in its certainty of ultimate -success, felt as flatteringly around her as the warm sweetness of a -summer breeze. Conquest was delightful, so was dallying, so was her own -indecision; that was the most delightful part of all. She felt, too, in -the loving warmth that encompassed her, a consolation, a refuge from -cold and rugged depreciation. - -Perior had not reappeared since the musical _melee_, and, while enjoying -the sunny harbor where she rocked so peacefully, Camelia was conscious -that thoughts about that rough, that unsympathetic sea outside -preoccupied her amidst the kinder waters. Her gaiety was therefore a -little forced, absent-minded, in a sense a mask; her gentler mood was -the result of inner cogitations, so involved at times as to give to her -manner a dreamy sweetness. Her moral snubbing, though she rejected it as -undeserved, subdued her. - -Lady Henge's vanity was of no petty or immovable order. Far from -antagonizing, Perior's judgment had aroused in her an anxious -self-doubt, an anxious respect for her candid critic. Despite Camelia's -sympathy--for Camelia stuck to her colors, entrenched herself behind a -staunch fidelity to a false position, listened with absorption to -frequent renderings of the "Thalassa," thoughtfully discussed its -iconoclastic merits, the high value of its full flavored modernity, and -felt a certain ethical elevation from these painful sacrifices to the -only constancy permitted her--despite this steady sympathy, Lady Henge -perversely longed for a further expression of unsympathetic opinion from -the ruthless Perior. And one morning she told Camelia that she had -written to him, had asked him to fulfil his promise, to bring some music -of his choosing that might, with his aid, be useful to her. - -"I had hoped to see him every day," she owned, and Camelia realized the -power of a negative attitude--how flat beside it, how feeble, was her -exaggeratedly affirmative one. All her pretty conciliations were as -nothing to Lady Henge beside the stinging interest of Perior's dislike. - -"I think he may help me about so many things, I so often feel a -helplessness in self-expression; the idea is there--but the form! the -form! ah, my dear, art, after all, is form." (This piece of information -was certainly bitter to our martyrized heroine.) - -"As you said, his severity may, to a certain extent, be conservatism, -academic narrowness, but I have always heard of him as widely -appreciative." - -Camelia could answer for the width of appreciation that her resentment -had falsified on the unlucky night of the first performance; she -remembered now, with a little flush, that her saddling of him with -tastes not his own must have seemed to him the culmination of spiteful -pettiness. And then he had not rejoined--had not defended himself, even -against that intimation of academics opposed to his dearly loved -Schumann. Camelia could soothe herself with an "I don't care! He -deserved it. He was horrid;" but all the same the memory brought a -hotness to her cheeks. She felt very angry, too, with Lady Henge, and, -while smiling pleasantly, found some satisfaction in various cynical -mental comments on the weighty intricacy of her cap, and the vast -stupidity of her self-absorption. - -"Do you know, my dear, that phrase," and Lady Henge struck it out -demonstratively from the piano near which she stood; "that phrase does -sound a little weak." Weak! Camelia could have capped the criticism -very pungently. With a good deal of disgust at a situation which had so -neatly turned the tables upon her, she said, "Mr. Perior may tell you -so; I really can't." Her fate evidently was to support Lady Henge by a -fraternity in inferior taste; and to be branded with inferior taste, -even in Lady Henge's eyes, was certainly rather galling. She had not -bargained for it at all, nor dreamed that Lady Henge's complacency would -go down like a ninepin before Perior's brutal missile. Her little -perjury had not been in the least worth while. - -Perior, having the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, arrived next -morning with an impressive roll of music, and Camelia laughed, with some -acidity it must be confessed, as she heard in the drawing-room the -convincing energy of his demonstrations. Fragments of the poor _poeme -symphonique_, panting from their cruel dissection, reached her ears -while she strolled about the lawns with Sir Arthur. - -She foresaw that Lady Henge would prove a humble convert, and that she -herself, if not to be convicted of gross insincerity, must remain -gibbeted in a stubborn unconversion. - -"Your mother is very patient," she said, as, from the distant piano, the -dogged repetition of a phrase emphasized its feeble absurdity. "Mr. -Perior as mentor is in his element." - -Sir Arthur laughed with a good-humored recollection of his own political -rebuff at Perior's hands. - -"He is uncompromisingly honest. If you ask for his advice he'll give it -to you." - -"Give it to you unasked sometimes," said Camelia. - -Sir Arthur had told her all about that lost cause, and all about his -plans for the future. There was a very delightful plan for the very near -future; the next session would decide the fate of the Factory Bill that -went by her lover's name, and Camelia, under her attentive quietness, -felt a heaving sigh of ambition gather. Sir Arthur's grave eagerness -showed that after his winning of herself, his political campaign filled -the chief place in his hopes and thoughts. Her interest delighted him, -and the intelligence of her comments. - -He had himself an almost reverent belief in the bill, and Camelia's -sympathetic affirmatives seemed to chime deliciously with his own deep, -active pity for the dim, toiling masses the bill was to reach and -succor. Such a common object was a sanctification; he could hardly, he -felt, have loved a woman who did not feel his own deep pity. They talked -now of the coming struggle, of the rather dubious success of the second -reading that might yet be enhanced for the third. - -"And do you know," he said, "Perior, positively Perior, approves; he is -buckling on his armor for the final fray. An individuality like that -counts, you know. A few leaders in the _Friday_ would rally many -waverers." - -Camelia flushed suddenly when he said this; it delighted her sense of -proprietorship in Perior to hear his praise--to hear that for others, -too, he counted. And yet a touch of pain came with the delight, -reminding her that under present conditions the delight was very -generous, and proprietorship very unassured. - -How he evaded it! Yes, he certainly was horrid; but her breath came -quickly, and with a deft persistence she kept Sir Arthur still talking -of him, finding in his answers to her questions on his youth glimpses of -Perior's. - -"Always generous, always intolerant, always tripping into ditches while -star-gazing," said Sir Arthur; "he has an exaggerated strain in him; it -must be that Irish ancestress. He feels everything more acutely than -thicker-skinned mortals, sees everything, the good and the bad, -magnified--a trifle grotesquely. But it is a noble nature;" and he went -on, as they walked back and forth over the lawn, Perior's pianoforte -exposition, firmly insistent, coming to their ears at broken intervals: -"Perior is staunch on individualism, as you know; believes in the -hygienic value to the race of the combat--a savage creed, I tell him; -but he has amended it; he is not one jot afraid of seeming inconsistent; -he owns to the scientific logic of our attitude. I was afraid he would -accuse us of socialistic methods, tyrannical kindness, State -intervention," and so from Perior Sir Arthur went back to the -all-absorbing topic of the bill; he could allow the bill to absorb him. -For all Camelia's evasions and smiling warnings to patience, he was -deliciously sure of the ultimate end of all. He could afford to be -patient with the luminous sympathy of her eyes upon him, afford to talk -of the unfortunate women-workers whose long hours the kind tyranny of -the bill would restrict, while this woman listened with such a sweet -chiming of pity. - -"If you could only count on a fair following among the Liberals," -Camelia said, phrasing his keenest anxiety, "horrid egotists! They all -have factories, I suppose. Mr. Rodrigg may wrest your dubious majority -from you; he is the lion in your path, isn't he? and he has a whole town -of factories. What chance has a moral conviction against a town of -factories? And he is such a bull-dog; I did wrong to dignify him by the -leonine simile." - -"Such a clever chap, too," said Sir Arthur; "bull-dog cleverness, I -mean." - -"And bull-dogs are so dear," Camelia said, as a small brindled member of -the race, his head haloed by a ferociously bristling collar, came -bounding to them over the lawn. "Dear, precious beastie," she put her -hand on the dog's head as he stood on his hind-legs to greet her, "we -must indeed find another epithet for Mr. Rodrigg, not that I dislike -him, you know. He shares some of your opinions," she added rather -roguishly. - -"Not one, I fear." - -"Yes, one," she insisted. Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt on her charming look; -it carried him into vagueness as he asked-- - -"What one?" not caring at all for Mr. Rodrigg's community of taste, and -smiling at her loveliness. - -"I think he is rather fond of me," Camelia owned. Sir Arthur could -afford a generous laugh. - -"Poor old Rodrigg! He has then a vulnerable point in his armor?" - -"Yes, indeed, yes. I don't know that it amounts to a weakness. I fear I -couldn't wheedle him. But, you might convince him, and I might -help,--and, he is coming down next week." She laughed out at his look -of surprise. "That is news, isn't it?" - -In her very heart of hearts Camelia was rather complacently convinced -that Mr. Rodrigg's fondness _did_ amount to a weakness. Mr. Rodrigg's -devotion was in our young lady's fastidious opinion his one redeeming -quality. She had kindly, but thoroughly, she thought, nipped in the bud -certain too aspiring attempts; but the man was all the more her friend. - -His devotion was built upon a fine hopelessness that really dignified -him. - -She was an Egeria who hovered above him, gently smiling at his -earthiness. Yes, she was kind; for Mr. Rodrigg was a most important -person--emphatically, personally important just now, it seemed; and -though Camelia's thoughts of him were merely humorously tolerant, she -felt quite sure of a wealth of unreturned friendship, ready to transmute -itself into golden action at her bidding. She could but pride herself a -little upon her intellectual influence over her unpresumptuous Numa, and -thought that she could, through that dignified influence alone, by all -means wheedle him, if wheedling became necessary. Sir Arthur would -hardly approve of these personal methods, and therefore he need not know -of the little game that might win his cause; a perfectly innocent game, -she assured herself, since it hurt no one and helped Sir Arthur; and if -Mr. Rodrigg were to be convinced, Sir Arthur must fancy himself sole -winner. - -He did not seem to recognize the possibility, for after his pause of -surprise he laughed again, saying, "Is he coming on _my_ account?" - -"Not on _his_, I am sure!" - -"You know, it won't do any good," he smiled fondly at her, as one smiles -at the folly of a loved woman; "Rodrigg is too deeply pledged, has his -whole party behind him. I could no more convince him, even in these -enchanted premises, than in the dry precincts of the House. Political -conversions are very rare." - -"But you _may_ convert him," Camelia urged. "I will give you every -opportunity." - -"And it is rather unfair, you know." Sir Arthur paused in their -strolling to look at her face, half shadowed in the sunlight by the brim -of her white hat. "He perhaps imagines that he is coming for purposes -far removed from the political." - -"Oh no, no, no. I tell you, dear Sir Arthur, that--well--since you must -have it--I refused him. He hasn't a hope; I pinched the last pangs out -of him a long time ago. In fact, I let him see that I found his audacity -rather funny than piteous. I have laughed him into most submissive -platonics. He will come, because he really is my friend, and really -likes me; and I want him to come, because he must like you." - -"Camelia!" Sir Arthur had used her name more than once of late, and she -let it pass with a half-merry, half-menacing little glance. - -"You dear little schemer," he added. Though spoken in tenderest teasing, -Camelia was just enough conscious of a certain applicability to say with -some quickness-- - -"Not _really_. You know I'm not. I only want to help you--legitimately, -I would not lift my little finger to win your cause if you did not want -me to." - -"Really, I know you're not!" Sir Arthur's voice retained the teasing -quality, but the tenderness had deepened; Camelia was listening all the -while to those dogged passages from the piano. They ceased now, and a -certain gravity and determination of look that had succeeded Sir -Arthur's last words quite justified a sudden retreat. - -"I must go and make Mr. Perior stop to lunch. One only gets him out of -his lair by force and wheedling! I wheedle _him_!" She left Sir Arthur -rather disconsolately cut short, and ran off to the house, her own words -ringing reassuringly in her ears. Yes, she could wheedle him. Despite -unreason, stupid unreason, despite rebellious crossness and pretended -indifference, she had the mastery. He cared so much; that was the -fundamental fact that upheld Camelia's assurance; he cared enough to be -very angry. He would try to hide his anger of course. Her heart had -beaten rather quickly when Sir Arthur's face took on that look of -resolve--she was not ready, not quite sure, not yet, but flight from his -purpose had been only a secondary impulse. She must see Perior. She ran -through the morning-room and met him coming down the stairs, and panting -a little, laughing a little, she leaned against the banisters and -opposed his passage. - -"Well, have you taught her how bad it is?" - -"I think I have," said Perior, looking over Camelia's head at the open -doorway. She stood aside to let him join her. - -"What have you to teach me this morning--_caballero de la triste -figura_?" she said as he came down the stairs and stood beside her. - -"I don't propose to teach you anything. I am not responsible for you." - -Camelia had not analyzed his probable mood incorrectly; he was angry, -and he was trying to hide his anger, fearing for his self-control. But -more than that--though this the acute Camelia had never quite -divined--he was feeling very unhappy. That he was angry she saw, -however, with a little thrill of triumph running through her veins. -Smiling an even smile she said, slipping her hand through his arm-- - -"Ah! but you _are_ responsible. Come into the morning-room." - -"Is Lady Paton there?" Perior asked gloomily. - -"Yes." Camelia had seen her mother and Mary walking safely away into the -garden with Gwendolen Holt and Lady Tramley. She threw open the door and -ushered him in. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -Perior surveyed the emptiness; it hardly surprised him, and well -understanding her determination to wheedle him, he felt an added -strength of determination not to be wheedled. - -"What have you got to say, now that you've got me here?" he asked, -putting down his music and looking at her. - -"You bandersnatch!" Camelia still held his arm. "I am sure you look like -a bandersnatch; a biting, snarling creature. You have a truly -_snatching_ way of speaking." - -"What have you got to say, Camelia?" Perior repeated, withdrawing his -arm from the circling clasp upon it. - -"I have got to say that you must stay to lunch." - -"Well, I can't do that." - -"Then you may sit down and talk to me a little--scold me if you like; do -you feel like scolding me?" - -"I have never scolded you, Camelia," said Perior, knowing that before -her lightness his solemnity showed to disadvantage; but he would be -nothing but solemn, ludicrously solemn if necessary. - -"You were never sure I deserved it, then," said Camelia, stooping to -gather up her dog for a swift kiss, and laughing over his round head at -Perior's stiffness; "else you would have done your duty, I am sure--you -never forget your duty." - -"Thanks; your recognition is flattering." - -"There, my pet, go--poor Sir Arthur is lonely, go to him," said Camelia, -opening the window for Siegfried's exit, "you know your sarcasm doesn't -impress me one bit--not one bit," she added. - -"I don't fancy that anything I could say would impress you," Perior -replied, eyeing her little manoeuvres, "and since I have seen -Siegfried receive his kiss, I really must go," and at this Perior took -up his music with decision; to see him assuming indifference so badly -was delightful to Camelia. - -"_Why_ were you so rude to poor Lady Henge the other evening?" she -demanded, couching her lance and preparing for the shock of encounter; -"you were hideously rude, you know." - -"Yes, I know." Perior still eyed her, his departure effectually checked. - -"Then, why were you?" - -"Because you lied." - -"Oh, what an ugly word!" cried Camelia lightly, though with a little -chill, for the unpleasant sincerity of Perior's look she felt to be more -than she had bargained for. "What a big, ungainly word to fling at poor -little me! You should eschew such gross elementary forms of speech, -Alceste; really, they are not becoming." - -"I hate lies," said Perior tersely, thinking, as he spoke, that by the -logic of the words he should hate Camelia too--for what was she but -unmitigated falseness personified? He had lost his nervousness, now that -the moment for plain speaking had arrived. - -"And you call _that_ a lie?" - -"I call it a lie." She considered him gravely. - -"I tried to give pleasure, you tried to give pain." - -"I tried to restore the balance." - -"I cannot think it wrong to slight the truth a little--from mere -kindness." - -"And I think it wrong to lie. And," Perior added, his voice taking on an -added depth of indignant scorn, "you lied to Arthur; I saw you." - -"You saw!" Camelia could not repress a little gasp. - -"I saw that he caught your humorous and hospitable comments on his -mother's performance, and I saw your cajolery afterwards. I am sure I -can't imagine how you hoodwinked him. It was neatly done, Camelia." - -Camelia felt herself growing pale, losing the victor's smiling calm. -Here he was brutally voicing the very scruples she had laid to rest -after moments of most generous self-doubt--atoning moments, as she felt. -The playful game in which she would tease him into comprehension--absolution, -had been turned into an ugly punishment. The wrinkled rose leaves of -self-accusation that had disturbed her serenity had actually--in his -hands--grown into thorny branches, and he was whipping her with them. -She had never felt so at a loss, for she could not laugh. - -"You would have had me pain him too!" she cried, her anger vindictively -seeking a retaliatory lash. "Well, you are a prig!--an insufferable -prig! I did nothing wrong!--except mistake your sense of humor." - -This was certainly on her side a less dignified colloquy than the one -with the looking-glass; she fancied that Perior looked with some -curiosity at her anger. - -"Was it wrong to smile at you, then?" she said. - -"Yes, it was wrong." Perior had all the advantage of calm, and she was -helplessly aware that her excitement fortified his self-control. - -"I thought the piece funny. Was I to tell her so?" - -"You should have kept still about it. You mocked your guest behind her -back and flattered her to her face. That is mean, despicable," said -Perior, planting his slashes very effectively. - -"To laugh with you was like laughing to myself," said Camelia, steadying -her lips, and wondering vaguely if victory might not yet be wrested from -this humiliation; his inflexible cruelty forced from her that half -appeal. "It was merely thinking aloud, and to tell a few kindly little -fibs--as every woman does, a hundred times a day--is not flattery." - -"To gain a person's liking on false pretences is base; and I don't care -how many women do it--nor how often they do it. I shan't argue with you, -Camelia. We don't see things alike. Follow your own path, by all means; -it will lead you to success no doubt, and for a nature like yours there -will be no bitterness in such success." - -He looked away from her now, as if, despite her immunity from it, he -felt that bitterness. He felt it, though she did not. He looked away in -the depth of his disgust and pain, conscious, though, of the golden -blur of her hair, the indistinct oval of her face, the cool vague gray -of her linen dress, as she stood still, not far from him. Camelia felt -herself trembling. She beat off his cruel injustice--but it was hurting -her--it was making her helpless. - -"For what success do you imply that I am scheming?" she asked, and even -while she spoke angry tears rushed to her eyes. To be misjudged was a -new sensation; a hot self-pity smarted within her. - -Perior did not see the tears, for he still looked away, saying in a -voice that showed how clearly cut, how definitely perceived was the -conviction, "The success of marrying a man you love little enough to lie -to. Henge could not forgive you if he knew that you had lied to him and -to his mother, yet he adores you--you have that on false pretences too. -There is the truth for you, Camelia; and, upon my soul, I am sorry for -Arthur. I pity him from the bottom of my heart." - -"How dare you! how dare you!" cried Camelia, bursting into tears. "It is -false--false--false!" - -Taken aback, Perior stared blankly at her. It was the first time that he -had reduced her to weeping. "Oh, Camelia!" he stood still--he would not -approach her; he felt that since she could cry her helplessness was -fully armed, and he quite helpless; his supremacy robbed of all value. - -"Every word you say is false!" she said, returning his stare defiantly, -while the tears rolled down her cheeks. "I am _not_ scheming to marry -him! I have not let him propose to me yet! I am not sure that I shall; -I am not sure that I shall accept him, and if I do, it will be because I -love him!" - -Perior hardly believed her, and yet he was much confused, especially as -with a fresh access of sobs her face quivered in the pathetic grimace of -loveliness distorted; before that the real issue of the situation seemed -slipping away; her repudiation of the greater dishonesty effaced, for -the moment, the smaller; he had nothing to say--she probably believed in -herself; and those helpless sobs were so touching to him that, -notwithstanding his unappeased anger against her, he could have gone to -her and taken her in his arms to comfort her, at any cost--even at the -cost of seeming to ask pardon. He did not do this, however, but said, -"Don't cry, don't cry, Camelia; you mustn't cry. I'm glad you feel it in -that way; I am glad you can cry over it." He did not go to her, but his -very attitude of nervous hesitation told Camelia that he was worsted--at -least worsted enough for the practical purposes of the moment. - -She got out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, still feeling very -sore-hearted, very much injured; but when the tears were gone she came -up to him saying, while she looked at him with all the victorious pathos -of wet lashes and trembling lips, "You are not kind to me, Alceste." - -He moved away from her a little, but took her hands. "Because you are -naughty, Celimene." - -"I will be good. I won't tell fibs." - -"A very commendable resolution." - -"You mock me. You won't believe a liar." - -"Don't, please don't speak of it again, Camelia." - -"Say you are sorry for having said it." - -"Oh, you little rogue!" Taking her face between his hands he studied it -with a sad curiosity. "I am sorry for having _had_ to say it." - -"Oh, prig, prig, prig." She smiled at him now from the narrow frame, her -own delicious smile. - -"And bandersnatch if you will," said Perior, shaking her gently by the -shoulders, and putting her away with a certain resignation. - -"My good old bandersnatch! _Dear_ old bandersnatch! After all, I need a -bandersnatch, don't I, to keep me straight? Yes, I forgive you. I must -put up with you, and you must put up with me, fibs and all--fibs, do you -hear, not lies. Oh, ugly word!" She clasped her hands on his arm, poor -Perior! "And you will stay to lunch?" - -"No, I won't stay to lunch," said Perior, smiling despite himself. - -"Why?" - -"I am busy." - -"You are a prig, you know," said Camelia, as if that summed up the -situation conclusively. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Whether Camelia were decided on accepting Sir Arthur or not, every one -else, under a waiting silence, considered the engagement an accomplished -fact. Poor Mr. Merriman departed disconsolately when the reality of his -utter ruin forced itself upon his unwilling understanding. Sir Harry -contemplated the hopeless situation more compliantly, oscillated for a -few days between feeble despair and jocular resignation, and then -finding it impossible to utterly tear himself away from his charmer's -magnetic presence, he settled down to a melancholy flirtation with Mrs. -Fox-Darriel that masked his inability to retreat. Lord and Lady Tramley -went on to another visit, and the poet who wrote the virile poems and -believed in the joy of life, finding Miss Paton less sympathetic than -usual, penned a laconic, psychological verselet for her benefit, and -departed. - -Camelia seemed rather vague in the furtherance of hospitable projects, -and the merest trickle of visitors went through the house, affecting -very slightly the really placid routine. - -Lady Paton's whole personality expanded in prettiest contentment; the -calm so far surpassed her expectations, and Camelia seemed very happy. -Lady Paton could but take for granted her happiness. - -Camelia was living the most poetical moment of life; she made no -confidences; but Lady Paton's trust walked in a sadly sweet dream where -her daughter's courtship mingled with tearful memories of her own. -Charles Paton's smile; the first fluttering consciousness that the smile -came oftenest for her; she still blushed as she remembered the moment -when he had murmured to her as they danced that she had the prettiest -throat in England; it had seemed so daring to little Miss Fairleigh, who -had read her first novel only six months before; the very memory still -had the glamour of daring. And Camelia was feeling all those tremulous -delights, with their deep undercurrent of sacred solemnity. - -Camelia was not demonstrative, Lady Paton had sighed over the accepted -fact, but she could trace all such natural emotions on Sir Arthur's face -when he watched or spoke to her daughter. She already felt a maternal -tenderness for him, and his exquisite courtesy, that already implied -rights, was nothing less than filial. - -Lady Henge's dignified intellectuality she found indeed rather awesome, -but she hoped by careful listening to expand her powers of -comprehension, and Lady Henge delivered her expositions of social ethics -with a pleasant faith in their tonic effect upon the suppressed mind of -her hostess-- - -"Suppressed, repressed, Arthur, not shallow," she said to her son, "and -you could not ask a daintier, truer gentlewoman for your wife's mother, -dear." Lady Henge sighed just a little--though quite resigned to the -future--for the Duchess of Amshire's mind was neither suppressed nor -shallow, but as expansive and capable an organ as her own, and -infinitely sympathetic. Lady Elizabeth, too!--Lady Elizabeth, who had -worked at shirt-making in the slums for two weeks, and had caught -typhoid fever at it--even Camelia's sunny charm could not efface the -thought of Lady Elizabeth's almost providential fitness. But in spite of -inevitable regrets Lady Henge was resigned, and the two mothers got on -together very pleasantly, since moulding capability can hardly carp at a -gentle, clay-like receptivity. - -Mr. Rodrigg seemed the only new guest intended for any permanence of -stay. He duly arrived at the given date and hour, a punctual man, very -much aware of his own importance, and of the importance to him, and to -others, of every moment. - -And Mr. Rodrigg was really a very important personage and his moments -weighty with significance. And this iron-gray, middle-aged man had not -at all foolishly fallen in love with the brilliant Miss Paton. A wife so -beautiful, so capable, so charming, would be the finishing touch to his -influence; matter-of-fact motives may well have underlain Mr. Rodrigg's -amorous determination, which Camelia thought so effectually snuffed out. -But indeed Mr. Rodrigg's determination was far too strong to credit -hers. His self-confidence smiled kindly upon a pretty coquetry. The -exquisite grace of Camelia's rebuff--she had almost thought it worthy of -publicity, so felicitous had been its delicate sweep round a corner -dangerous to friendship--had merely impressed Mr. Rodrigg's -unappreciative bluntness with a reassuring conviction of trifling and -postponement. - -The lightness of touch, the deft cleverness upon which our poor Titania -so prided herself, were surveyed in this instance by an ass's head; the -effect she thought so prettily made was quite missed, and she herself -its only spectator. - -The portentousness of Arthur Henge's presence at Enthorpe did not in the -least weigh with Mr. Rodrigg against the final choice he considered as -expressed in Lady Paton's invitation. Miss Paton had put him off--but -she had not let him go; so Mr. Rodrigg interpreted the Egeria attitude; -she demanded patience--and she should have it. She was too clever a girl -to tolerate whining commonplaces; she would appreciate his whimsical -calm; he would not whine--he would wait and humor her. - -She liked to have important people about her, and Mr. Rodrigg explained -Sir Arthur very much as Camelia had explained Mr. Rodrigg. It was -platonic friendliness--quite hopeless. He realized that Camelia might -dally with his own hopes, that skill might be necessary to win her -finally, and he intended to be very skilful, to show no jealousy or -carping that might indispose her towards his future marital authority. -And Mr. Rodrigg hardly felt the fitness of jealousy. He was, he thought, -a cleverer man than Henge, a man of more intrinsic weight. Henge had a -light and pretty talent, spoke with conviction, but was not the man to -sway the world with socialism rewarmed in Tory saucepans; whereas Europe -trembled at Mr. Rodrigg's nod, at least so Mr. Rodrigg, not -unreasonably, was convinced. The "good match" theory in explanation of -Camelia's motives only fortified his own quiet consciousness of -supremacy. He quite gave Camelia credit for an undazzled directness of -vision that would surely apprise her of the side on which her bread was -most thickly buttered. So Mr. Rodrigg arrived in an atmosphere of -blue-books and business unavoidable, though with a minor effect of a -great mind unbending to lighter mundanities. His face was typically -British; ruddy, with broad features clearly hewn; keen eyes, a tight -mouth, and an expression of sagacious toleration of things in general. - -Camelia met him with her prettiest air of mutual understanding that -would warrant the neatest epigrams. Her penetration of Mr. Rodrigg's -character had never quite realized his tenacious conceit. - -He had been anxious, he had been hurt; but he had never imagined that -Camelia thought him hopeless. Her complacent conviction of intellectual -conquest was far indeed from his suppositions; the results of her -Italian reading had been adroitly thrown into his speech as a piece of -pretty flattery, that a great man might harmlessly permit himself -towards a wilful, easily flattered woman. So the two stupidities met -quite unconscious one of the other. - -Mr. Rodrigg was to stop for a fortnight at least, and as Sir Arthur had -to absent himself at intervals during the period, Camelia was all the -more content. She feared that Sir Arthur's attitude of independence and -non-expectancy might antagonize Mr. Rodrigg. She relied upon her own -arguments, her own flattering influence. She sat up late at night -cramming the pamphlets, reports, and books with which Sir Arthur -supplied her. The resultant pallor at breakfast deepened the effect of -an intellectual atmosphere in which she wrapped herself serenely. Mr. -Rodrigg smiled, paternally almost, and with his most tolerant calm, upon -these efforts. He cut her a large slice of cold beef at the side-board -and advised her to take a glass of port; "You mustn't tire yourself, you -know, my dear young lady." - -He rather resented Henge's evident influence when he saw how deeply -Camelia was determined on the bill, but not really troubled by it. -Camelia's fervor of sympathy seemed really personal; girlish -emotionalism, a futile but pretty pity quite interpreted her tenacity. -He was rather pleased that she should be on the side of the factory -women, though anxious to explain to her that the logic of his own -position need not exclude that partiality. - -He thought it safer, however, to argue as little as possible, and -listened attentively and pleasantly, quite willing to go this far in -humoring. Meanwhile Camelia's delay in announcing an engagement imposed -a general silence; no one spoke of Sir Arthur as an accepted lover, and -Mr. Rodrigg might perhaps be pardoned if no such instinctive intimation -penetrated his thick self-confidence. Sir Arthur coming down for a -Saturday and Sunday in Mr. Rodrigg's visit, and going off again on a -Monday, rather avoided an encounter. - -Mr. Rodrigg himself good-humoredly introduced the subject of the bill -one evening in the smoking-room, and they talked of it amicably and -impersonally for a little while. But after this talk Sir Arthur said to -Camelia-- - -"I see very plainly where he stands. He will be firmly against me; his -reticence doesn't conceal that." - -"Are you sure?" asked Camelia. She herself was not at all sure. In a -walk with Mr. Rodrigg that morning she had certainly observed promising -leaf-blades break the stiff soil of his non-committal attitude. Camelia -did not imagine that her own beaming smile might well allure those -vernal symptoms. - -"Quite sure," said Sir Arthur, who was really getting rather tired of -Mr. Rodrigg and his utility, "and--now that I won't see you again until -next Thursday--won't you talk of something as far removed from the bill -as possible." - -"That would be a very uninteresting something," said Camelia. "No, I can -think of nothing but politics just now. Whose fault is that, pray? Did -you see the report Mr. Dobson sent me this morning? You don't want to -see it! Fie, you lukewarm reformer. Now pray be patient--we will talk of -something else on Thursday, perhaps." So she warded him off, conscious -always of that trembling retreat when the momentous question approached -her. She was almost glad when Sir Arthur was gone again. At all events, -she would make a good fight for his cause whether or no she accepted -him. - -"And you are on our side too, are you not?" she said to Perior, for -Perior, more silent than ever, and revolving inner cogitations on his -own laxity, still made an almost daily visit. - -He owned that he was on "their side." - -"And you will support us in the _Friday_." - -"I am going to do my best." - -"But not because I ask you!" laughed Camelia, who still felt a little -soreness since that uncomfortable interview where she had so much -surprised herself. She was still rather resentful, and sorry that her -tears might have implied confession. She was conscious now of a touch of -defiance behind the light smiling of her eyes as he owned that her -asking formed no compulsory element in his decision. - -"Don't you think that Mr. Rodrigg may be malleable?" Camelia pursued, -"Sir Arthur is to convert him, you know." - -"You or Sir Arthur?" She laughed at this. "Would it be terribly wicked -if I tried my hand at it?" - -"It would be terribly useless," Perior remarked; but Camelia looked -placidly unconvinced. - -"I am justified in trying, am I not?" - -"That depends;" Perior was decidedly cautious. - -"Since I believe thoroughly in the bill; since only intellectual forces -will be brought to bear on our stodgy friend,--there is nothing of the -lobbyist in it." - -"I am sure that Henge wouldn't like it," said Perior, with the certain -coolness he always evinced in speaking to her of Sir Arthur. - -"Why not?" - -"It would put him in a false position towards Rodrigg. Rodrigg will -imagine that you are bribing him." - -"_Bribing_ him!" Camelia straightened herself. - -"Yes; that the price paid for his apostasy will be your hand," and this -indeed was exactly what Mr. Rodrigg, with some alarm, was beginning to -think. - -"Apostasy! If the creature won't be sincerely convinced we don't want -him!" cried Camelia. - -"Very well, you have my opinion of the matter." Perior's whole manner -had of late been particularly irksome to Camelia. - -Lady Henge meanwhile, seeing her son's foe within the gates, most -seriously and conscientiously, and openly, made good her opportunity. -She took her mental mastery far more gravely than Camelia took hers, and -poor Mr. Rodrigg began to think that he was asked to pay a heavy price -for his hymeneal visit when Lady Henge cornered him in the drawing-room -and stupefyingly admonished him. Lady Henge's arguments were all based -on superbly moral grounds, and levelled with severity at the iniquity of -individualistic theories, which she demonstrated to be scientifically -and ethically unsound. He at times found it very difficult to keep his -temper. But under the exquisite warmth of Camelia's urgency his hopes -were high. He could regard with humoring half compliances this pretty -whim of his pretty Camelia. Camelia would have raged could she have -known Mr. Rodrigg's real impressions--impressions accompanied by the -fatherly tolerance of that "pretty Camelia." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -Sir Arthur was back again on Thursday, alertly conscious of a half -promise, and he intended to put it to the test while he and Camelia rode -together in the afternoon. The party was made up: Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -Gwendolen Holt, Sir Harry, and another young man--but Camelia did not -go. The horses were already before the door, and she, fully equipped in -riding costume, engaged before her mirror on the final details of veil -and gloves, when Perior rode up; Camelia saw him through the window, and -heard him decline to join their party, as he had come for Mary. Mary was -not a good rider, nor could she be urged beyond the dullest trot, and -Perior's refusal was no doubt on her account. Poor Alceste! Condemned to -Mary for a whole afternoon! In a rapid change of project Camelia dashed -out of her habit and into her prettiest white dress, sent down a note to -Sir Arthur pleading sudden headache, and commanding him to go without -her, saw the five depart obediently, and placidly descended to capture -Perior. Mary was getting ready; Camelia, as she passed her room, saw her -sewing a button on a glove, her habit laid in readiness on the bed. -Camelia would have liked her ride; it was only from the impulsive wish -for ten or fifteen minutes with Perior that she had sacrificed it, and -she saw with satisfaction that Mary would take quite that time. - -"Well, how do you do?" she said, finding him as usual in the -morning-room, "I _think_ we have got him," she added, picking up the -threads of their last conversation. - -"That is Rodrigg, of course," said Perior, looking with a pleasure he -could not conceal at her charming appearance. He felt for a moment like -telling her that in that dress she was bewitchingly pretty, but checked -the impulse with some surprise at it. - -"Yes, I argued out the whole third clause with him yesterday," said -Camelia, smiling her happiest smile, for she was quite conscious of -those unspoken words. - -"Dear me!" - -"He seemed impressed--though you are not. Sit down." - -"He seemed what he was not, no doubt--I haven't the faculty." Perior -spoke quite good-temperedly. Indeed, Camelia's political manoeuvres -did not displease him--consoled him in a sense. There was a pretty folly -about them quite touching, and her earnestness seemed to vouch for some -real feeling. - -"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, taking the place -beside him on the sofa and leaning forward, her arms on her knees. - -"The man wants to please you," said Perior, looking at her white hands -hanging idly together. He wondered again whether egotism or a real -fondness for Arthur moved her. - -The long delay of the engagement excited and made him nervous. It had -usually been so easy to see through Camelia, and he did not like the -perplexity. Still, the thought that she hesitated pleased him; she would -accept Arthur, doubtlessly, but at least she would imagine that she -cared for him. Camelia had gained some moral value in his eyes from that -pause. - -"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, feeling -delightedly that the atmosphere was much less chilling than usual. - -"The man wants to please you." - -"Well, and what then?" - -"He expects to marry you." - -"Nonsense!" she said with a laugh of truest sincerity. - -"Tell him that you are engaged to Arthur, and see." Perior's curiosity -made that little probe, and the eyes of both showed a mutual -self-consciousness; both thought of the last scene in the morning-room. - -"I can't make the experiment yet, even to please you," said Camelia, -satisfied that her cheeks showed no rising color. "Mr. Rodrigg is really -attached to me. He would do a great deal for me." - -"Your smile for all reward." - -"Exactly." - -"You are a goose, Camelia." - -But she was pleasing him; her conceit amused him almost tenderly, and he -laughed. - -"You think me fatuous, no doubt," said Camelia, laughing too. - -"Yes, rather fatuous. Not as clear-sighted as usual." - -"Mr. Rodrigg knows that I could never marry him," said Camelia more -gravely; "he can only hope for my smile, and, if he helps me through, I -shall always smile." - -"I don't credit Mr. Rodrigg with the faintest flavor of such humility." - -Camelia's smile, confidently unconvinced, now shifted to a humorous -little grimace. "He never really hoped. As though I _could_ have married -a man with a nose like that!" - -"I maintain that he does so hope--despite his nose; an excellently -honest nose it is too." - -"So broad at the tip! as though he had flattened it against adverse -forces all his life. It is a plebeian trait, an inheritance from -money-getting ancestors who held theirs conscientiously to the -grindstone." - -"Mine should show the peculiarity," and Perior rubbed it, "it has been -ground persistently." - -"Ah--a merely acquired tendency; besides, you are not going to ask me to -marry you--so you may carry your nose fearlessly." Camelia's eye, -despite the light audacity of her tone, fixed him with a certain alert -hardness. - -Perior bowed, his hand on his heart. "Thanks for the intimation. I shall -carry it quite fearlessly, I assure you." - -Camelia laughed. "But I like your nose," said she, leaning towards him; -and, very much as a kitten gives a roguish paw-tap, she drew a finger -briskly down the feature in question. - -Perior grew a little red, and drew back rather sharply. - -"What a staid person you are," said Camelia, quite unabashed; "you don't -take a compliment gracefully, Alceste; not that it was a compliment, -exactly, since your nose is not at all handsome; a poor thing but to my -taste. I like its dominant ruggedness, and that nice lift in the -bridge." - -"Well, Camelia, I came to take Mary out riding, you know," said Perior, -who still showed signs of uneasiness under her scrutiny. - -"Yes, I know; you are so good to Mary. She is getting ready." - -Camelia contemplated Perior's paternal relation towards Mary most -unsuspectingly, yet she really did not like it. She could not like -anything that withdrew a very important tributary from the river-like -receptivity of her existence. Mary's narrow channel was quite unmeet for -such a complimentary contribution, and Camelia was sincerely convinced -of the mere charitableness of Perior's attitude. Then, above all, Perior -was her own especial property; Mary might profit by him when she did not -feel the want of him, and this afternoon she wanted him--very much, as -it now struck her. To have sacrificed her ride for this bare ten minutes -had been hardly worth while. She had not looked beyond the impulse of -the moment, and the lonely hours stretched in long inconsistency before -her. She thought of them now with some surprised dismay, and her eyes, -still contemplating Perior's nose, grew vague with conjecture. Perior -certainly, despite his latter severity, would rather spend his afternoon -with her than with Mary. He could not own to it, of course, nor would -she force him to such an issue; but it might be managed--pleasantly for -every one, for all three. Camelia's life, so wide in its all embracing -objectivity, had little time for self-analysis, little time therefore -for putting herself in other people's places. Her lack of sympathy was -grounded on a lack of all self-knowledge. Therefore her mind turned the -matter quickly in the direction that best suited the desire of the -moment, good and bad being to Camelia external facts that either pleased -or displeased herself, and she said without one inner compunction, -"Shall I hurry her up? And I must see that she puts her hat on properly. -Mary has an unerring instinct for the unbecoming." - -"Has she?" said Perior, in the tone that Camelia well understood as -being altogether unencouraging and perhaps disgusted. "Don't hurry her. -I can wait." - -"See how unkindly I dress my best impulses," said Camelia, smiling. "I -really want to help her, and to make her smart and tidy. A few touches -of my fingers about Mary's unfurnished forehead, and her face assumes a -certain grace and prettiness. Alceste, you must not take my flippancy -_au grand serieux_--you are in danger of becoming ridiculous, Alceste, I -warn you of it." She had certainly succeeded in making "Alceste" smile, -and with a reassured and reassuring wave of the hand she left him, -delighted with her own ability for forcing him to swallow her -naughtinesses--for swallow them he must; she would feign nothing for -him; she would exaggerate even the defects he saw so solemnly. She was -quite sure now that she must not be left alone, and that Perior must -spend the afternoon with her. She ran upstairs quickly, conscious of -how prettily she sprang from stair to stair, of how charmingly with its -silk and muslin rustle her white dress swayed about her, conscious even -of the distinguished elegance of her white hand gliding up the hand -rail; for Camelia had always time for these aesthetic notes, and her -grace, her dress, and her hand were so many reasons for keeping Perior -to admire them. Mary was quite ready, and looking really nice; a pretty -color, and the dull fairness of her hair smoothed neatly beneath her -hat. - -Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed -aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the -barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that -Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of -appreciation. - -Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the -threshold. - -"Were you going with them? They are gone, dear!" - -Mary turned from the mirror, her habit skirt falling from her arm; on -her face a dismal astonishment, that Camelia, absorbed in the mental -completion of her arrangement, hardly noticed. - -"Sir Arthur, Gwendolen, the others--you were going out with them." She -scarcely knew why she hedged her position with this pretence of -ignorance. But Mary's face brightened happily. - -"Oh no, Mr. Perior is going with me. You haven't seen him, then. He came -for me." - -Camelia had the barrel-organ all in readiness, and prepared to roll it -forward without delay. - -"Oh! did he? Well, Mary, I have another plan for you this afternoon, -you will like it just as well, I know. I promised Mrs. Grier to make -that charitable round of visits to her poor people with her this -afternoon. We were to go to the almshouses, and I have a basket of -sweets for the children in Copley, and now I must give up going because -of this dreadful headache, and knowing that nothing would please you -more----." - -It was quite true that Camelia had made the appointment with Mrs. Grier, -but on agreeing to go out riding with Sir Arthur, she had intended to -ride to Mrs. Grier's house and make charming apologies--of which Sir -Arthur's tyrannous monopoly would bear the brunt. By her present plan -both Mary and Mrs. Grier would be pleased. She congratulated herself on -her thoughtful dexterity. Mary liked Mrs. Grier so much, liked -almshouses and poor children, and especially liked the distributing of -goodies among them; Mary gained everything by the little shuffle, and -she was not at all prepared for a certain stiffening and hardening in -her cousin's expression. "It is a lovely basket, and tea and curates -galore," she added, turning on the final roulade of the barrel-organ, -rather wondering, for the coldness of Mary's look was apparent, though -Camelia did not divine the underlying confusion. - -Mary was well trained in self-abnegation, but she turned her eyes away -without replying for a moment: "Could you not send word to Mrs. Grier?" -she asked. - -Camelia felt quite a shock of surprise at the tone, and a sense of -injury that hardened her in advance against possible opposition. - -"Oh, it is too late, my dear--she would be terribly disappointed--and -the children--and the tea prepared for me--the people invited. Why, -Mary, don't you want to go?" - -"I wanted the ride," said Mary in a low voice; and growing very red she -added, "I am afraid Mr. Perior will think me rude." - -"Oh, I will make your excuses!" Camelia, in all the impetus of her -desire, was much vexed by this ungrateful doggedness. - -"Mr. Perior and I could ride over and explain," Mary added. - -Camelia had never met in her cousin such opposition, and a certain -dryness mingled with the real grievance in her voice as she said-- - -"Is your heart so set on this ride, Mary? Mr. Perior will take you out -again, and you know that the pleasure is always rather one-sided, since -he particularly likes a good gallop across country. It isn't quite like -you, I think, to disappoint a friend like Mrs. Grier--you are so fond of -Mrs. Grier, I thought." - -During this speech Mary's face grew crimson. Setting her lips, she began -quickly to draw off her gloves; Camelia felt suddenly a sense of -discomfort. - -"You will enjoy it, I am sure, Mary." - -Mary made no reply, and silently unbuttoned her coat. - -"I beg of you, Mary, not to go if you are going to feel aggrieved about -it. I do not see what I am to do. I thought it would be quite a treat -for you." - -"Thanks, Camelia." - -"You will go, then?" - -"Oh yes, Camelia." - -Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she -could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the -unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She -lingered, however. - -"You are right to keep on that straw hat--it is very becoming to you. -Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make -conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table. -Shall I order the dog-cart for you?" - -"Thanks very much, Camelia." - -"Mary, you make me feel--horridly!" - -Camelia could not check that impulse. "Do you _mind_? You see that I -can't get out of it; you see that it wouldn't do--don't you? I hope you -don't really _mind_." - -"Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless--very -ungrateful." The conventional humility rasped Camelia's discontent. "And -you will tell Mr. Perior?--you will explain?" - -"Yes, yes, dear." - -Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left -her with the assurance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly. -But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the -stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had -been decidedly spoiled by the candle's unmanageable smoking and -guttering. Mary's decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for -feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of petty -falsities for which Perior would have scorned her. - -Remembering that to account comfortably for Mary's absence she must lie -to him, she came to a sudden standstill outside the door of the -morning-room. How badly she had managed everything! She did not want to -lie to him. Why had not Mary been delighted to go--as she should have -been? Only the thought of Mary's general disagreeableness fortified her -a little. - -Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor, -as she entered. - -"Oh, Camelia," he said disappointedly. - -"Only Camelia." She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing -red. - -"Where is Mary?" - -"I have come to make Mary's excuses. She can't go--is so sorry." With an -effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that -to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the -matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her -credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching. - -"Can't go?" he repeated staring. "Why she sent me word that she would be -ready in twenty minutes." - -"She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone--" -(it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), "but couldn't -because of my headache--I have a horrible headache. I would have put her -off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round -of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children, and afterwards -tea and curates galore--" Camelia realized that with a confused -uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. "Mary likes tea -and likes curates," she went on, pushed even further by that sense of -confusion--she had never told her old friend so many lies, "and the -curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a -choice among them." Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny -for suspicion, yet Perior still stared. - -"What a vacuous look!" laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been -forced to cross quite so many Rubicons. - -"I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself--as usual," he said -slowly. - -"Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against -half-a-dozen curates--reinforced by tea and sandwiches?" - -"Mary likes our rides immensely--and I never saw any signs of a fondness -for curates." - -"No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the -Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined." - -Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, "I don't -think she is looking over well--you know her father died of -consumption." - -"Don't; he was my uncle!" Camelia exclaimed. "Still, my chest is as -sound as a drum." She gave it a reassuring thump. - -"That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary's?" - -She looked at him candidly. - -"You foolish, fussy old person! Mary is solidly, stolidly well; who -could associate the lilies and languors of illness with Mary? You are -trying to poetize Mary's prose to worry me, but you can't rhyme it, I -assure you." - -"I don't know about that!" Perior was again, for a moment, silent. "I -don't think Mary has a very gay time of it," he said, speaking with a -half nervous resolution, as though he had often wished to speak and kept -back the words. "She doesn't go out much with you in London, does she?" - -Camelia did not like his tone, but she replied with lightness, "Not -much, Mary is a home-keeping body. She is not exactly fitted for worldly -gaieties, and she understands it perfectly." - -"How trying for Mary"--the nervousness was quite gone now--once he had -broached a delicate subject Perior could handle it with little -compunction. - -"Mary is very happy, if you please. She adores me, and is devoted to -Mamma. Mamma is certainly nicer to her than I am--that is an affair of -temperament, for Mary does bore me tremendously--I think she knows that -she does, but she adores me, since I don't deserve it--the way of the -world--a horrid place--I don't deny it." - -"Happy Mary! allowed to adore your effulgence--but at a distance--since -she bores you, and knows she does!" And over his collar Camelia could -observe that Perior's neck had grown red. She joined him at the window, -and said, looking up at his face-- - -"Why do you force me to such speeches? I am not responsible for the -inequalities of nature--though I recognize them so cold-bloodedly. The -contrast does not hurt her, for she is a good, contented little soul, -and then--for nature does give compensations--she has no keen -susceptibilities;" she locked her hands on his shoulder, and smiling at -him, "Come, you know that I am fond of Mary. You should have seen how -prettily I arranged her hair to-day--it would have softened your heart -towards me. Come, we are not going to quarrel again." - -Perior's eye turned on her, certainly softened in expression, "By no -means, I hope," and he smiled a little, "especially as I must be -off--since I have missed my ride." - -Camelia's face at this unlooked-for consummation took on an expression -of sincerest dismay. - -"Going! you will leave me all alone! They have all gone!" - -Perior laughed, looking at her now with the same touch of irrepressible -pleasure she could usually count on arousing. - -"Poor little baby! and it has a headache, too?" - -"Yes, it has; please stay with it." - -She was quite sure that he wanted to stay; indeed, Camelia's certainty -of Perior's fundamental fondness for her was an article of faith -untouched by doubt. - -"Very well, you want to show off your dress, I see." Perior's smile in -its humoring coyness was charming; Camelia felt that she quite adored -him when he so smiled at her. "A very pretty dress it is; I have been -taking it in." - -"And we will have tea in the garden," said Camelia, in tones of happy -satisfaction, "and you will see how good I am--when you are good to me. -And I'll tell you all about the people who are coming--for I must have -more of them--droves of them; in batches, artistic batches, 'smart' -batches, intellectual batches, political batches. You and I will look at -them." - -"Thanks; you don't limit me to a batch then?" - -They were still standing near the window, and she kept a hand on his -shoulder, and looked at him now with the gravity that made her face so -strange. - -"No, dear Alceste, you know I don't." - -He returned her look, smiling with a little constraint. - -"We must be more together," Camelia went on, "we must take up our -studying. No, Mr. Rodrigg, I can't walk with you this morning, I am -reading the Agamemnon with Mr. Perior." Camelia's eyes, mouth, the -delicately long lines of her cheek, quivered with the half malicious, -half tender smile that tilted every curve and every shadow from calm to -roguery. - -"How Mr. Rodrigg will hate me, to be sure," said Perior, who at that -moment felt that he would like to kiss his bunch of primroses--an -illusion of dewiness possessed him. - -"And now for tea under the copper beech. And I will read to you. What -shall I read? It will be quite like old days!" - -"When we were young together," said Perior, smiling at her so fondly -that she felt deliciously reassured as to everything. - -The gods always helped a young lady who helped herself. Such had been -Camelia's experience in life, even when she helped herself to other -people's belongings. - -At all events, with hardly a qualm of conscience, Camelia enjoyed the -afternoon she had wrested from poor Mary. - -The tea-table was duly installed under the wide shade of the -copper-beech. Perior carried out an armful of books and reviews from -which to choose. They drank their tea and ate their bread and butter, -and Camelia read aloud from the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. And it cannot -be denied that Perior, sitting in the cool green shadow, listening to -the perfect French accent, looking at the white figure sprinkled with -the pale shifting gold that filtered through the leaves above them, -enjoyed himself a great deal more than he would have done with Mary. -Truly at times the way of transgressors is very easy. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -But retribution followed Camelia's manoeuvre. On the advent of Mr. -Rodrigg, very red and hot after a long country walk with Lord Haversham -(who also had axes to grind), Perior said good-bye, remounted his horse, -and rode off. It was six o'clock, a warmly rosy evening. The hot gold -was gone, but in the sunset influences there was a certain oppression. -Perior yawned and rode slowly along the strip of turf that bordered the -dusty road. But though he felt physically very indolent, his mind was -delightfully alert, weaving busily, with a sense of freedom and -joyousness, a web of hopeful imaginings, swinging the illusive, -intangible filaments from point to point of the afternoon's experience. -Nothing, in his estimation, could raise Camelia much above the level to -which that cluster of frivolous lies had sunk her; his very heart ached -when he thought of them--especially of the lie to Arthur; but the tears -of last week, though his reason denied their influence, had in reality -touched, surprised, and softened him, and made him hopeful. And now came -the smiles, the sincerity, the sweetness of this afternoon; he could not -distrust them. The idealist impulse--the master mood of his nature, -though reined in so often by bitter experience, began to evolve an ell -from the supposititious inch of excellence. The possibility of moral -worth; the implication of some real rectitude of soul, that her truth to -him seemed to justify; the formative power of a real affection for -Arthur: so Perior wove his spider web, working as the spider does, from -the merest foothold, and bridging chasms with a shining thread of trust. - -Yet alas! for Camelia--that afternoon had certainly been a bungling -piece of mismanagement, a covetous snatching at the present, a foolhardy -forgetting of the future. - -Perior met Mary returning in the dog-cart. He had not forgotten Mary, -nor his suspicions of self-sacrifice. He turned his horse's head again -and proposed to ride back with her. Yes, he had plenty of time; and in -assuring her of it he smiled his kindest smile, and the pony and the -horse fell into a walk. The hours under the copper-beech, with Camelia's -white dress, and Camelia's shining head to look at, had seemed -delightfully cool and pleasant, yet the autumn afternoon had been a hot -one, and Mary's face was flushed, tired, and to her own knowledge, even -a little tremulous. - -"Did you have a nice afternoon?" he asked her. - -"Oh, very, thanks," the habit of submissive gratitude was too strong to -be mastered at the first moment, though she added, "Camelia told you how -_sorry_ I was?" - -"Yes, but I am still wounded. I did not think you would have deserted me -for the babies of Copley." - -It was rather useless to attempt humor with Mary, for even he could -interpret as alarmed and distressed the look of her face as it turned -to him. - -"Oh! but I did not want to go!" she exclaimed; "you know that! Camelia -wished it--she had a headache, and said Mrs. Grier expected her, so, -though I was quite ready for our ride, looking forward to it so much, I -had to go; but I didn't want to--indeed I was dreadfully disappointed--" -And then suddenly the sense of injury, of resentment, of dismay at -herself that she should wish to display that resentment--should wish to -retaliate for humiliations too deep for display, getting altogether the -better of her, two large tears--and Mary had been swallowing tears all -the afternoon--rolled suddenly down her cheeks and splashed upon her -dusty gloves. - -"Why, Mary! _Mary!_" said Perior, aghast. - -She searched for her handkerchief in hasty confusion. "How silly I am! I -can't help it; it has been so hot, I am so tired." - -"My poor child!" But Perior was more stricken than the sympathy of his -tone made manifest. His pity sprang comprehendingly to Mary, but a -deeper emotion underlay it. It was as if Mary had thrust that dusty -dog-skin glove right through his beautiful, fragile spider web, and as -he was dashed from his illusion his thoughts gathered themselves in -quick bitter avengefulness. - -"You were ready? dressed, you say?" he was already sure of Camelia's -falseness, but he wished to define it, to see just how much she had -lied, to see just how far went her heartlessness. - -"Yes," Mary could not restrain the plaintive note, though she was -drying her eyes in a sort of terror over her weakness. - -"And Camelia forced you to go?" - -"Oh, don't think that!" Mary had thought it, but the words spoken by him -shocked her. "She did not know how much I had set my heart on the ride, -and it would have been a pity had Mrs. Grier been disappointed. That is -what Camelia thought of--" and Mary quite believed Camelia as far as -that went; but the cruel manner of discharging her duty! the deep injury -of the forces brought to bear! The memory of them rose irrepressibly, -poignantly. - -"How considerate of Camelia!" Perior's anger made any careful analysis -of Camelia's motives impossible. She had shirked an irksome duty, and -kept him to entertain her laziness. The latter fact did not in the least -mollify him; it was of a piece with her grasping selfishness, Mary's -pleasure not weighing a feather's weight against the momentary wish. She -had gone to "hurry" Mary, and on her return from the cousinly little -errand, had given him the impression of Mary's uninfluenced change of -plan--even implying curates as its cause! Liar! The word almost choked -him as he kept it down, for he did not want Mary to know her a liar. - -"She went to your room to ask you to go?" he pursued, choosing a safe -question. - -But his persistence aroused in Mary a certain dim suspicion. - -"Yes," she said; "she was surprised to see me dressed. She did not know -I was going with you." The very force of her inner resentment--a hating -resentment, as she felt with terror--made her grasp at an at least -outward loyalty. But hardly had she spoken the words when the suspicion, -definite, tingling with probability, leaped upon her. She looked quickly -at Perior. He was white to the lips. This revelation fairly silenced -him. He put his horse to the trot, and the dog-cart, hastening its pace, -kept beside him. - -Mary could hardly have spoken. Her mind was in a whirl of broken, -distracted thoughts, that only grew to coherence when the wave-like -conviction of Camelia's mean robbery broke over her. - -Perior's scorning rage meanwhile hurried forward to wreak itself on -Camelia; he was conscious only of its scorching. - -They reached the park gates in silence; then Mary was able to say, "Are -you coming in?" - -"Yes, I will come in for a moment." - -"You--you won't say anything about--my silliness?" - -"My dear Mary, I must speak to Camelia; but you have accused her of -nothing, nor shall she think you have. I will come for you to-morrow," -he added as he helped her down from the dog-cart at the door; "we will -have our ride. Don't be persuaded out of it either. Let other people do -their own charities. It won't harm them." - -Lady Paton was in the hall, a cool, gentle embodiment of the evening. -"Mary brought you back?--You are going to dine, Michael?" she asked. - -"No; I only want to see Camelia for a moment." - -"I have just come from her. She is with Mr. Rodrigg, talking politics," -and Lady Paton's smile implied the softest pride in Camelia's prowess in -that pursuit. "She says you have had an old-time afternoon, reading -together. You must take up your reading again, Michael--for the time -that she is left to us." - -Mary, going slowly up the stairs, bent her head as she heard, "Yes: he -had stayed with Camelia all the afternoon." He did not care to ride with -her--no, for all his kindness, the pleasure of the rides was poisoned -forever. That was the thought that, at the sight of him, had cut her to -the quick, bringing the tears to her eyes. More than Camelia's lie, -Camelia's cruelty in dealing her that humiliation, burned. When she -thought of it the blackness of her own heart terrified her. She felt -that she hated Camelia, and when she reached her room, she bolted the -door and fell on her bed in an agony of weeping. - -Camelia perhaps counted a little too confidently upon Mary's "adoration" -for her. To Mary, Camelia had always seemed the bright personification -of beauty, cleverness, joy. She had wondered at her, rather than admired -her. Her attitude of mind had been as that of a child staring at the -unattainable moon, shining silvery-gold, and sailing far above in a wide -clear sky. - -She had seldom been conscious in the past of any slight or injury. Her -most constant feeling was one of quiet duty. Camelia's little kindnesses -surprised her; her unkindnesses she took as a matter of course. But now, -in this dreadful clash of ill-matched interests, her life against -Camelia's game, all the sense of duty, of gratitude, of admiration, -went down in black shipwreck. She found that they had been flimsy -things, after all, that under their peaceful surface there had been for -many weeks a lava-like heaving of resentment. And the worst terror was -to see her life bereft of all supports--to see it unblessed, all hatred -and despair. For even at the moment she could judge herself, measure how -much she had lost in losing her blind humility--that at least gave calm -and a certain self-respect--could accuse herself of injustice. Camelia -had lied; but then Camelia could never have divined the rash folly of -Mary's secret--must never divine it; and the cruel humiliation of that -one blighting intimation of Perior's charity hurt more than the lie; and -Camelia's ignorance of the hurt she had inflicted only made it ache the -more. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -Meanwhile Perior marched off to the garden. He passed through the -morning-room where Mrs. Fox-Darriel was writing. - -"So you didn't get your ride either?" said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, who had her -own reasons--and not at all complex ones--for disliking Mr. Perior. "It -_was_ rather hot." - -Perior in his indifference did not even divine the suspicion that saw in -his arrival, and Camelia's defection and amusing headache, a -portentousness threatening to the object she had set her heart upon. - -Perior replied shortly, and it was with very little love that she -watched him walk over the lawn. Camelia really was a fool, and who knew -how far her folly might not go. - -Camelia was still under the copper-beech, and still talking to Mr. -Rodrigg. Perior perforce acknowledged her innocence of flirtatious -methods. Her earnest pose--elbows on the arm of her chair, hands -clasped, head gravely intent--denoted the seriousness with which she -took her role. - -Mr. Rodrigg's smile might have warned her. He balanced a teaspoon neatly -on his cup, and looked from it to her, vastly unimpressed as to the real -purport of the conversation. - -Perior's mood was too miserable, too savage, to allow him more than a -mere dart of cynical amusement at her folly. Camelia turned her head, -surprised at seeing him. Smiling a complacent little smile she patted -the chair beside her. - -"So you came back after all." - -"Yes." The nipped monosyllable, like a sudden _douche_ of icy water, -told her that since he had left her their relations had changed, and -changed very much for the worse. Her conjectures sprang immediately to -Mary. Bother Mary! what had she said? But at the thought of what she -might have said Camelia knew that her heart was shaking. Her look, on a -first impulse, would have been entreating, but in the presence of a -third person it grew cold in answer to his, and she turned again to Mr. -Rodrigg. - -"Go, on, please; I want your answer. I have still that one fallacy to -demolish, you know." - -Mr. Rodrigg observed Perior affably; he was a really important opponent. -"Miss Paton wishes, I believe, to institute a sort of eighteenth century -role for women in politics," he said, "the role that obtained in France -during that ominous century. She expects to rule England through her -_causeries_." - -"Indeed, I fancy that England would be very prettily ruled!" said -Camelia, laughing. - -Perior switched the dust on his boots and made no reply. - -"You have been reading, I hear," Mr. Rodrigg continued, seizing -gratefully the chance of escaping from the bill, "a very interesting -number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. I looked at it a day or two -since: the serial romance is quite a new departure in style. There is -certainly new leaven working in French literature. The revolt from -naturalism is very significant, very interesting, though some of the -extremes of opposition, such as symbolism, tend to become as unhealthy." - -"Symbolism, mysticism, in the modern naturalistic French writer, is -merely the final form of decadence," Camelia observed with some -sententiousness, feeling Perior's silent presence as an impulsion -towards artificiality in tone and manner, "the irridescent stage of -decay--pardon me for being nasty--but they are so nasty! I have had -quite enough of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_--so to business, Mr. -Rodrigg." But though Camelia was quite willing to ignore the new-comer, -Mr. Rodrigg insisted on dragging him into the running, until at last, -perceiving a most unencouraging unwillingness, he rose and left him to -the _tete-a-tete_ for which he had evidently returned, going off to the -house very good-humoredly. Perior's position was altogether unique, and -not one of Camelia's lovers gave his intimacy a thought. - -As Mr. Rodrigg's wide back disappeared through the morning-room windows -Camelia turned her head to Perior. - -"Well," she said, leaning back in her chair and putting her finger-tips -together with a pleasantly judicial air, "what have you to say? You look -very glum." - -"I met Mary, Camelia." - -"Ah! Did she have a good afternoon?" - -"No; I fancy it was as dull to her as it would have been to you." - -"Impossible. Mary loves such things; besides, I do not find them dull." - -Perior looked at her. - -"What a liar you are," he said. If hate and scorn could wither, Camelia -felt they would then have withered her; she quite recognized them in his -tone. - -But she was able to say with apparent calm--not crediting the endurance -of those unkind sentiments towards her, "indeed; you have called me that -before." - -"Will you deny," said Perior, looking at her with his most icy -steadiness--Camelia keeping her eyes on his, and feeling that for the -moment the best thing she could do was to hold firmly to their calm and -luminous directness of expression--"will you deny that you went up to -ask Mary to take your place? that you found her ready to go with me? -that you pretended not to know that I had come for her?--she let that -out in excusing you from my disgust!--didn't suspect you!--that to me -you pretended she had gone to Mrs. Grier's of her own accord?" - -The withering had begun to operate. Camelia felt his outward and her -inner press of feeling vanquishing the mild inquiry of her look. She -dropped her eyes. "Will you tell me why you take the trouble to debase -yourself--for such a trifle?" - -Camelia gazed at the grass. She had cried when he accused her unjustly; -but now that her own hurrying, searching thoughts could find no -loop-hole for denial she felt no wish to cry. She was not touched, but -silenced, quelled. The enormity of her misdeeds made her thoughtful, now -that they were put so plainly before her. She felt herself contemplating -the sum of lies with an almost impersonal curiosity. - -"Camelia!" The odd pitch of his voice, sharp with a sudden, -uncontrollable emotion, made her look up. - -He rose, paused, looking back at her. "You are breaking my heart," he -said. He had not intended to say it, nor known the truth that now came -imperatively to his lips. How she had hurt him, after all! He felt that -he was almost appealing to her, that indignation, scorn, hatred of her -baseness, were as nothing compared with that appeal--not to hurt him; -and he grew very white. An answering pang shot through Camelia's -heart--whether pain, pity, or triumph she could not have told; but she -said quickly, her eyes rounded in unfamiliar solemnity, still on his-- - -"Breaking your heart?" - -"I care for you," said Perior; "I only ask for a mere cranny, where a -friendly tenderness might find foothold--one ray of sincerity, of -honor--to make me feel that my fondness for you is not a--a -contemptible, a weakening folly. It's as if you dashed me down on the -rocks--just as I fancy I've found something to hold on by!" he spoke -brokenly, clutching and unclutching his hands on his riding cane. "And I -have to watch you dragging yourself through the dustiest meannesses; -would I care if it was another woman!--no--let her be contemptible, -ugly, puny, I could give it a laugh--one can only laugh; but you! to be -fond of you! to watch you growing more and more greedy, soulless; a -liar, a flatterer! Oh, it makes me sick!" - -Camelia had again lowered her eyelids, but her eyes stared, startled at -the grass. A creeping coldness went through the roots of her hair; she -knew that her face was pale. For quite a long time there was perfect -silence. - -"To rob that poor child of her little pleasure," Perior said at last, -"to lie to her--to me; and for what? What use had you for me? Were you -so anxious to read me the _Revue des Deux Mondes_? _Why_ did you lie?" - -"I don't know," said Camelia feebly. - -"_You don't know?_" he repeated. - -"No--I thought Mary would not mind. I thought she would like to go." - -"And you left me intending to ask her?" - -"Yes." - -"Telling me you were going to hurry her?" - -"Yes." - -"Pretending to her that you did not know I had come for her?" - -"Yes." There was an impulse struggling in Camelia's heart--frightening -her--but worse than fright, the thought of not freeing it. "One ray of -sincerity." Mary had been noble enough not to tell him--she must be -noble enough to tell. - -"More than that--" she added, feeling her very breath leave her. - -"More!" - -"Yes; I let Mary think you would rather stay with me;--that you didn't -care to ride with her----" - -"_Camelia!_" They were in full view of the house, but his hand fell -heavily upon her shoulder; and so he stood for a long moment, too much -stupefied by the confession to find another word. - -But Camelia took a long breath of recovery; sighed with it, and felt the -blood come back gratefully to her heart. - -"But why?--why?--why?" Perior said at last, in a voice from which anger -seemed to have ebbed despairingly away, leaving only an immense and -wondering sadness, "_Why_, Camelia?" - -A faint, appealing little sparkle lit her face as she glanced up at him; -that weight gone, all the buoyancy of her nature rose, ready to win -smiles and rewarding looks of caressing encouragement. - -"I wanted to read you the _Revue des Deux Mondes_." - -He stared at her, baffled and miserable. - -"And though I was a viper--it was true, wasn't it? You _would_ rather -stay with me." - -"Yes, no doubt I would," said Perior with a gloom half dazed. - -"And you see I did want you so much! Mary could not have wanted you -nearly so much! Why, I gave up my ride to stay with you! I had no -headache!" she announced the fact quite joyously; "I simply thought -suddenly how nice it would be to spend the afternoon with you--like old -days--when we were young together! I really thought Mary would prefer -Mrs. Grier--really I did! And once embarked on a fib--for I did not want -her to think that I cared so much to have you--I had to go on--they all -came one after the other," said Camelia, dismally now, "and even when I -saw how disappointed she was I hardened my heart in its selfishness--a -perfect devil, of course; yes, I see quite well that I was a devil. So -there is the truth for you. Really the truth. More than _one ray of -sincerity_, is it not? And I need not have told you, since good old Mary -was such a trump. There! I have lain down under your feet--and you may -scrub your boots on me if you want to!" - -"Alas, Camelia!" said Perior. He sat down again. Her confession had -indeed forced upon him a certain resignation. For some moments he did -not speak. "I believe I am the only person in the world to whom you -would humble yourself like this," he said at last. "I am a convenient -father-confessor for you. You find yourself more comfortable after -dumping your load of sins on me. It's a corner in your psychology I've -never quite understood--another little twist of egotism my mind is too -blunt to penetrate. I am not worth while deceiving--is that it?" and as -her eyes rested on his in mute, but unmistakable pain, he added, the -note of resignation deepened, "You do not repent, that is evident. You -confess; but it is very much as if I particularly hated dirty -finger-nails, and to please my fastidiousness you washed yours." - -"I might have hidden them," Camelia murmured, glancing down at the -translucent pink and white of those _objets d'art_. - -"Yes, you might; that is your advantage. The speck of dirt worried you, -knowing my taste. The matter to you is just about on that level of -seriousness. You are not sorry for Mary; you are merely preening -yourself for me. It is that; your heartlessness, your selfishness, your -hard indifference to other people's feelings that makes me despair of -you. For I do despair of you." - -"Am I so heartless, so selfish, so hard?" - -"I am afraid you are." - -"And it breaks your heart?" - -Perior laughed shortly. - -"Ah; you find compensation in that! I shall survive, Camelia. I have -managed to survive a great many disagreeable experiences." - -"And I am one. Don't you feel a little more kindly towards me? Are you -not a little flattered by the realization that my misdeeds arose -entirely from my affection for you?" Camelia smiled sadly, adding, "It's -quite true." - -"You want to monopolize me, as you monopolize everything, Camelia. If -there was a cat that did not devote itself exclusively to you, you would -woo the cat. In this case I am the cat." - -"Dear cat!" she stretched out her hand and put it on his arm. "May I -stroke you, cat?" - -"No, thanks. You shall not enthral me." He rose as he spoke. "Good-bye." - -"Good-bye? Will you not stay to dine?" - -"No; I am in no dining humor." - -"Haven't you forgiven me--absolved me--one little bit?" - -"Not one little bit, Camelia." - -His farewell look she felt to be steeled against her in its -resoluteness, though weak in its long dwelling. She knew that when he -was gone the resoluteness would remain with him; the weakness would -leave him with his departure from her presence. She enthralled him by -the mere fact of being before him, baffling and exquisite; therefore he -was leaving her. There was an air of finality in his very way of turning -from her in silence. She watched him walk away over the lawn, and sat on -in the dusk. She was a little dazed, and an evening dreaminess veiled -from her the poignancy of her own fear. She evaded it, too, by the -thought: he cares so much, so much. Then, too, what difference did it -make? She could always wrap herself, in case of a shivering emergency, -in that cloak of carelessness; but the fact of his caring so very much -kept her now from shivering. When she went into the house at last she -found Mrs. Fox-Darriel still alone in the morning-room. - -"My dear Camelia," she said, looking round at her young friend, "when -next you submit to being shaken by Mr. Perior, I really would choose a -more secluded spot. The whole house might have been staring at you; and -I can assure you that the spectacle you offered was highly ludicrous. A -rabbit in an eagle's claws." - -"And, really, if I choose to be whipped up and down the drive by Mr. -Perior, I shall do it, Frances, notwithstanding your disapproval." -Camelia was in no temper for smarting advice. - -"The man is insufferable," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, "_il porte sa tete -comme un saint sacrement_; provincial apostolics. Your flattering wish -to please him is not at all in character." - -"Your knowledge of my character, Frances, is very restricted," Camelia -replied, walking away to her room. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Camelia during the next few days was conscious of an expectant pause. -There was a page to be turned. She kept her own hand from it; for a day -or two, at least, she would not stir a finger; and if Perior chose to -turn it, the turning bound her to nothing--would probably reveal mere -blankness, whereon he might inscribe an affectionate dedication for her -new life. In that case the new chapter would be hymeneal; indeed, it -seemed inevitable that she should marry Arthur Henge; the waiting volume -seemed inevitably that of her married life. - -But her thoughts were not with Arthur. They fixed themselves -persistently on Perior. Let him come--write the friendly dedication, -certify, by his blessing, to the sincerity and wisdom of her choice; or -else, was it not possible that he might dash the volume out of her -hands? No doubt she would pick it up again. Still, to see him dash it -down would be eventful. Therefore, she waited, more breathlessly than -she quite realized. - -The last act of the drama had left her with no spite at all against -Mary--its chief but insignificant factor. She was not resentful on the -score of Mary's revelations; on the other hand, Mary's charitable -reticence did not move her to gratitude. After all, it was a very -explicable reticence; her own confession to Perior had lent it the -kindest glamour. For Mary to have told Perior all would have been a -humiliating plea for his negative; and the negative he could not have -given with sincerity. Mary had felt that. No; Camelia's analysis -disowned any obligation; but neither was she conscious of the least -anger. A mean revengefulness was not in her nature, she was as easy -towards Mary as towards herself; she quite saw that to Mary she must -have seemed horrid, and that perfectly atoned for the whines in which -poor Mary had probably indulged. She was sure the whines had not been -spiteful. She could imagine Mary injured, but not at all spiteful; and -on their first meeting after the portentous dressing-room scene, her -eyes rested in blankest serenity upon her cousin's flushed and miserable -face. - -She felt serenity and blankness to be tactful kindnesses, and they were -very easy. The thought of Mary hardly stirred her deep, still absorption -in the purely dual problem, for, after Mary's ride--and Camelia missed -him then--Perior did not come again. - -The trial of strength in silence, they the two opponents facing one -another for the test, filled her days with an excited sense of contest. -It was not made more complex by outer jars. Mr. Rodrigg was unavoidably -called away for a fortnight, and Sir Arthur might still be evaded, -though Lady Henge's brow had grown gloomy. Camelia rather enjoyed the -grave inquiry in the looks bent upon her by her future mamma (oh yes, -almost without doubt, future mamma); but she did not intend to brighten -them by the announcement of that fact until her own good time. Lady -Henge's gloom and Arthur's patience touched only the outer rings of her -consciousness. For Perior did not come. At the end of the first week her -patience was out-worn; the detachment of mere contemplation became -impossible. She essayed a flag of truce. Let it be peace, or, at all -events, more close, more keenly realized warfare. - -"Are you never coming to see me again?" she wrote. "Please do; I will be -good." - -Perior laughed over the document. It was merely the case of the cat -again dignified by its persistent absence. His reply was even more -laconic. "Can't come. Try to be good without me." The priggishness of -this pleased him, and would probably amuse her. He did not want to hurt -her. Neither did he intend that she should hurt him. She probably -guessed that. - -The note gave her a mingled thrill, anger and pleasure. That he should -not come showed more than the priggish intent to punish; that pedagogic -mask did not hide his fear; and that he should fear meant much. He -wanted to punish her, yes; and that he could succeed was very -intolerable; but that was his only strength, held to amidst a weakness -he would give her no chance to exploit. His cowardice was complimentary, -but since she was helpless against it Camelia was angry with her cat. -Strength, after all, is largely a matter of situation, and to stand in -the street vainly cajoling one's pet on the house-top gives one all the -emotions of acknowledged inferiority. To turn her back and walk away -was the natural impulse of Camelia's exasperated helplessness; she hoped -that the cat would watch her, and feel badly as she turned the corner, -for she determined to delay no longer decisions of far more importance, -as she assured herself, than the ridiculous dwelling on such a trifling -matter as a recalcitrant cat. The acceptance of Arthur Henge could be no -longer evaded after this fortnight of evasions, each turn and twist -leading her more inevitably to the centre of the labyrinth. Sir Arthur -could hardly have a doubt of the final answer, though its postponement -and her son's attitude of smiling patience might bring the gloom to Lady -Henge's forehead. - -"I do not like to see you played with, Arthur," she confessed; and her -look said as much to Camelia, who, in her absolute security, only -frolicked the more in her leafy circles. - -"I enjoy it, mother," Sir Arthur assured her, "it's a pretty game; she -enjoys it and so do I. She is cutting up a surprise cake, and I am sure -of her giving me the slice with the ring in it." - -"A rather undignified game, Arthur," said Lady Henge in a deep tone of -aggrievement, and Sir Arthur was sorry that Camelia, for the moment, had -effaced that first good impression; but he would not see that he was -aggrieved. He knew that he sat in the heart of the dear labyrinth, and -Camelia's peeps at him through the hedges, her slow advances and swift -retreats, were all charming, and not too bewildering when one was -trained to them. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel, however, was both aggrieved and impatient. Her long -visit bored her badly, and Camelia's smiling impenetrability irritated -her. Her impatience almost descended to grossness. - -"What a hostess you will make, Camelia, at Laversley Castle. I see you -on that background of Grinling Gibbons and Titian. To be almost the -richest, probably the cleverest, certainly the prettiest woman in -England. What a future! An unending golden vista--widening. And for a -base of operations, Laversley. Such tapestries, my dear, such -porcelains, such a library and park. All in the hollow of your hand." - -Camelia stretched it out. "Yes," she said, surveying its capabilities, -"I have only to close it." - -"You will close it, of course." - -"No doubt," said Camelia blandly, a blandness that snubbed and did not -satisfy her friend's grossness. - -But under the blandness something struggled. Must she close the hand? -Would no power outside her hold open and unstained by greed that pretty -palm? The absurdity of the accusation gave her the melancholy comfort of -an only half reassuring smile. Sir Arthur's excellence, not his -millions, had turned the scale; yet the accusation, for all its folly, -cut. And Perior did not come. He too joined forces with fate, made the -closing of the hand inevitable. She defied him with the sustaining -thought, "Sir Arthur is best, best in all. I close my hand on his heart -because no better heart could be offered me." - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -A week had passed since Perior had received the first pleading note from -Enthorpe, and one afternoon, when he was busy in his laboratory, another -arrived, more a command than a supplication. - -"Come at once. I must see you. I am very unhappy." - -Camelia indeed was very unhappy. She could hardly recognize or define -the unusualness of the unfamiliar sensation, and her ignorance helped to -hurt her, make her more bewildered under it. She had accepted Sir Arthur -that morning, hurried by no impulse, but conscious as she walked with -him in the garden of an ill-tempered recklessness, of a fate more easily -accepted than evaded uselessly. If he would have it--if every one would -have it, including herself, of course, let it be so. She said yes with -almost a sigh of exhausted energy, smiled with lifted brows over Sir -Arthur's ensuing rapture, and then wondered that under the lightness -with which she braved the decisive moment a sudden sickness of fear, of -sorrow, should seize her. Reality this, then. No more choice. No more -playing. The game ended. She was not being led into the Garden of Eden, -but out of it, and a new world, a world bleak, leaden, a sunless -immensity of dreariness stretched before her. She was frightened, and -the lesser feelings of the next hour were dazed by her effort to dismiss -this fear. She knew that her mother's tearful, speechless joy, Lady -Henge's elevated approbation, Mary's gasping efforts after fitting -phrases, Frances' cool, close-lipped little smile of satisfaction, and -the background of congratulatory faces were all very irritating, and -that she herself was unreasonably angry with them all. - -She was glad to find herself alone in the library with Sir Arthur, even -though strangely helpless before his joyous possessorship. His arm was -about her, and she could hear Lady Henge thundering on the piano in the -drawing-room. - -"The dear mater is improvising an epithalamium," said Arthur, with a -laugh. To Camelia it seemed cynically in keeping with her jarred and -jangled mood that her marriage should be interpreted by this pretentious -music. It symbolized so much. Her own flimsiness and falseness, the -immense distance from anything like perfect union. She turned her -thought to the attainable pleasures of the future, tried to shut her -soul on the lamenting ideal that Lady Henge's music mocked, and her mind -rested for a moment on the reassuring certainty of her own appreciation -of Sir Arthur's excellence. Strangely enough, though his possessorship -frightened, his arm about her waist consoled her; a warm sense of his -kindness and stability held her from inner terrors; she was glad to have -him there; she foresaw in solitude an on-coming and chilly stupor. She -felt it well to sit beside him, protected from her own fear by his -devoted nearness. "There now, you are smiling," said Sir Arthur; "you -seemed sad, as though you were conscious of responsibility--and didn't -like it." When he spoke of responsibility Camelia felt more keenly that -she had received an injury from fate. The "Yes" that had been spoken -only a few hours before had belonged to the game, was it quite fair that -this solemnity should result? Yet why not take it gaily? Force it into a -dancing ring of happy lightness? - -"Responsibility? Oh no, you can't saddle me with that!" she said, -returning his look, and smiling still more easily as she felt how much -his handsome face pleased her; its very expression, an unaccented, -humorous gaiety, worn for her sake, was a homage, a warrant of most -chivalrous comprehension. "You alone are responsible"--and following her -mental picture of the game of hide-and-seek in a Watteau landscape--"You -caught me--that was all!" - -"That was all!" he repeated; "and you were difficult to catch. Now that -you are caught I shall keep you." - -"No, I am not sad," Camelia pursued, "I only feel as if I had grown up -suddenly." - -"No, don't grow up. I must keep you always my laughing child." - -"Lady Henge wouldn't approve of that!" said Camelia, yielding to a -closer enfolding, but facilitating it by no gracious droopings. - -"Ah, mother loves you," said Sir Arthur, with a touch of added pride in -his capture. - -"Does she?" Camelia's brows lifted a little; the enfolding continuing -she was conscious enough of a dart of irritation to wish to add, "I -don't love her!" but after a kiss he released her and she checked the -naughty impulse, merely adding, with some perversity, keeping him now at -arm's length though she abandoned her hand for the purpose, "Would you -have dared to love me had she not?" - -"Camelia, you know that I did." The perversity had grieved him a little. -His clear brown eyes, that always reminded her of a dog's in their -widely opened sincerity, dwelt on her, questioning her intention. "She -did not know you, that was all." - -"Nor did you, quite." Camelia laughed at him gently, and put her hand on -his shoulder, half as a reward for the pang, half to still keep him -away. - -"No, not quite," Sir Arthur confessed, "though even my ignorance loved -you. But you let me know you at last." - -"But what _do_ you know?" Camelia persisted. - -"I know my laughing child." - -"Her faults the faults of a child?" - -"Has she faults?" - -"Oh, blinded man!" - -"The faults of a child, then," he assented. - -When he had left her, for he was to spend the day in London, there was a -lull after the stress of change. Camelia found herself in a solitude -wherein she might sit and meditate. Every one seemed to fall away from -her, and when she was left alone she was sorry for it, though it was she -who had withdrawn, not they. Lady Henge had talked to her for -half-an-hour, her arm affectionately, but heavily lying about her -shoulders, seeming in the massive embrace to claim her with a kindness -that knew itself as wiser than mere maternal emotionalism. The low -tones of her voice were impressive, and Camelia would have submitted to -the newly assumed manner of guardianship, of confidential admonition, -with a very ill grace, had not Lady Henge been now so truly indifferent -to her. - -Mary had been very tiresome, following her at a distance, wanting to -kiss her and cry. Mrs. Fox-Darriel's silent complacency was unendurable. -Camelia knew that in the new epoch her friend saw only a tightly-closed -fist, and this symbol affected her own imagination until she could have -shaken Mrs. Fox-Darriel for having suggested it. - -Then her mother had fallen upon her breast and wept. Camelia was ashamed -of herself for seeing in the great lovingness a Scriptural exaggeration; -and being ashamed of herself she was only the more anxious to get rid of -the maternal clinging. She ended by locking herself in her own room, -only to find that she had locked herself in with a melancholy that had -been stepping silently beside her since the morning. She would not look -this companion in the face, however. She was alone with it at last; but -she feverishly avoided its fixed eyes, and eagerly busied herself with -trivialities, a dramatic sense of courage animating all her actions. She -emptied and rearranged her wardrobes and boxes, folded ribbons with -intensest exactitude, introduced a new plan in the bestowal of her -gloves and handkerchiefs, and even found herself unpicking a summer hat -with a fictitious eagerness that implied an imperative want of that -particular hat in a new trimming. When the hat was quite demolished she -put it away, and polished her finger-nails, and, lastly, spent a -fatiguing half-hour before the looking-glass in essays at new ways of -hair-dressing. None were satisfactory, and with arms aching from their -long uplifting, she at last swept the shining tresses into their -accustomed lines, unlocked the door, and emerged deliberately, but with -a sense of flight. - -Every one had gone. The guests to golf at the Havershams; Mary, Lady -Paton, and Lady Henge for a long drive. They had all respected the -sensitive requirements of her new position. She was to be left alone, -and as Camelia walked from room to room, the big house was desolate. - -She nourished a sense of resentment, of injury, for it seemed to thrust -away the chilly stupor of fear, fear of that new presence walking with -her, waiting for her recognition. The loneliness, the melancholy, to -which she could only feign blindness, were almost unendurable. The tears -rose to her eyes more than once, and her thoughts circled nearer and -nearer to Perior's great unkindness. It was when the melancholy seemed -suddenly to lay an imperative hand upon her that she flew to the -writing-table and wrote the note. She looked at the clock as she heard -the groom departing on horseback. Perior might easily arrive at six, and -at the thought her spirits rose with a great soaring bound, and laughed -down at the cold enemy. When he arrived she would see what would happen. -She reined back her imagination from any plan. - -According to his manner, she would tell immediately, or delay telling -until a favorable moment. Perhaps when he knew he would say that his -heart was completely broken, but the thought of his unhappiness only -seemed to send her spirits into a higher ecstasy of joyousness. She felt -them bubble-like, floating in illusion, but the relief of the unthinking -hour--she seemed to live in it only, to breathe only its -expectancy--buoyed her above the clouds. In the long drawing-room, where -the firelight made the autumnal landscape outside, its distant hills -purpling with chilly evening, a mere picture, framed for the contrast in -her rosy mood, she danced, trying over new steps. She had always loved -her dancing, loved to feel herself so lovely, her loveliness set to such -musical motion, the words of the song. She hummed the sad, dead beauty -of a pavane, pacing it with stately pleasure; the gracious pathos of an -old gavotte; and, feeling herself a brook, her steps slid into the -flowing ripple of the courante. Perior had always loved these exquisite -old dances. She would dance for him, of course. That thought had been -growing, and the gavotte, the courante, the pavane becoming rehearsals. -Yes, she would dance for him--at first. Flushed, panting a little from -the long preparation, she ran upstairs to put on a white dress, a new -one made for dancing, with sleeves looped over bare arms, flowing sash, -and skirt like a flower-bell. She lingered on each detail. She must be -beautiful for Alceste; dear Alceste, poor, poor Alceste; how unhappy he -would be--when he knew. And suppose he should not come. The thought went -through her like a dagger as she held a row of pearls against her -throat. Over them she looked with terror-stricken eyes at the whiteness -of her beauty--useless beauty? Ah, she could not believe it, and she -clasped the pearls on a breast that heaved with the great sigh of her -negation. She could not believe it. He must come. And when she reentered -the drawing-room the sound of a horse's hoofs outside set the time to -the full throb of an ecstasied affirmation. - -A delicious flood of contentment went through her. She stood smiling in -the dark yet luminous room, where only the firelight shone along the -polished oak of floor and wainscoting, half unconsciously emphasizing -her sense of the moment's drama by pressing her hands on her heart. Of -course he had come. How could he not come if she really wanted him? Dear -Alceste. In a moment he had entered. The firelight, as she stood before -him, seemed to shine through her pearly glimmering. She looked -sprite-like, a transparent fairy. Her dress, her attitude, her eyes, the -hovering expectancy. Perior, too, was immediately conscious of drama, -and felt as immediately an impulse to flight; but he came forward, a -quick look of calm arming his sturdy opposition to the atmosphere of -exaggerated meanings. - -"Well, here I am," he said, in a manner intended by its commonplace to -rebuff the significance, whatever it might be, of eyes, dress, and -attitude. Camelia took his hand, joyously entering once more into the -dear, enchanted fairy-land--the old sense of a game, only a more -delightful, a more exciting game than ever. She could almost have -whirled him into the circle--a mad dancing whirl round and round the -room. How astonished he would have been! Solemn, staid old Alceste! - -"Yes, here you are. At last," she said. "How shamefully you have -punished me this time!" - -She laughed, but Perior sighed. - -"I haven't been punishing you," he said, walking away to the fireplace. -Camelia followed him and watched him hold out his hand to the warmth. - -"Is it so cold?" she asked. - -"Very chilly; the wind catches one on that mile along the common. My -hands are half-numbed." Prettily, as she leaned in her illumined -whiteness beside him, she took his hands between her own and rubbed them -briskly. - -"You wrote that you were unhappy," said Perior, looking down at the -daintily imprisoned hands; "what is the matter?" - -"The telling will keep. I am happier now." - -"Did you get me here on false pretences?" He smiled as he now looked at -her, and the smile forgave her in advance. - -"No, no. I needed you very much; really I did. I am growing melancholy; -and I was all alone. I hate being alone." - -"There, that will do. They are quite warm now; thanks very much. Where -are the others?" - -"The others? They are away," said Camelia vaguely. - -"Rodrigg?" - -"He comes back to-night, I think." - -"And Henge?" Perior asked it with a little hesitation. Of late he had -wondered much about Arthur and Camelia. There was an effort in the -unconscious aloofness of his voice. - -"In London too." Camelia looked clearly at him. No, she would not tell -him now. The happy half-hour she must guard for them both. Her oblivion, -his ignorance, would make a fairy-land. Let him think even that she had -sent Arthur away finally. Arthur had no place in fairy-land. - -"All the others are out," she repeated, "golfing, calling, driving. But -are you not glad to see me, even if I seem happier than strict -consistency requires?" - -"Yes, I am glad to see you." Perior's eyes showed the half-yielding, -half-defiance of his perplexity. "But tell me, what is the matter? Don't -be so mysterious." - -"But tell me," she returned, stepping backward, her skirt held out for -displayal, "is not my dress pretty?" - -"Very pretty." Perior leaned back against the mantelpiece with an air of -resignation. "Very exquisite." - -"Shall I dance for you?" - -"By all means; since the dress was put on for that, I summoned for that. -Isn't it so?" - -She made no reply, her smile lingering as she turned from him, and -showing in its fixedness a certain gravity. He was satisfied that -conjecture as to her meaning, her plan in all this, only wearied him, -yet sorry that he had come. Under the weariness he was resentfully aware -of excitement. And what of Arthur? Camelia's whole manner subtly -suggested that Arthur no longer counted. The note might be explained as -an after-throb of doubt, or at least of dreariness, in a world -momentarily without big issues. If she had refused Arthur definitely? -The thought, as his eyes followed Camelia's exquisite steps and slides, -shook some careful balancing of self-control. He felt stripped of a -shield, unpleasantly exposed to a dangerous moment. Camelia was dancing -quite silently, yet the air, to Perior's musical brain, seemed full of -melody, and she the soundless embodiment of music made visible--so -lovely, so dear to him; so dear in spite of everything. She was like a -white flower, tilting, bending in the wind. She skimmed like a swallow, -ran with rippled steps like a brook, flitted with light, languid -balancings, a butterfly hovering on extended wings. Her slender body, -like a fountain, rose and fell in a continuity of changing loveliness. -Her golden head shone in the dusk. - -Perior watched her, half-dreaming, half-dazzled. The long moments of -acute, delicious contemplation drifted by as peacefully, as stilly as -falling rose-petals, muffling all outer jars and murmurs, blurring the -past, the future, making the present enchanted. - -When she was far off his heart beat for her return, and when the -swaying, hovering whiteness came near he shrank from the nearness. The -unexpected sweeping turn that caught her away suddenly into the -half-visionary distance stabbed him through with a pang of relief and -disappointment. - -He was entranced, half-mesmerized, conscious only of his delight in her, -when her circling at last grew slower, the musical beat of the -recovering tilt faltered. She came on a sliding, wavering step, and sank -like the softest sigh before him, folded together in her wing-like -whiteness. - -"You enchanting creature," Perior murmured. He bent over her--he would -have lifted her--taking her hands, but Camelia herself rose between his -arms, and inevitably they closed about her. It was so natural, so -fitting in all its strangeness, that to Camelia the slow circling of the -dance seemed still to carry her round and round, unbroken by the crash -of a great revelation. She closed her eyes, hardly wondering at her -perfect happiness, and from the last revolving mists the reality dawned -sweetly upon her--the only reality. She had danced out of the game; it -lay far behind her. Through it she had blundered on a mistake, but her -mind put that swiftly aside. The mistake mattered nothing, the last act -merely of the game--a reckless, angered act. She thought now that the -game would hardly have been begun if only Perior had put his arms around -her, claimed and reclaimed her foolishness, long ago. Of course she -loved him. It needed but that to let her know. - -But to Perior the moment, after its irresistible impulse, was merely one -of shame and self-disgust. He held her, for she was enchanting, and she -had enchanted him. Disloyalty to his friend did not forbid that -satisfaction. That she meant to marry Arthur was now impossible. She had -tossed him aside, dissatisfied; he could not pity Arthur for his escape, -nor credit Camelia with disinterestedness. She was bored, disappointed, -reckless in a wish for excitement. He analyzed her present mood -brutally--the mood of a vain child, made audacious by childhood -intimacy, her appetite for conquest whetted by his apparent -indifference; he had not known that she would pay such a price for -conquest. It was an ugly revelation of Camelia, but the revelation of -himself was uglier. He at least pretended to self-respect. The folly of -her coquetry hardly surprised him; his own yielding to it did; yet in -the very midst of his self-disgust he fulfilled it to the uttermost by -stooping his head to her upturned face, blind to its intrinsic -innocence, and kissing her lips. As he kissed her he knew that for angry -weeks and months he had longed to kiss her, the unrecognized longing -wrestling with his pride, with his finer fondness for her--the firm, -grave fondness of years, with even his loyalty to Henge. That barrier -gone, the longing rushed over the others. Among the wrecks his -humiliation overwhelmed him:--a girl he loved, but a girl he would not -woo, had wooing been of avail!--in it he was able to be generous. - -The moment had not been long. He released her. Feeling most ungentle, he -yet put her away gently by the whole thrust of his arm. Leaning on the -mantel-shelf, his face averted from hers, he said: "Too enchanting, -Camelia. I have forgotten myself," and he added, "Forgive me." - -"But _I_ did it!" Camelia's tone was one of most dauntless joyousness. -She was necessarily as sure of his love as of her own, surer of its -long-enduring priority. But his love feared--that was natural: dared not -hope for hers--too natural. She could not bear to have him put her away -in even a momentary doubt of her sincerity. Clasping both arms about his -neck she said quite childishly, in her great unconsciousness of his -thoughts about her-- - -"Why would you never say you were fond of me? Why would you never say -you loved me? Say it now--say that you love me." - -His bewilderment at her audacity stung him to anger, and in -self-defence, for her sake too as well as for his own, almost to -brutality. "Ah, I love you enough to kiss you, Camelia," he said; "you -are only fit for that. There," he unlocked the clasping arms, "go away." -The unmistakable sternness of his face struck her with pained -perplexity. He would not meet her eyes; he turned from her, looking -wretched. A flashing thought revealed the possibility of tempted -loyalty. Did he think her bound? Divine the engagement? He could not -have heard of it already. She saw, her heart throbbing at the -half-truth, half-falseness of the unbecoming vision, how she must appear -to him in that distorting illumination. Free in her own eyes, she -hesitated on a lie that would release him from his doubts. But as she -stood looking at him, smiling, a little sternly too, at the test, the -door burst open with unpleasant suddenness, and Mr. Rodrigg, bull-like -in his vehemence, charged into the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -Camelia felt, in the glaring pause Mr. Rodrigg made before Perior's -baffling presence, that she herself was the red scarf he sought. Her -mind, alert in self-defence, even in this stress of joy and terror, -divined some unknown danger. Mr. Rodrigg had faded into complete -insignificance, put away with the other toys; she looked coldly at him, -as at a dusty jack-in-the-box, protruding its fatuousness in a grown-up -world. Yet she felt the necessity for self-command and quick -intelligence. Something ominous shone in Mr. Rodrigg's eye. The lid must -be pressed down firmly, fastened securely; she was sure of her complete -control over the silly plaything, but an extinguishing dexterity might -be requisite. - -"Well, Mr. Rodrigg," she said; and her tone fully implied the -undesirability of his presence. - -"Can I see you alone, Miss Paton?" - -Mr. Rodrigg's voice was offensively strident. Camelia looked at Perior, -who, from under lowering brows, bent ungracious eyes on Mr. Rodrigg's -flushed insistency. - -"No, I don't think you can--at present." She did not want to vex Mr. -Rodrigg--she spoke not unkindly; but Mr. Rodrigg was dense, coarsely -dense, or else coarsely angry. Angry with her; Camelia had time by now -to wonder at that, and to feel less amicable with the greater need for -feigning amiability. - -He closed the door with decision. "Then I will speak before Mr. Perior. -As a family friend, Mr. Perior will not be amiss between us. He is a -witness of the whole affair. I appeal to Mr. Perior. Miss Paton, I have -just met Lady Henge. She tells me that you accepted her son this -morning." - -Camelia grew white. Though Perior spoke no word, his stillness equalling -hers, she felt a fixed stare turned upon her. Unforeseen catastrophe! -She had hoped to glide noiselessly from the cardboard stage, to pack up -and send away the useless, even though misused puppets; and now the -whole scenery, heavy too, fell crushingly upon her, pinning her in the -very centre of the stage. There she was held--the mimic properties were -stone-like--there she was held in the full glare of the footlights; and -he was staring at her. - -She drew herself together and clasped her hands behind her back. Her -little head, with the intent resoluteness of its look, had never been -more beautiful. Even Perior, in the frozen fury of his stupefaction, was -aware of that. The mute, white cameo on the dim, rosy background gazing -with not a tremor at its own perfidy, stamped itself ineffaceably on his -memory as a Medusa type of splendid, pernicious courage. For one brief -moment she wondered swiftly--and her thoughts flew like sharp flames--if -a round, clear lie would save her, save her in Perior's eyes, for she -saw herself as he saw her, was conscious only of him, and cared not a -button for Mr. Rodrigg, the ugly raven merely who had croaked out the -truth. The uselessness, the hopelessness of a lie, and too--in justice -to her struggling better self be it added--shame for its smirch between -her and him on the very threshold of true life--this hopelessness, this -shame nerved her to the perilous truth-telling. Better his scorn for the -moment, than a scorn delayed, but sure to find her out. Could she not -explain--confess--on his breast, with tears? She did not look at Perior. -Keeping fixed eyes on Mr. Rodrigg, an unpleasant but necessary medium -for the communication, "Yes, Mr. Rodrigg, I did," she said. - -Perior at her side gave a short laugh, a cruel laugh. The moment was -horrid; let it be hurried on, and Mr. Rodrigg, tool of the avenging -gods, hurried out. - -"Have you anything to say, Mr. Rodrigg?" she asked, conscious of hating -Mr. Rodrigg, and, even at that moment, of a shoot of emphasized -irritation with his nose, which caught the firelight bluntly. - -"May I ask you, Miss Paton, if during these past weeks, you have always -had that intention?" he inquired, speaking with some thickness of -utterance. - -"No, Mr. Rodrigg, you may not ask me that," she returned. - -The revelation of the man's hopes was no longer to be evaded; she drank -down the bitter draught perforce, her eyes on that squarely luminous -nose-tip. - -During the pause that followed Mr. Rodrigg's eyes travelled up and down -her with mingled scorn, wrath, and humiliation. - -"Allow me to congratulate you," he said at last, most venomously, "and -to take my leave of you, Miss Paton. I have not understood, I perceive, -the part I was supposed to play here." - -And Camelia was left alone with Perior. With an impression as of strong -boxings on the ears she could only cry out "Odious vulgarian!" She -tingled all over with a sense of insult. - -"I, too, will bid you good-evening, Camelia," said Perior. He could have -taken her by the throat, but in the necessary restraint of that desire -his glance, only, seized her as if it would throttle her. - -"No! no!" she caught his arm, all thought of Mr. Rodrigg and his slaps -burnt from her. "Listen to me--you don't understand! Wait! I can explain -everything! everything--so that you must forgive me!" - -"I do understand," said Perior, who stood still, scorning, as she felt, -to touch and cast her off. "You are engaged to Arthur. You are -disgraced--and I am disgraced." - -"Through me, then! You were ignorant! But wait--only listen--I am -engaged to him; but I love you--don't be too angry--for really I love -you--only you--Oh! you must believe me!" - -He retreated before her clasped imploring hands, she almost crying, -following, indifferent to the indignity of her protesting supplication. -"Indeed, I love you!" she reiterated, her chin quivering a little as the -cruelty of his withdrawal brought the tears to her eyes. - -Perior took the clasped hands by the wrists and held her off. "You love -me?--and you love him too?"--she shook her head helplessly. "No; you -have accepted him, not loving him, and you dared,"--the cruelty was now -physical, as his clench tightened on her wrists--"you _dared_ turn to -me, to debase me with yourself, you false, you miserable creature!" - -Under the double hurt she closed her eyes. "But why--but why did I -turn?" she almost sobbed. - -"You ask me why? Can I tell what folly, what vanity prompted you? Those -are mild words." - -"Oh!--how you hurt me!" she breathed; the feminine sensitiveness was a -refuge--a reproach. He released her wrists. "Because I love you," she -said, and standing still before him she looked at him through tears. -"You may be angry, despise me, but I only want to tell you everything. -You are so brutal. It was a mistake--I did not know--not till this evening. -I accepted him because you would not prevent me--because you didn't -come--nor seem to care, and--yes, because I was bad--ambitious--vain--like -other women--and I did like him--respect him. But now!"--the appealing -monotone, broken by little gasps, wailed up at the inflexibility of his -face--"it isn't folly, it isn't vanity--or why should I sacrifice -everything for you, as I do--Oh! as I do!" - -"Sacrifice everything for me? Go away!" - -"Oh!--how can you!" She broke into sobs--"how can you be so cruel to -me--when you love me!" - -"Love you!" - -"You cannot deny it! You know that you love me--dearest Alceste!"--her -arms encircled his neck. - -Perior plucked them off. "Love you?" he repeated, looking her in the -face. "By Heaven I don't!" - -And with the negative he cast her away and left her. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -But he did love her. That was the worst of it, as he told himself -through the night that followed. His love and his disgrace pursued him. -Disgraced, though cruel enough to clearly see her as the temptress, -disgraced by the weakness of his yielding to a moment of enchantment, -disgraced by having given her the right to reproach him--the woman he -loved, but the woman only fit to kiss. He was innocent of real -disloyalty, and her perfidy might well exonerate his ignorance; but even -Camelia's perfidy could not excuse that kiss. He met the morning jaded, -from torturing hours. When the first passion of his rage against her had -died away the thought of her astounding declaration, her reiterated -devotion, chilled him with the new fear of final yielding. Camelia, -imagining herself in love with him, became an ominously alluring figure. -She could claim him only through his weakness, but his dishonor gave her -power. He accepted the morbid accusation, scourged himself with it, and -the thought of her power urged him to escape. She was only fit to kiss, -that was the final verdict. To marry such a woman meant a permanent -disablement of all that was best in life. The kiss could not bind him to -that atonement. It was she, rather, who owed him an infinity of -reparation. He determined to treat himself to a trip through Italy, and, -alone with the beauty of the past, to shake his soul free from the -choking entanglement of the present. He felt sick, battered, bereft of -all security; and through everything throbbed the worst hurt of -all--that Camelia should have proved herself worthless so utterly. - -Early in the afternoon of a day spent in hurried preparations for -departure, he heard a horse's hoofs outside, and looking from the -library window he saw Arthur Henge dismounting. - -Perior felt the blood rush to his head. The first impulse of his thought -was to see in Arthur the righteously angered friend come to heap upon -him the shame of his discovered betrayal. He would of course bear the -responsibility as the chiefly false and traitorous. The woman would -shield herself; it was the right of her weakness, and his deep, -unreasonable loyalty to Camelia, a loyalty paternal in its force and -helplessness, accepted the vicarious position, rushed over and confused -every self-asserting instinct. It was with almost the illusion of guilt -that he stood upright, waiting. Then, this last straw he snatched at, -despising it, as he heard Arthur's step in the hall; was it possible -that he had discovered nothing?--possible that he had come to announce -his engagement?--possible that Camelia, in the bewilderment of her -rejection, had returned to a doubly false, a dastardly allegiance? The -irony of such a supposition did not make it by any means impossible. But -one look at Arthur's face dismissed the tragic-comic surmise. - -It was a face of stiffened gloom, a face difficult for the moment to -interpret. Camelia had told the truth, then. Told more than the truth? -Buttressed her falseness with his act of folly? - -Perior expected nothing less than this craven insincerity. To shield her -he must bare his breast for Arthur's shafts. Arthur might as well know -that he loved her, but Camelia should never know it, so Perior grimly -promised himself as he met his friend's look with some of the sternness -necessitated by his pitch of unpleasant resolution. - -But Henge's first words proved that Camelia, at all events, had not been -cowardly. - -"Perior--she has broken our engagement! She accepted me yesterday--and -to-day she has broken our engagement!" and the quick change of -expression on Perior's face moving him too much, he dropped into a -chair, and leaning his arms on the table, bowed his head upon his hands. - -Perior's first feeling was a crumbling sense of baseness. The lie -between him and his unfortunate friend scorched him, and his recognition -of Camelia's courage was swept away by the realization of her cruelty, -by the avenging consciousness that owing to her he feared to meet his -friend's eyes. - -He kept silent, studying the surrendered reticence of the bent head. - -"She accepted me yesterday, Perior." Henge repeated it helplessly. - -Perior put his hand on his shoulder. "My dear Henge," he said. - -Arthur looked up. "I don't know why I should come to you with it. I am -broken. I could cry like a baby. I love that child, Perior! You saw her -yesterday; yes, that is why I came. She accepted me yesterday, you know. -Did she say anything to you about it?--when you saw her? You see"--he -smiled miserably--"I want you to turn the knife in my wound." - -"I heard it," said Perior, feeling that a rigid adherence to perhaps -deceptive truth was all that was left to him. - -"But she gave you no reason to think that she had changed her mind?" - -"What has Camelia said to you, Arthur? One may interpret it -differently," said Perior, detesting himself. - -Sir Arthur's face resumed the blankness of its helpless wonder. - -"I got back this morning and she sent for me. I found her white, woeful, -resolute. She said, 'I made a mistake. I can't marry you. I am unworthy -of you.' That to me, Perior! to me! and only yesterday! Oh!--I could -have sworn she cared for me! I don't blame her; don't think it. It was -all pity--a fancied tenderness; the shock of realization showed her the -difference. She can't love me. She unworthy! The courage--the cruelty -even, were worthy; but she repeated that again and again." - -"Was that all she said?" Perior asked presently. - -"All? Oh no, that was only the beginning. I tortured her for an hour -with pleadings and protestations. With her it was mere repetition. She -did not love me; she felt it as soon as she had accepted me. She told me -that she sent for you--not for counsel, but to see if her misery was -not mere morbid fancy; she said that Rodrigg--the brute!--rushed in upon -her with implied accusations; to me she confessed--dearest -creature--that she had been foolishly hopeful, foolishly confident in -her eagerness for my cause. She heaped blame upon herself. She called -herself mean, and weak, and shallow--Ah! as if I did not understand the -added nobility! I have not one hard thought of her, not a touch of the -jilted lover's bitterness. It is my misfortune to see too well the -worthiness of the woman I have lost." - -"It is the best thing that could happen to you, Arthur." Perior, -standing silently beside his friend, absorbed in the contemplation of -this pitifully noble idealization, could now defy his own pain, shake -from himself the clogging sense of shame, and speak from the fulness of -his deep conviction. - -"You mean better than marrying an unloving woman," said Sir Arthur; but -he had flushed with the effort to misunderstand. Some lack in Perior's -feeling for Camelia he had always felt. He shrank now from confronting -it. - -"Yes, I mean that and more," Perior went on, feeling it good to -speak--good for him and good for Arthur--good to shape the hard truth in -hard words, yet with an inconsistency in his resolution, since he wished -Arthur to recognize her unworthiness, yet would have given his life to -keep from him the one supremely blasting instance which he and Camelia -alone knew. - -"She is not worthy of you. I hope that in saying it she felt its truth, -for truth it is." - -"Don't, Perior--" Sir Arthur had risen. "You pain me." - -"But you must listen, my dear boy--and it has pained me. I have been -fond of Camelia--I am fond of her, but I am never with her that she does -not pain me. She pains every one who is unlucky enough to care about -her; that is her destiny--and theirs." - -Sir Arthur's face through a dawning bewilderment now caught a flashing -supposition that whitened it, and kept him silent. - -"From the first, Arthur, I regretted your depth of feeling for her," -said Perior, after the slight involuntary pause with which he recognized -in his friend's face his own unconscious revelation. They now stood on -as truthful a ground as he could ever hope for. Arthur had guessed what -Camelia should never know. He could speak from a certain equality of -misfortune--for had not Camelia hurt them both? "In accepting you she -did you one wrong, she would have done you a greater had she married -you. She is not fit to be your wife. You wouldn't have held her up. Most -men don't mind ethical shortcomings in their wives--lying, and -meannesses, and the exploiting of other people--they forgive very ugly -faults in a pretty woman; but you would mind. It isn't as a pretty woman -that you love Camelia, nor even as a clever one, so you would -mind--badly. Don't look white; there is nothing gross, vulgar, in -Camelia's wrongness. As your wife she would have been faithful, useful, -kind, no doubt; there would be no stupidities to complain of. She is a -charming creature--don't I know it! But, Arthur, she is false, -voraciously selfish, hard as a stone." - -Sir Arthur had the look of a man who sees a nightmare, long forgotten as -darkest delusion, assuming before his eyes the shape and hue of reality; -he retreated before the obsession. "Don't, Perior--I cannot listen. I -love her. You are embittered--harsh. Your rigorous conscience is -distorting. You misjudge her." - -"No, no, Arthur. I judge her." - -"Ah!--not before me, then! I love her," Sir Arthur repeated. "Good-bye, -Perior. I came to say good-bye. We are going, you know." - -"Yes--So am I." - -Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt upon him for a compassionate, a magnanimous -moment. "You are? Ah! I understand." - -"More or less?" said Perior, with a spiritless smile. - -"Oh, more--more than you can say." - -Perior let him go on that supposition. Arthur understood that Camelia -had hurt him. That, after all, was sufficient; left his friend's mind -without rancor for his galling truth-telling. And, as Perior walked back -into the library, he heaved a long sigh of relief. The Rubicon was -crossed. In so speaking to Arthur he had fortified himself. The truth, -so spoken, was an eternal barrier between him and Camelia. The barrier -was a plain necessity; for Perior was conscious that a possible thrill -lurked for him in the contemplation of Camelia's last move. Its reckless -disregard of consequences proclaimed a sincerity to which he had done -injustice yesterday. She believed she loved him; she gave up all for his -subjection. Yes, the thrill required suppression. He must abide in the -firm reality of the words spoken to Arthur--"hard, false, voraciously -selfish;" yes, she might love him, but her love could be no more than a -perplexing combination of these ineradicable qualities. - -The short autumn day drew to a close. From the library window the -evening grayness dimmed the nearest group of larches, golden through all -their erect delicacy. The sad sunset made a mere whiteness in the west. -Perior had been at his writing-table for over an hour, diligently -strangling harassing thoughts, a pipe between his teeth, a consolatory -cat at his elbow, when, in a tone of commonplace that rang oddly in his -ears, "Miss Paton, sir," was announced by the solemn old retainer. - -Perior wheeled round, and stumbled to his feet; the papers he held fell -in a sprawling heap upon the floor, and the dozing cat jumped down and -took nervous refuge under a chair. - -Camelia, following old Lane with dexterous determination, saw the -astonished commotion and found it encouraging. She was determined but -not desperate. Even without encouragement she fancied that she could -have held her own, sustained as she was by her inner conviction, and -while Lane went out and closed the door, she was even able to cast a -reassuring smile at the cat, whose widened eyes shone at her from under -the chair edge. - -The door safely shut, she turned a steady look upon Perior's rough head, -silhouetted in monotone on the pale landscape outside. She herself faced -the light. She had walked, and her face showed an exquisite freshness, -an imperative youth and energy. In the austere room the sudden rose and -white of cheeks and lips and brow, the lustre of her eyes, the pale gold -of her hair, dazzled. - -Fixing Perior with this steady look, she said: "He has been here." - -"Henge? yes," said Perior. Even in the shock of his dismayed confusion -he felt with thankfulness a strong throb of an unswerving energy quite -fit to match hers. He could look at her, dazzled, but not wavering, and, -stooping from the successful encounter of eyes, he picked up the fallen -papers, pushed them into shape, and laid them on the table coolly -enough. - -"You have heard what has happened, then?" Camelia was in nowise -disconcerted by these superficialities. - -"Yes." - -"Did you tell him why I broke my engagement?" - -Perior looked again, and very firmly, at the rose and white and gold. - -"He gave me the reason you had given him. That was sufficient, wasn't -it?" - -"Sufficient for him, yes. I gave him only half the truth--I should not -have minded, you know, had you given him the whole." - -"I should have minded." - -"You? Why should you mind? It was my fault--the whole truth could tell -him nothing less than that," said Camelia quickly. - -"I appreciate your generosity"--Perior laughed a little--"that really is -generous." It really was. He put another mark against himself; but a -perception of his own past injustice did not weaken him. - -"You know why," she said, and her eyes were now solemn; "you know that I -don't care about myself any longer--so long as you care. That is all -that makes any difference--now. So you might have told him had you -wished." - -"I didn't want to;" Perior leaned back against the writing-table, -feeling a certain shrinking. Camelia's power took on new attributes. He -could but recognize a baleful nobility in her self-immolation. After -all, the falseness of yesterday had held a great sincerity--though the -sincerity might only be a morbid folly. He had hardly the excuse of -blindness. With a renewed pang of self-disgust he saw that his more -subtle falseness to her was a weapon in her hand. She had not turned it -against him. Perhaps she did not realize her need. He was glad, by -lowering himself, to lift her. - -She had come forward into the fuller light, and her face, more clearly -revealed, showed the stress that Arthur had seen as a resolute woe. In a -pause at a little distance from him, in the very tension of her face, -Perior saw that she stooped to no weak appeal; it was an intelligent -demand, rather, that he should recognize and do her justice. - -"I know how angry you are with me," she said, after the slight pause in -which they studied one another. "You believe that I have acted badly; -and so I have. I see it too. I entrapped you, made you feel false to -him, made you feel that you betrayed him. But if you _understood_. You -have never really understood. You have taken the shell of me--the -merely external silliness--so seriously." - -Perior could wonder at his own firmness before her. He was filled with -compunction for the pitiful certainty of success--once his stubborn -disbelief were convinced--that spoke through her gravity. He loved her, -and knew that he loved her, against his reason, against his will, -against his heart even, yet heard himself saying, sure of the kindness -of his cruelty--for any prolongation of her security was cruel-- - -"I hope never to take a merely external silliness seriously, Camelia. -Let me think of this as one. You should not have come, it can only hurt -you, and me. We had best not see each other again until you have -outgrown, shall we say, your present shell?" Yes, he could rely on the -decisive clear-sightedness that had made him speak the truth, once for -all, to Arthur and to himself. He felt secure in his moral antagonism; -the ascetic admonishment of his voice gratified even a sense of humor, -quite at his own expense, which he perceived in the rigor of his -righteousness. But Camelia made no retreat before that rigor, though the -color left her face, as if he had struck her; her eyes betrayed no -confusion, but a keenness, a steadiness, almost scornful. - -"You think it _that_?" Perior was not sorry to tell her and himself what -he did think. - -"I think it just that. A phase of your varied existence; a curious -experience to sound. You have set your heart on being in love with -me--since that was an experience most amusingly improbable. I am -another toy to grasp since the last disappointed." - -"You are dull," said Camelia. She looked down, clasping her hands behind -her. "You are not sincere. It pleases you to blind yourself with your -preconceived idea of me. Your self-righteousness would not like to own -itself mistaken in believing anything but the worst of me." - -"Ah! hasn't it for years been struggling to see only the best of you!" -cried Perior; "I don't deserve that, Camelia." - -"You see the best now; why won't you believe in it?" - -"I don't say I see the worst--by no means; even there is something that -surprises me, that makes me confess, gladly, that I have misjudged you; -but I can only believe that yesterday, in the impulsive reaction against -your false position--you did not love Arthur--the fact frightened you; I -am glad of that, too; but in the melting illusion you thought of me as -something solid to cling to, and now you are determined to keep on -clinging, deceiving yourself with an impossible mirage of fidelity, -devotion, and self-forgetting, which you'll never reach, Camelia ---never, never." Camelia contemplated him. - -"Yes, you believed that, or something even less pathetic; that accounts -for your cruelty--the cruelty of your last words yesterday--so false as -I knew them; but I understood them, saw all you thought, though your -wrath, your injury, your impatience to punish--how fond you are of -punishing!--wouldn't let me explain. You did not believe that I loved -you--_loved_ you. You do not believe it now. You can't believe that I, -who could have anybody, should choose you. It looks to you like an -aberration. You are afraid of being hurt by believing, afraid I'll treat -you as I treated him, afraid that you will be another toy--that was what -cut yesterday. You were being played with--I saw you thought it. But I -do love you; you will have to believe it. I do--choose you." Her head -raised, she was looking at him with the clear command of this inflexible -choice. The sublimity of confidence was touching. Perior, grimly -conscious of its illusory foothold over chasms, could afford a certain -chivalry, could at least restrain the brutality of a push into the void. -He didn't like the idea of Camelia, his smiling Camelia, really scared, -tumbling from her pinnacles into the abyss where rocky facts awaited -her. - -"I am sensible to the compliment"--the mild irony of his tone was a -warning of insecurity--"though you will own that it is, in some senses, -a dubious one; but it's very kind in you, who could have anybody, to -stoop to a nobody. My obscurity is gilded by the preference; it will -console, illuminate my solitude." She flushed, interrupting him with a -quick, sharp-- - -"I didn't intend that! You know it! You are cruel, yes, and mean; for -only my sincerity gives you the power to wound me. You _are_ a somebody; -though the whole world were blind, I can see; that is why I love you. Do -you believe me when I tell you that I love you?" Camelia did not come -closer as she asked it, but her poised expectancy of look seemed to -claim him. Perior folded his arms and stared at her. "I would rather -not," he said. - -"Why?"--her voice at last showed a tremor. "You debase me by your -incredulity. If I do not love you--what did yesterday mean?--what does -_this_ mean? It is my only excuse." - -"Excuse?"--in this nearing antagonism his voice flamed up at the sudden -outlet--"Excuse? There was no excuse--for yesterday." Saved from the -direct brutality of refusing her love, the memory of Arthur's betrayed -trust rose hot within him. Arthur's sincerity shone in its noble -unconsciousness of the falseness of friend and sweetheart, one falseness -forced, one willing and frivolous; his grief was mocked by her -indifference. - -"Nothing can excuse that," he said. "What right had you to accept him? -What right had you to keep me in ignorance? Why did you not break with -him before turning to me? By Heaven, Camelia! even knowing you as I do I -cannot understand how you did it! I could hardly look him in the face -when he was here, the thought of it sickened me so." - -"Yes, that was horrible," said Camelia. - -"Horrible?" Perior repeated. Her judicial tone exasperated him. He -walked away to the window repeating, "Horrible!" as though exclaiming at -inadequacy. - -"But have I not atoned?" Camelia asked. - -"Atoned?" he stared round at her. - -"I have set him free. I have owned myself unworthy. I did not know you -cared for me when I accepted him, or, at least, I did not know I cared -for you--so much." - -Perior continued to look at her for a silent moment, contemplating the -monstrousness, yet strangely intuitive truth of her amendment. He let it -pass, feeling rather helpless before it. - -"So that is the way you pave the way to penitence? You atone to the -broken toys by walking over them? No, Camelia, no, nothing atones, -either to him or to me, for that unspoken lie." He came back to her, -feeling the need to face her for the solemn moment of the contest. - -Camelia was speaking hurriedly at last, losing a little her sustaining -calm--"And had I told you?--Had I said at once that I was engaged to -him?--Would that have helped us?--Could you have said, then, that you -loved me? You would have been too angry--for his sake--to say it, when I -had told you that in one day I had accepted and meant to reject -him"--the questions came eagerly. - -He looked at her face, strong with its still unshaken certainty, white, -delicate, insistent. Loving it and her, his eyes held hers intently, and -he asked, "Did I say I loved you?" - -A serene dignity rose to meet his look. "You did not _say_ it, perhaps. -You said you did _not_ love me," she added, with a little smile. - -"I was base--and I spoke basely. I said that I loved you enough to kiss -you. You may scorn me for it." - -"Ah!" she said quickly, "that was because you did not believe that I -loved you! You are exonerated." - -"Not even then. But if you do love me--choose me, as you say; if I do -love you--which I have not said--and will not say, will not say even to -exculpate my folly of last night--even then, Camelia! I would not marry -a woman whom I despise." - -"Despise?" she repeated. Her voice was a toneless echo of his. She -weighed the word, and found it heavy, as he saw. Her eyes dwelt on his -mutely, and there dawned slowly in them the terror of the eternal -negative that rose between her and him. - -"You are not good enough for me, Camelia," said Perior. - -"Because of yesterday!" she gasped. "You can't forgive that!" - -"Not only that, Camelia--I do not love you." - -She stood silent, gazing. His heart bled for her. To tell the saving -lie, he had faced a jibing self-scorn; yet he continued to face it -inflexibly. - -"I could not live with you. I think you would kill me. I said to poor -Arthur this afternoon what I believe of you--that you are selfish, and -false, and hard as a stone. I could not love a woman of whom I could -think--of whom I had been forced to say--that." - -Compunctions rained upon him--sharp arrows. Her mute, white face -appealed--if only to the long devotion, the long tenderness of years. - -The crucial moment was past, and the upwelling tenderness, devotion, -called to him to hurry her away from it, and support her under his own -most necessary cruelty. - -His voice broke in a stammer as he said, taking her hands--"How can I -tell you how I hate myself for saying this?--it is hideous--it is mean -to say." - -And Camelia said nothing, seemed merely to await, in a frozen stupor, -another blow. He could not see in her now the lying jilt of yesterday. - -"Don't think of me again as I've been this afternoon. Forget it, won't -you?" he urged; "I am going away to-morrow--and--you will get over it, -be able to see me again--some day, as the good old friend who never -wanted to be cruel--no, I swear it, Camelia. You must go now; you will -let me order the trap? You will let me drive you home?" - -She had drawn her hands away; in the dim room her eyes met his--bereft, -astonished. - -"You will let me drive you?" Perior repeated with some confusion. - -"No, I will walk," she said, hardly audibly. - -"The five miles back? It is too far--too late." He looked away from her, -too much touched by those astonished eyes. - -"No--I will walk." Then, as he stood still, rather at a loss-- - -"You are going to-morrow?" - -"Yes." - -"Because of me?" - -"Ah--that pleases you!" he said, with a smile a little forced. - -"Pleases me!" The sharpness of her voice cut him, made him feel gross in -his unkindness. - -"It does not please me, but it is the best thing under the -circumstances. Now, Camelia, you must go. I will walk with you. We won't -speak of this at all--will pretend it never happened. You must forgive -my folly of last night, and get over this touching folly of yours. Come, -we won't talk of it any more," he repeated, drawing her hand through -his arm, holding it with a clasp consolatory and entreating. - -She did not follow him. "No! no!" she said, half-choked, drawing away -the hand. Then, suddenly, with a great sob, turning to him, she flung -herself upon his breast, clung to him, her hands clutching his -shoulders-- - -"Oh! don't leave me! Don't leave me! I can't bear it!" she cried, -shuddering. "I will be good! Oh, I _will_ be good! Give me time, just -wait--and see--" The words were half lost, as with hidden face she wept. -"You are so cruel, so unjust--give me time and see how I will please -you--how you will love me. You must love me--you must--you must." - -"Camelia! Camelia!" Perior was shocked, shaken as well. The deep note of -his own voice warned him in its pity, and amazement, and distress, of -the dangerous emotion that seized him. To yield again to an emotion, -even though a higher one than last night's--to yield with those thoughts -of hers--those spoken thoughts--never, never. - -He tried to hold her off; her sobs made her helpless, but with arms -outstretched--blindly, as he remembered to have seen a crying, stumbling -child, she turned to him--it was too pitiful--as she might have turned -to her mother. How repulse the broken creature? He could but take the -outstretched hands, let her come to him again; she did not put her arms -around him; there was no claim; only a clinging, her face hidden, as she -sobbed, "Don't leave me! Don't! I love you! I adore you!" - -"My poor child!" - -"Yes, yes, your poor child! Be sorry for me, be kind--only a child. I -did not mean to deserve that--torture, you--despising! I never _meant_ -anything--so wrong. Only a silly, a selfish, a frivolous child--won't -you see it?--never caring for the toys I played with--never caring for -anything but you, _really_. Can't you see it now, as I do? I have grown -up, I have put away those things. Can't you forgive me?" - -"Yes, yes. Great heavens! I am not such a prig, such a fool! I have -always hoped----" - -"That you could allow yourself to love me! Ah, say it! say it!" She -looked up, lifting her face to his. - -"To be fond of you, Camelia," said Perior. "I can't say more than that!" - -"Because you won't believe in me! Can't believe in me! And I can't live -without you to help me! Haven't you seen, all along, that you were the -only one I cared about? Half my little naughtinesses were only to -provoke you, to make you angry, to see that you cared enough to be -angry. All the rest--the worldliness--the using of people--yes, yes, I -own to it!--but no one was better than I! Why should I have been good -when no one else is? When all are playing the same game, and most people -only fit to play with? Why should I have been better than they?" - -"I don't know, Camelia, but--my wife would have to be." - -"She _will_ be." - -"Don't make me hurt you--don't be so cruel to yourself." - -"She will be," Camelia repeated. - -"I beg of you--I implore you, Camelia." He hardened his face to meet her -look, searching, eager, pitiful. - -"How could I say this unless I believed you loved me--had always loved -me? Don't speak; don't say no; don't send me away. You are angry. You -have the right to be; but, ah! if you only knew what I feel for you." - -"Don't tell me, Camelia." - -"But I must. I love everything about you--I always have. When you were -near me I saw every gesture you made, heard every word you spoke, knew -every thought you had about me. I love your little ways--I know them -all; that wag of your foot when you are angry, the look of your teeth -when you smile, your hands, your face, your dear rough hair----" - -Perior had turned from red to white, and still looking at him, shaking -her head a little, she finished very simply on a long sigh-- - -"I can't live without you. I _can't_." - -"Camelia, I can't marry you," he said; and then, taking breath in the -ensuing silence, "You are mistaken. I don't love you. I have your -welfare at my heart; I wish you all happiness, all good. I am sorry, -terribly sorry for you; but I do not love you. You must believe me. I do -not love you. I will not marry you.--God forgive me for the lie," he -said to himself; "but no, no, no, I can_not_ marry her, poor impulsive, -wilful, half noble, half pitiful child, a thousand times no." The strong -rebellion of his very soul steadied him. He could yield without a -tremor to his pity, could take her hands and hold them in a clasp -convincingly paternal and pitying. - -Camelia closed her eyes, drawing in a long breath, too sharp in its -accepted bitterness for the break of a sob. Her face, with this tragedy -of still woe upon it, was almost unrecognizable. Until now it had been a -face of triumph. Defeat--and that at last she recognized defeat he -saw--changed its very lines; the iron entered her soul, and something -left her face for ever. For a long time she did not speak, and her voice -seemed dimmed, as though spoken from a great distance, when she said, -her eyes still closed, "Then you never loved me!" - -"Never," said Perior, who, encompassed by the saving lie, could freely -breathe in the tonic atmosphere of his resolute pain. - -"But--you are fond of me?" said Camelia; and as she spoke, from under -the solemn pressure of her eyelids, pressed down as on a dead hope, -great tears came slowly. - -"Great Heaven! Fond of you? _Fond_ of you? Yes--yes, my dear Camelia." -He leaned forward and kissed her forehead above the closed eyes. - -"Ah!" she murmured, "I was so sure you loved me!" More than its rigid -misery, the humble bewilderment on her face, as of a creature stricken -helpless, and not comprehending its pain, hurt him, warned him that -every moment made it more difficult to keep down the fluttering of a -longing he would not, must never satisfy. He seemed to crush a harsh -hand on its delicate wings as he said-- - -"And now you will go. You will let me walk home with you?" - -She shook her head. "No, no." - -She went towards the door, her hand still in his. - -"You should not go alone. I beg of you, dear, to let me come." - -"I would rather go alone." - -They were in the hall, and she had not looked at him again. She put her -hand out to the door and then she paused. Perior had also paused. - -"Will you kiss me good-bye?" she said. - -"Will I? O Camelia!" At that moment he felt himself to be more false -than he had been during all the scene with her, for as he kissed her the -fluttering wings beat upward with the exultant throb of a released -desire. And she did not know. She believed him. All her hope was -stricken in the dust. And yet they clung together--lovers; he ashamed of -his knowledge; she pathetic, tragic, in her chastened, her humiliated, -trust and ignorance. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel was walking across the hall on her way to the staircase -when Camelia entered. She had not seen Camelia since the morning's -catastrophe, a catastrophe as yet unannounced, but plainly discernible -in the departure of the Henges, in Lady Paton's retirement, Camelia's -disappearance, and Mary's heavy silence. Mary herself hardly knew as -yet, could only suspect, with a sickening droop of disappointment -following a hope, unreasonable perhaps, but delicious while it so -briefly lasted. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel plied her with profitless questions during tea-time; -she only knew that Sir Arthur had ridden away, that Lady Henge had -followed with the boxes, that Aunt Angelica was in her room, and that -Camelia had gone out. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was not disposed to let Camelia -off easily; and now, undeterred by the almost vacant stare her young -hostess bent upon her, she rushed at her imperatively. - -"You look quite half mad, Camelia! What is the matter? The Henges are -gone, she as gloomy as a hearse. I have not seen your mother since -breakfast. Has a thunderbolt struck the house? You accepted Arthur Henge -yesterday, and to-day you give him his _conge_. Is it possible?" - -Camelia's hand waved her aside. What did this chattering, rattling -creature want of her? She belonged to a dim primeval age, the age of -yesterday, before the cataclysm had changed everything. - -"No; you are not going to get rid of me like that!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel -followed her swiftly up the stairs. "That would be a little too bad, to -leave me, all curiosity, frying in my own ignorance. Now, Camelia, let -me have the whole truth of it. What has happened?" She confronted her in -her room. - -"Yes, I have broken my engagement." - -"Why? great heavens, why?" - -"I don't love him. Please go, Frances." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel crossed her arms and surveyed her friend in an -exasperated silence. - -"Was that so necessary?" she asked presently, while Camelia, sitting in -a low chair half turned from her, unbuttoned her muddy boots and -gaiters. - -"Yes, it was. I wish you would go away." - -"You know what every one will think--you know what _I_ think!--that you -accepted him to prove you could throw him over. You try him on to show -that you can fit him, and then kick him away, precisely as you kick away -that muddy boot. It is an unheard-of thing. It is distinctly nasty." - -Camelia leaned back with closed eyes, hardly hearing, certainly not -caring for the words, though their sound was an importunate jangling at -her ears, wearisome, irritating. - -"As for the egregious folly of it! well, my dear, you may have plans -into which I am not initiated, but the day will come, I think, in which -you will own that you have behaved like a horrid little fool." Mrs. -Fox-Darriel moved towards the door, not caring to outstay her climax, -yet urged to an addenda by the exasperating, almost slumbering -indifference of Camelia's face. "I will go. You want to finish your cry. -Have you been walking about the lanes crying? I am off to the Dormers -to-morrow; I only stayed on here because of you; my occupation now is -decidedly gone." - -"Good-bye," said Camelia. - -When she was alone she rose and bolted the door. Her ten miles had tired -her physically, and she sank back into her chair, her stockinged feet -stretched out, her muddy skirts clinging damply about her ankles. - -Yes, let the whole truth surge over her, and find her unresisting. - -He did not love her; had never loved her. He despised her. The -remembrance of his scorn crept over her like a gnawing flame. The shame -of last night's dancing, of his reluctant embrace, that she had courted, -came upon her in an awful revelation; and the wilful, desperate passion -of to-day, sure of the hidden treasure he withheld from her in -punishment only--a child pounding at a locked door. And the room was -empty; there had been no treasure. She had forced him to open to her the -dreadful vacancy. His sad friendship, smarting still from its momentary -debasement, had sheltered her from the keenest pang; it was as if he had -held her hand as, together, they went into that vacant room; now, alone, -the realization of her own abasement stunned her. But she loved him. It -had not been for her love that he had scorned her, though -misinterpreting it so cruelly. She had made it impossible that she -should ever retrieve herself, or that he should ever see the truth; her -falseness had blinded him to her only worth, yet even now the -consciousness of that worth held her from utter loss of self-respect, -the consciousness of the intrinsic nobility of her devotion, rejected -alas! seen with darkest disfigurements, but standing upright and -unashamed at the centre of her life. This great love was like an -over-soul, a nobler self looking with sad eyes at the prostrate, the -utterly confounded Camelia. - -Then came throbs of loneliness and terror. He was going away! She sprang -up under the knife-like thrust of the thought. Oh! if at least he had -believed her! If at least he had seen tragedy, not a poor, silly farce, -the only noble thing in her life distorted to a wretched folly. Only -outwardly had she been a child screaming for an unattainable toy. She -walked up and down the room, her hands wrung together, until a quivering -weakness of fatigue came over her, and she flung herself face downwards -on the bed. - -Sobs came with the despairing posture. Her whole body shook with them. - -A tiny, timid knock at the door broke in on the miserable satisfaction -of woe expressed. - -Camelia held back her weeping and listened silently. - -"Camelia," said her mother's voice, a voice tremulous with tears, "may I -not see you, my darling?" - -In her agonizing self-absorption Camelia heard the words with a -resentment made fierce by sympathy crushed down. - -"No," she said, steadying her voice, for her mother must not think her -weeping in regret over her act of repudiation, "you can't." - -"Please, my child "--Lady Paton evidently began to sob, and Camelia, -wrapping herself in a sense of necessary and therefore justified -brutality, again buried her head in the pillow. Yes, she was a brute, of -course, but--how silly of her mother to stand there crying! How -tactless, at least; for Camelia at once hated herself for the other -word. What did she expect? She seemed nearly as remote as Frances--not -quite, for she could see Frances and repulse her with complete -indifference, and she could not meet her mother indifferently. There -would be the pain, the irritation of feigning. - -"Don't be cruel, dear." The words reached her dimly through the pillow. -Cruel! Camelia smiled bitterly. _She_ did not know. The apparent cause -for grief was slight indeed; the real one was locked forever in her -heart, so let them think her cruel. - -The hopeless little click of the door-knob showed that her mother's hand -had been appealingly laid upon it. Her slow footstep passed along the -hall. Camelia lay in her damp, hot pillow, her eyes closed. "Yes I am a -brute," she said to herself; and then, thinking of Perior, her tears -flowed again. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -Mrs. JEDSLEY'S visit of curiosity and condolence was of a surprisingly -consolatory nature. As an old friend, Mrs. Jedsley permitted herself the -curiosity; but even from an old friend Lady Paton had not expected a -true-ringing generosity of judgment. - -"I came, my dear--yes, because I wanted to know. My ears are buzzing -with the talk of it--true or false, who can tell? Not even you, I fancy; -but I have my own opinion," said Mrs. Jedsley. "I understand Camelia -pretty well; but vulgarly, schemingly cruel--rubbish! rubbish!--so I -say!" - -That the saying had been at all necessary made poor Lady Paton more -white, yet Mrs. Jedsley's denunciation was so sincere that she took her -hands, saying, "How can they! It was a mistake. She found she did not -love him. _He_ understands." Sir Arthur's parting words had haloed her -daughter for her during these difficult days. - -"Yes, yes, he is a very fine fellow, and idealizes her tremendously," -said Mrs. Jedsley, with strict justice. "It was, of course, a great -shame for her not to have made up her mind long ago--a great shame to -have accepted him"--Mrs. Jedsley shore off Camelia's beams -relentlessly--"and a great pity, my dear, that the engagement should -have been announced, since a few hours of silence might have shifted -the matter, and no one the wiser. But of course we were all as ready as -dry kindling for the match--it spread like wildfire--a fine crackling! -and then, in a day, a fine cackling! Lady Haversham came running down to -me post-haste to say it was off--to wonder, to exult. Of course she is -an adherent of the Duchess's, and Lady Elizabeth has her chance again. -But yes, yes, I know the child--a vain child, a selfish child; ah! it -pains you; one must face that truth to see beyond it--to others; but not -vulgarly cruel. She would not play with the man for months to give -herself the feline fun of crunching him at the end of it all. She was -playing with herself rather, only half in earnest. The engagement -brought her to her senses--held her still; she couldn't dance, so she -thought. Indeed, it's the first time I've respected Camelia. I do -respect a person who has the courage to retrieve a false step. It is -quite a good enough match to turn a girl into a schemer. At least she -has proved she's not that." - -"No! no! My daughter!" - -"Quite true; your daughter; that does count, after all. No, she can't be -accused of husband-hunting." Mrs. Jedsley laughed dryly. "Now, the -question of course remains, who _is_ she in love with?" and she fixed on -her friend a gaze so keenly interrogative that it certainly suggested -tinder ready to flash alight of itself. "Not our Parliamentary big-wig, -Mr. Rodrigg? Oh no!" - -"No, indeed." Lady Paton's head-shake might have damped the most arduous -conjecture. "He went away, you know--very angrily, it seems, and most -discourteously, for I did not even see him. He behaved very badly, -Michael told me. Michael himself is gone; you knew that too? He just -stopped to see me on his way to the station." - -"Mr. Perior--yes." Mrs. Jedsley looked ruminative; even to her quickly -jumping mind that long leap of inference did not suggest itself except -in one connection. - -Poor Mr. Perior! Had Camelia been giving the mitten right and left? -Buffeting back into hopelessness each suitor who advanced, encouraged by -another's failure? Had Mr. Perior really been foolish enough to run his -head into that trap? - -"Now that the comedy is over, the chief confidant packs up--he quite -filled that role, didn't he?" she said. "And our fine jingling lady, -Mrs. Fox-Darriel? Has she, too, folded her tents and stolen away?--not -silently, I'll be bound. She had staked something on the match." - -"She is gone. She spoke unkindly to me of Camelia. I do not like her. I -could say nothing, it was so----" - -"So neatly done. She implied, merely; you would have accepted inferences -by recognizing them. I can hear her!" - -"She felt for me. Camelia had gone too far--it didn't look well; a girl -must not overstep certain limits; one could make too much of a -reputation for audacity; Camelia's charm had been to be audacious, -without seeming so. And the sad affair of Mr. Rodrigg--Camelia should -not have stooped, and to no purpose; people turned on one so horridly. -Poor Sir Arthur would lose his bill as well as his sweetheart, now that -Camelia had meddled so disastrously. Oh! she was most unkind." Lady -Paton evidently remembered the unkindness--her voice was a curious echo. - -Mrs. Jedsley ruminated energetically all the way back to the village, -as, her skirts raised in either hand, she marched with heavy-booted -splashes through the mud. Near the village she overtook Mary, bending as -she walked, an umbrella uncomfortably wedged under one arm, several -parcels encumbering her. - -"My dear, why walk in this weather?" Mrs. Jedsley herself walked in all -weathers, but for Mary, with a pleasant equine background, the necessity -was not obvious; she joined her with the ejaculation. - -"Oh! I like walking, Mrs. Jedsley," said Mary. "Aunt Angelica always -tells me to have the pony-cart, but it seems hardly worth while for this -little distance." - -"A good mile. Where are you bound for?" - -"I want to see Mrs. Brown; Kitty was rather troublesome in Sunday-school -last Sunday." - -"And how nicely you manage that class. It is a credit to you. Camelia -now laughs at it." Mary said nothing to this, and Mrs. Jedsley added, -"Not that she has much heart for laughing at anything just now from what -I hear. That is the very encouraging feature of the whole case. It is -ridiculous to speak of her as setting feathers in her cap with a light -heart. She really feels this sad affair." - -"Yes," said Mary, looking ahead with a rather rigid settling of her -features. - -"One might perhaps say affairs," Mrs. Jedsley added, for she could not -keep those restless conjectures to herself; out they galloped. "It has -been a general _debacle_. Mr. Rodrigg gone in a fury--breathing flame; -Sir Arthur flung from his triumph--and, poor Mr. Perior. Now I really -did not expect it of Mr. Perior; I thought he knew her so well--yet, for -eyes that can see it's very evident, isn't it?" - -Mary looked down, making no reply. - -"Evidently she has a charm the most metallic male heart can't withstand; -a case of molten iron with Mr. Perior--in that condition I can imagine -him irresistible to some women. But such a reasonable man; -well-seasoned, and her friend for years. Oh! it's a great pity that he -let her melt him; no one knows now what shape his despair will cool to?" - -Mary, her head bent persistently downward, stared at the muddy road. - -"That she was very fond of him there is no denying," Mrs. Jedsley -pursued, "but I should have seen that as the most hopeless part of the -matter. A girl like Camelia doesn't marry the middle-aged mentor of her -youth. But fond of him she is. I have watched her. Her eyes were always -sliding round to him. He made a standard to her; she might jibe at it, -but she liked to see it standing there--and to hang a wreath on it now -and then. Upon my word, Mary!" and Mrs. Jedsley, stopping short in a -mud-puddle, turned triumphant eyes on Mary's impassive face, "I -shouldn't be surprised if _that_ were the real matter with her. She is -really fond of him; his tumble hurts her more than the other's. She -misses her sign-post pointing steadily at friendship. She is sorry to -lose her friend." - -Mary after a little pause said, "Yes." - -"Yes! You think so too!" cried Mrs. Jedsley delightedly. "You have -opportunities, of course----" - -"Oh no! No, indeed, Mrs. Jedsley--I only think, only imagine----" - -"You have thought and imagined what I have. And that we are right I -don't doubt. The double catastrophe accounts very fully for her low -spirits--and I really respect her for them, though that the catastrophe -should have occurred makes it only just that she should suffer. But Mr. -Perior was foolish. Ah yes! in her defence I must say that!" - -Mary was saying nothing, standing mutely at the parting of the roads -until her companion should have done. She was well prepared for Mrs. -Jedsley's unconscious darts. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's parting look and parting words still rankled in her -heavy heart; the look, one of pity; the words: "She has refused the -other too! And him she would have liked to keep dangling! She enjoys an -interminable sense of drama when he is by; her life is bereft without -it. But the man was mad to think that she would take him," and the look -had added that the man was a fool not to see and be contented with the -minor fact Mary would have been so willing to supply. Mary had felt -withered; her nerves scorched to apathy, since that look. - -"You must come in and have tea with me, my dear," said Mrs. Jedsley, "it -will put strength into you for your talk with Mrs. Brown. Come and have -a cup with me--and you know my hot scones; we will talk this over. Your -aunt doesn't suspect it, poor dear!" - -"No, Mrs. Jedsley, thanks--I can't come, and no, aunt does not -know--must not know; it would make her feel very unhappy! she is so fond -of Mr. Perior; she doesn't suspect it," Mary spoke with sudden -insistence--"and then, it may be pure imagination on my part," she -added, flushing before Mrs. Jedsley's smiling and complacent head-shake. -"It would be unfair to _them_--would it not?--to Camelia I -mean--and----" - -"And Mr. Perior; quite true, my dear. We must be as quiet as mice about -it. Unfair, as you say. We must not hang out his heart for the daws to -peck at. Poor man! You won't come in to tea?" - -"Thanks, no. I must be home early." Mary hurried away. She bit her lips -hard, staring before her at the wet browns and grays of the lane, dingy, -drab, like her life; narrow, dull, chill with on-coming winter, and -leading--the lane led to the churchyard. Mary's thoughts followed it to -that destination, and suddenly the hot tears rolled down her cheeks, and -hard sobs shook her as she walked. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -These days were very lonely for Lady Paton. The house was empty, and one -could not call companionship Camelia's mute, white presence. - -Camelia read all day in the library, where only Siegfried was made -welcome, or rode for hours about the wintry country. To all timid -questions, as to future plans, she only answered by a coldly decisive, -"I don't know." When her mother put her arms around her, Camelia stood -impassive in their circling love, locked in her own frozen mood of -despairing humiliation. - -One day when in her room she had broken down her outward endurance by an -impulsive cry of woe, and stood sobbing, her face in her hands, her -mother came in, made courageous by pity. - -"My dearest child, tell me--what is it? You are breaking your heart and -mine. Do you love him? Tell me, darling. Is it some hidden scruple? some -fancy? Let me send for him," poor Lady Paton's thoughts dwelt longingly -on amorous remedies. - -"Love him? Sir Arthur? Are you mad, mother?" Camelia lifted a stern -face. "He doesn't enter my mind. He is nothing to me--simply nothing." - -"But, Camelia--you are miserable----" - -"Ah! I have a right to that dreary liberty." - -"And--Oh don't be angry, dearest--is there no one else?" - -"No one else?" Camelia repeated it angrily indeed;--that her mother -should give this stupid wrench to her heart was intolerable. "Of course -there is no one else! How can you be so tiresome, mother. There--don't -cry. I am simply sick of everything--myself included, that is all that -is the matter with me. Please don't cry!" for sympathetic tears were -coming into her own eyes, and above all things, she dreaded a breaking -down of reserves, a weakened dignity that might bring her to a sobbing, -maudlin confession, that would burn her afterwards, and follow her -everywhere in the larger pity of her mother's eyes. - -Lady Paton, her handkerchief at her lips, pressed back her grief, saying -in a broken entreaty, "But, Camelia--why? How long will it last? You -were always such a happy creature." - -"How can I tell?" Camelia gave a little laugh that carried her over the -vanquished sob to a certain calmness; leaning back against the -mantelpiece she added, smiling drearily, "Don't worry, mother; don't -_you_ be miserable." - -Lady Paton looked at her with eyes in which Camelia felt the unconscious -dignity of an inarticulate reproof. - -"Oh, my child!" she said, "my child! Am I not your mother? Is not your -happiness my only happiness?--your sorrow my last and greatest sorrow? -You forget me, dear, in your own grief. You shut me out--because you -don't love me--as I love you;--it is that that hurts the most." - -Camelia stood looking at her. Her artistic sensibility was decidedly -impressed by this unexpected revelation of character. How well her -mother's white hair and cap looked on the pale greens of the room; the -exquisite face, and the more exquisite soul looking from it. How well -she had spoken; how truly too. Yes, her own worthlessness clung to her; -she, so far inferior in moral worth, made this sweet, fragile creature -unhappy; she was everything to her mother, the light that shone through -and sustained the white petals of her flower-like being; and her mother -was to her only a pretty detail. Camelia analyzed it all very -completely, and resting on an achieved self-disgust she said, gravely -contemplating her, "It is a great shame, mother. That is the way of this -wretched world. The good people are always making beauty for the bad -ones. You shouldn't let that lovely, but most irrational maternal -instinct dominate you; see me as I am, a horrid creature." She paused, -and all thoughts of artistic effects, all poetical and scientific -appreciations, were blotted out in a flame-like leap of memory--"false, -selfish, hard as a stone," she said. - -"Don't say it, dear--you could not say it if it were so." - -"Oh, yes!--one can, if one has a devilish clearness of perception about -everything. I am horrid--and I know that I am horrid. And you are very -lovely. There." And kissing her, Camelia pushed her gently to the door. - -Perhaps, however, more than artistic sensibilities had been touched. -Camelia shrank as quickly as before from any demonstration that seemed -to look too closely at her heart, but she herself would make advances. -She was only gentle, now, towards her mother; she never failed to kiss -or caress her when they met. A cheerful coldness seemed at once her -surest refuge and most becoming medium for an affection that could allow -itself no warmer and more dangerous avowals. It was a colorless, still -affection, held, as it were, from development, only felt by Lady Paton -as a more careful kindness, and by Camelia as a new necessity for -incurring no further self-reproach. - -Poor Lady Paton, devouring her heart in sorrowful conjecture and -helpless sympathy, had no thought but of her child; but by her side, -Mary, the silent witness of her grief and anxiety, might have claimed, -from disengaged eyes, a foreboding attention. Since the day of her -stolen ride Mary had effaced herself in a shadowy taciturnity. She -watched Camelia, and avoided her. Her absorption in every household duty -became minutely forced. She slipped early to bed after a day of -self-imposed labor. Work and its ensuing weariness, were the only -sedatives for intolerable pain; she deadened herself with the drug. The -weather was bad, and Lady Paton too depressed to rouse herself to her -usual benignant activity. Mary took upon herself her Aunt's abandoned -occupations. She went every day to read to the paralyzed girl at the -Manor Farm. She made the weekly round of visits through the wet village -streets; consulted with the well-worked rector; kept an eye upon the -school and almshouses. Mary was not particularly popular in the village. -Her kindness was rather flat and flavorless; Jane Hicks at the farm -complained to her mother that Miss Fairleigh's reading was "so dull -like; one didn't seem to get anything from it." - -Jane never forgot the one visit Miss Paton made her, nor how Camelia had -sat beside her and kept her laughing the whole hour. Camelia, seeing the -effect she made, had promised to return some day, but events had -interfered, she now was in no mood for laughing, and Jane was always -eager to question Mary about Camelia's doings, and to sigh with the -pleasant reminiscence of her "pretty ways." Mary's virtues were all -peculiarly unremunerative, they sought, and obtained, no reward. - -Towards the beginning of December Camelia's despair threw itself into -action. The rankling sense of Perior's scorn at first stupefied, and at -last roused her. Before him she had felt her powerlessness. His rocky -negative had broken her. He would not change--not a thought of his -changing stirred her deep hopelessness; but she herself might -change--merit at least a friendship unflawed--cast off crueller -accusations. - -She must be good, she must struggle from the shell; she must realize, -however feebly, his ideal. He would never love her--that delusion of her -vanity he had killed forever; but he might be fond of her without a -compunction. - -Towards this comparatively humble attainment Camelia strove. How to be -good was the question. Of course she would never tell lies any -more--unless necessary lies of self-defence, in protection of her dear, -her dreadful secret--Camelia could address it by both names; the love -that sustained and must lift her life, even he should never see again. -After all, it was easy enough to tell the truth when one cared no more -for any of the things gained by falseness. That was hardly a step -upward. Some other mode of development must be found; Camelia pondered -this necessity, and one day during a walk past Perior's model cottages -the thought came. She, too, would build cottages, beautiful cottages, -more beautiful than his! She almost laughed at the delicious, teasing, -old friendliness of that addenda. - -The Patons' estate boasted only very commonplace residences for its -laborers, and delightful visions of co-operative farming, of idealized -laboring conditions flashed joyously through Camelia's mind. Vast fields -of study opened alluringly, and, immediately in the foreground, these -idyllic cottages. They bloomed with trellised flowers on the gray -December landscape as she walked. The wall-papers were chosen by the -time she reached home. She burst upon her mother in the firelit -drawing-room at tea-time with an enthusiasm that made Lady Paton's heart -jump. - -"Mother! Such an idea! I am going to build." - -Mary, who was toasting a muffin to hotter crispness before the fire, -turned a thin, flushed face at the announcement. - -"Build what, dear?" asked Lady Paton; while Mary, certain in one moment -of what Camelia was going to build, and why, silently put the -ameliorated muffin on the little plate by her aunt's side. - -"Cottages. Model cottages. Beautiful cottages--really beautiful, you -know--Elizabethan; beams, white plaster, latticed windows, deep -window-seats, and the latest modernity in drains and bath-tubs." - -"Like Michael's, you mean," said Lady Paton, a little bewildered; "his -are not Elizabethan, but the drains and bath-tubs are very good, I -believe." - -Camelia's face changed when her mother spoke of "Michael;" and Mary, -watching as usual, compressed her lips tightly. The cottages were to be -built for him--with him! Ah! he would come back. Camelia would keep -him--for building cottages, for adoring her; while she, Mary, would be -thrust further and further away. - -"Yes, like his, only better than his. My tenants shall be the best -housed of the county." Camelia threw herself into an easy-chair, and -fixed her eyes thoughtfully upon the fire. - -"It will be very expensive, dear." - -"Never mind; we'll economize." - -Camelia had not so looked or spoken for weeks, and Lady Paton smiled a -happy acquiescence. - -Camelia took the cup of tea her cousin offered her without looking away -from the fire, where she saw the cottages charmingly pictured, and she -and Perior looking at them--friends. - -"Your boots are wet, dear, are they not?" asked Lady Paton; "it has been -raining." - -"They are wet, I think. Mary, just ring, will you? Grant must take them -off down here. I am too tired, too comfortable, to go upstairs." - -Camelia sighed as though the fundamental heaviness of her mood rose -through the seeming light-heartedness of tone; sighed, and yet the -relief of getting outside herself was filling her with an exhilarating -energy. - -As she drank her tea, ate a muffin, Mary browning it nicely for -her--"How cosy to have tea by ourselves," said Camelia, "and toast our -own muffins!"--she talked as she had not talked for a long time. Her -mind ran quickly, escaping its miserable thraldom, from point to point -of the project. - -She pushed aside the tea-things to make with spoons and saucers a plan -of the new scheme. - -"That high bit of land, you know, with the beech woods behind it; I'll -have six of the cottages, with big gardens; and what a view from the -front windows. I will furnish them, too. I must see an architect at -once: I'll go up to town for that, and talk it over with Lady Tramley. -Where is her last letter, I wonder? I remember her asking me for some -date; but that doesn't matter. She wanted me to go out, and of course I -won't." Camelia sprang up to rumple over the leaves of the blotter, the -drawers of the writing-desk. "Where is the letter? In the library, I -wonder?" - -"There is a whole pile, dear, in the small cabinet. You did not care to -look at them. I think they had better be gone over." - -"No; here is hers. I don't care about the others. I don't want to hear -anything about any one," Camelia added with some bitterness, as she -dropped into her chair again and held out her foot to Grant, who had -come in with the shoes. "Yes; she asks me for next week." - -"If you won't go out, dear, it may be rather annoying for her." - -"Oh! she can get out of things herself while I am with her," said -Camelia easily, as her eyes skimmed over the letter. - -The new impulse was too strong to be thwarted by the slightest delay. -That evening Camelia sent off a bulky letter to Lady Tramley, much -astonishing that good friend by her absolute ignoring of important facts -in recent history. Sir Arthur was not so much as hinted at. The whole -letter bristled with cottages, and Camelia's earnestness panted on every -page. - -"She is going in for philanthropy, I suppose," Lady Tramley conjectured, -shaking her head with a patient smile over the small, flowing -handwriting--Camelia hated untidy scrawls. "Let us help her. Camelia is -sure to do something interesting in the way of cottages. She'll carry -them through like a London season." - -Lady Tramley, as may be gathered from these remarks, was one of -Camelia's admirers, though not a blind or bigoted one. She shook her -head on many occasions, but Camelia's defects were not serious matters -to her gay philosophy, and Camelia's qualities in this frivolous world, -where nothing should be peered at too closely, were attractively -sparkling. As a successful hostess Lady Tramley prized the charming Miss -Paton. - -"Now mind," Camelia said on arriving at her friend's house, "I am not -going to be shown to any one. I am in a monastic frame of mind, and must -be kept unspotted from the world. No dances or dinners, if you please," -and she fixed her with eyes really grave. - -"Very well." Lady Tramley acquiesced as to a humorous and pretty whim. -"My doors are closed while you are here--as on a retreat. But when will -the season of penance be over? We are all expiating with you, remember." - -"Do I imply penance? Is that the habit my retirement wears?" - -"People give you credit for all sorts of niceties of feeling." Lady -Tramley smiled her significant little smile, a smile not lavished on the -nothings of intercourse, and Camelia, taking her by the shoulders, shook -her softly. - -"No; sly as you are you get nothing out of me, and give me credit for -nothing, please, not even for curiosity as to what people _do_ say of -me." - -"You know, dear, he is to meet, I fear, a second disaster as -unmerited----" - -Camelia had sat down to the tea-tray brought to refresh her after her -journey. She looked up from the filling of her cup to meet in a glance -the delicate directness of Lady Tramley's look. - -"Jack knows the ropes, of course, and I thought you ought to know -too--and be sorry." In her heart Lady Tramley hoped for an expansion of -sorrow that would carry Camelia past her moment of inexplicable folly. - -"I am sorry. The bill, you mean." Camelia folded a slice of bread and -butter, adding "Idiots." - -"Idiots indeed. It won't be carried, I am afraid. There is a split in -the Government, and Mr. Rodrigg has developed a really spiteful -acrimony. I always hated that man." - -"Ah! I loathe him!" said Camelia. She thought with a pang of -self-reproach of an unopened letter among the rejected pile--a letter -for Mr. Rodrigg. She had not cared to read his shuffling excuses. His -vanity, bulwarked by the strangely apt events succeeding his -discomfiture, might well renew hope. He might imagine these events the -result of remorse, and that, brought to a timely realization of her -folly, his fair one would consent to bury the hatchet and allow his firm -hand to tame her finally. All this Camelia had conjectured very rightly -on looking at the fat envelope. She had restrained the direct rebuff of -returning the unopened letter, but she had neither answered nor cared to -read it, and could well imagine that Mr. Rodrigg's cumulative -humiliation would urge him to his only possible vengeance. The "I loathe -him" was spoken with a most feeling intensity of tone. - -"Yes." Lady Tramley's affirmative was meaning, and Camelia looked up -alertly. "Lady Henge told me." - -"You know everything, I believe," cried Camelia. "Well, I am in good -hands." - -"I understand--your idea in it. But how unwise. How you mistook the -man." - -"Rather! Ass that I am!" - -"You looked for superlative chivalry, if you come to think of it." - -"No, for sincerity; common honesty. I thought I could convince him. I -didn't want chivalry without conviction. What did Lady Henge say of me?" -Camelia added bluntly. - -Lady Tramley replied very frankly, "She said you were a shallow jilt. I -quite agreed with her inwardly--though I shamelessly defended you." - -"If I say that I agree with you both it will only savor of ostentatious -humility--so I refrain. But, Lady Tramley, it was not the breaking of -our engagement that was shallow--that I will say. And so the bill is -doomed. Can we do nothing? Shear no Samson in the lobbies? Mr. Rodrigg, -of course, offers no hirsute possibilities." - -"Not a hair. Your Mr. Perior will be disappointed. He came back from the -Continent, you know, and put his shoulder to the wheel." - -Camelia stirred her tea evenly. Her nerves, as she felt with pride, were -very reliable. - -"_Our_ Mr. Perior then, is he not?" she asked, while her thoughts flew -past Sir Arthur to nestle pityingly to Perior. His useless valiancy -embittered her against the world of unconvinced opponents. Idiots -indeed! But she could not see him yet; even her nerves were not yet -tempered to a meeting. She had no comfortable background against which -to present herself; when she did, the background must be so unfamiliar -that for neither of them could there be the confusion of a hinted -memory. - -"Ours, by all means," said Lady Tramley. "I only effaced myself before -the paramount claim.--Not quite doomed. There is still the final fight, -and it is to be heralded by a thunderous article in the _Friday_. Mr. -Perior only goes down sword in hand." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -So he was in London. Camelia, sitting at home in the library, could -think of the nearness with a new calm. She was preparing herself to meet -its closer approach. She was not leaving herself defenceless. She -plunged into her reading--architecture, agriculture, decoration, and -sociology. The books came down from London in heavy boxes, and she sat -encompassed by the encouraging perfume of freshly-cut leaves. - -"Are you happy, dear?" her mother asked her. She would come in with her -usual air of deprecatory gentleness, and bend over the absorbed golden -head that did not turn at her entrance. On this day the absorption wore -a look of eager interest that seemed to justify the question. - -Camelia finished her sentence, smiling, however, as she put her hand on -her mother's without looking up. Her mind, indeed, was soothed, -comparatively comfortable. - -"No rude questions, Mamma!" - -"You understand all these solemn books?" Over her daughter's shoulder, -where she leaned, Lady Paton looked respectfully at the heavy volume. - -"I am beginning to understand that whatever one does in philanthropy is -wrong from the point of view of some authority!" Camelia said, -stretching herself on a long yawn, and then gently pinching her mother's -chin, while the smile dwelt upon her appreciatively, "As usual I find -that the only thing to do in this world is to do just as one likes." - -"If one can," said Lady Paton, with a half sad playfulness. - -"If one can;" the words woke in Camelia a painfully personal -affirmative, and with the wave of self-pity that swept through her -mingled a sense of her mother's unconscious pathos. Still holding her -chin she looked up at her, "It has often been _can't_ with you, hasn't -it?" - -Lady Paton's glance fluttered to a shy alarm and surprise at this -application. - -"With me, dear?" - -"Yes--you have had to give up lots of things, haven't you? to put up -with any amount of disagreeable inevitables." - -"I have had many blessings." - -"Oh! of course! You would say that over your last crust! But it has been -can't with you, decidedly. I wonder if it was because you weren't strong -enough to have your own way!" - -"That would be a bad way, surely." - -"Ah!--not yours!" - -"And perhaps I have no way at all," Lady Paton added, and Camelia was -obliged to laugh at the subtle simplicity. - -"That is being too submissive. Yet--it is comfortable, no doubt. -Absolute non-resistance isn't a bad idea. And yet, why shouldn't one -make one's struggle?--survive if one is fittest? Why is not having -one's own way as good as submitting to somebody else's? Oh dear!" she -cried. - -"What is it?" - -"Nothing, nothing; I am unfittest, that is all!" Camelia stared out of -the window. - -"What do you mean, dear?" - -"I mean that I can't have my own way--I, too, can't. And it wasn't a bad -way either. There is the cruelty of it, the irony, the jeer! All the bad -ways are given to me, and when I turn from them, don't want them, and -try for the _best_--I don't get it! Isn't it intolerable?" - -To Lady Paton this was wild, bewildering, pitiful, yet she grasped -enough to say, "That would be the punishment, would it not, dear, for -the bad ways?" - -"Yes, the punishment. Like damnation. One has made one's self too -ugly--the best can't recognize one at all." - -That evening the last number of the _Friday Review_ lay on the -drawing-room table. Perior had not written in it for some time, but with -the quiver of the heart any association with him now gave her, Camelia -picked up the paper and carried it to the fireside. Mary, sewing in the -lamp's soft circle of light, looked up quickly, and her hand paused with -an outstretched thread as she saw Camelia's literary fare. - -Camelia turned the pages in a half fretful search for what she felt sure -of not finding; then, abruptly, the rustling leaves came to a -standstill. There was the article, at last! a long one, on the Factory -Bill. Impossible to question the concise, laconic style; no one else -wrote with such absolute directness, such exquisite choice, free from -all hint of phrasing. - -Camelia's gray eyes kindled as she read, and her lips parted -involuntarily; she drew quick, shallow little breaths. Oh! through it -all went that fervor, that cold, bracing fervor she knew and loved. - -Perior's strong feeling was at times like a clear, indignant wind, -sweeping before it cowering littlenesses. Her mind half forgot him as -she read, conscious as was her heart. For the first time the intrinsic -right of the bill was borne in upon her. She had glibly dressed its -merits, laughing at her own theatrical dexterity. She had never really -cared for any bill. Now it became the greatest, the only bill in the -world. Her ardor rushed past the unfortunate initiator, to fall at the -propagator's feet. Ah! if she could but help now, and for his sake! Poor -Sir Arthur! - -Mary, who from her seat could just see, beyond the sharply held review, -the lovely line of Camelia's cheek, the little ear, set in its delicate -closeness against the shining hair, Mary, intent on the rising color in -this bit of cheek, had quite stopped sewing. Her pale eyes widened in a -devouring significance, her lips set tightly on repressed pain. Mary, -too, had read the article. - -Coming to the end of it, Camelia slanted the paper downwards, and -vaguely, over the top of it, looked at the fire. Then suddenly her eyes -met Mary's. A violent shock of self-consciousness shook her through and -through. She felt herself snatch back her secret from a precipice edge -of revelation--revelation to dull Mary, of all people. Mary, against -whom, in regard to Perior, she had long felt--not knowing that she felt -it--a strong, reasonless antagonism. She could not shake and slap her -secret, as a frightened mother slaps and shakes her rescued child; but -she could turn the terrified anger on its cause, and, in a strangely -pitched voice, she said, "What are you staring at? You look like a spy!" - -Mary gave a great start. If indeed she had been slapped outright her -guilty amazement could not have been more cruel. - -She stammered at a repetition of "staring"; but no words came. Her face -was scarlet. Camelia was immediately sorry, but not one whit less angry, -more so, perhaps, since pity is often an irritating ingredient; and, -too, she felt that to any one less stupid her very outburst might have -betrayed her. She was angry with herself as well as with Mary. Mary's -very helplessness was repulsive, and she hated to see her light blue -eyes set in that scarlet confusion. - -"Yes, staring;" she helped the stammering. "Is there anything you want -to find out? Do ask, then. Don't let your eyes skulk about in that -sneaking fashion. It makes me quite sick to see you." - -Mary stood up, looking from side to side in a half-dazed way that -Camelia observed with a pitying disgust that indeed sickened her. It -reminded her of the gestures of an ugly animal wounded by a stone flung -by some cruel boy. The simile came in a flash that it did not at the -moment give her time to complete it and see herself as stone-thrower. -She felt relief, as well as an added dismay, when Mary broke suddenly -into sobs, and stumbled out of the room, her sewing, caught in her -skirt, following her with ungainly leaps. Only then Camelia realized -that it was her own cruelty that sickened her; her irrational terror, -breaking in upon a tender, thrilling absorption, had urged her to it, -almost irresistibly; but now, the terror past, its foundationless folly -apparent, she really felt quite sick as she still sat looking at the -fire. - -The _Friday Review_ sliding suddenly from her knees gave her a nervous -pang that tingled to her finger-tips, and when she stooped to pick it up -Perior's personality seemed to confront her. She cowered before it. The -hot blood beat in her head. Only by degrees, as her mind faltered over -extenuations, did she quiet herself. Her hidden unhappiness--her love, -it had been like a blundering hand thrust among her heart-strings; how -could she have helped the sharp anger in which her naked anguish clothed -itself? Lastly, but with a kind of shame, Mary's displeasing personality -made a subtle condonation; her inarticulate stupidity was almost -infuriating. Not for one moment did her secret suspect Mary's. Her own -pain seemed already an expiation, and, in analyzing it, she could put -Mary aside, promising herself that she would atone by a "Forgive me, -Mary, I did not mean it," the next time they met. She would even add, "I -was a devil." Her sigh of decision left her only half comforted. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -She did not see Mary again until the next morning, and then Camelia gave -herself the satisfaction of fulfilling an uncompulsory duty. Mary's -mask-like look of endurance met her apology with a dumb confusion that -Camelia must assume as accepting it, since she could not imagine Mary as -unforgiving. - -Holding Mary's hand she repeated with some insistence, "I was devilish, -indeed I was. I don't know what evil spirit entered me." - -Mary was acute enough to see the apology as a mere poultice on Camelia's -bruised conscience, but she did not divine the stir of real pity that -had prompted it, nor the embarrassment that concealed itself, half -ashamed, under Camelia's bright smile, a smile like the flourishing -finality at the end of a conventional letter. - -Mary only shrank more coweringly from the circling advance of pain. In -her solitude Camelia's whip-like words and Camelia's smile blended to -the same scorching; words, Mary thought, so true, that no apology, no -smile, could efface them. That Camelia had felt them true was a -nightmare suspicion; the instinct for the truth had at least been there, -and, like the wounded animal, Mary quaked in her warren, conscious of -insecurity. Camelia soon forgot both cruelty and apology. - -The news of the defeat of the bill brought her no shock, when it came -late in January. She had regretted keenly her own interference for a -long time, and found herself prepared to meet the blow with the quiet of -exhausted feeling. Camelia was not given in these days to finding -excuses for her faults, but she could see that this one had been venial, -and escape an unjust self-reproach. It was certainly irritating to have -Mrs. Jedsley rub in the undeserved sting. - -Coming from the library one afternoon Camelia found this lady ensconced -before the drawing-room fire, her muddy boots outstretched to the -blaze--Mrs. Jedsley's boots were chronically muddy--a muffin in one -hand, a cup of tea in the other, her expression divided among the triple -pleasure of warmth, tea, and interesting news. - -"Well, my dear, you've all had your brushes cut off, it seems," was her -consolatory greeting. - -Camelia sank into a chair, languidly detesting Mrs. Jedsley's bad taste. - -"You did so much for the cause, too, didn't you?" said Mrs. Jedsley, -deterred by no delicate scruples. "Come, Camelia, confess that it has -been a tumble for you all!" - -"Too evident a tumble I think to require confession." - -"And Mr. Rodrigg here for such a time! You are less clever than I -thought you--don't be offended--I mean it in a complimentary sense. -Then, after all, it isn't a brush you need mind losing. I never thought -much of the bill myself." - -Camelia sat coldly unresponsive, and Lady Paton tried to smile at Mrs. -Jedsley's remarks and to believe them purely humorous. - -"I am sorry for poor Michael," she said, "I fear he has taken it to -heart." This unconscious opening was only too gratefully seized upon by -Mrs. Jedsley, who, after a meaning glance at Mary, fixed, over her -tea-cup, sharp eyes on Camelia. - -"Ah!" she said, "he is a man cut out for misfortunes--they all fit him. -He is bound to fail in everything he undertakes." - -"I can't agree with you there," Camelia spoke acidly. "I think he -succeeds at a great many things." - -"Things he doesn't care about, then, you may be sure of that. Fortune -follows such men like a stray dog they have no use for, while they are -looking for their own lost pet." - -Camelia drank her tea in silence, priding herself somewhat on her -forbearance, pondering, too, on the pathos of Mrs. Jedsley's simile in -which she could only see a purely personal applicability. It was not him -the stray dog followed, but any number followed her--and it was she who -had lost her all. - -But would he not come back? Might she not see him again? To be with -him--brave, self-controlled, and reticent, how well worth the fuller -pain! Pain was so far preferable to these dragging mists where she -waited. She might be--she must be--developing, but she must measure -herself beside him to know just how much she had grown. It pleased her -to see herself smiling sadly upon his unwitting kindness--for since he -had thought it a folly he should think it now a folly outgrown. It -pleased her to think that now exterior things mattered less to her than -to him; he, for all his self-defence of calm, still winced under the -whips of material circumstance; no doubt he was now tearing his heart -out over the defeat of the bill, and trying to persuade himself that he -had always expected it! She saw all material circumstance with -Buddhistic indifference. This thought dwelt pleasantly while she drank -her tea. Looking from the window she saw the winter afternoon not yet -gray, and her contemplative mood impatient of the chiming sharp and mild -which her mother and Mrs. Jedsley made, she left them to go out. First, -though, she bent over her mother and kissed her. It gave her content to -find tender demonstration becoming more and more an unforced habit. - -"Nice, pretty little mamma," she whispered. - -In her long coat, Siegfried trotting in front of her, Camelia breasted -the tonic January wind. There was just a crispness of snow on the -ground; in the lanes thin patches of ice made walking wary. She emerged -from the shelter of the hedges on to the fine billowy stretch of common, -where the wind sang, and the sunset in the west made a wide red bar. -Siegfried's adventurous spirit soon warmed him to an energetic gallop -through the dead fern and heather, and Camelia followed his lead, -intending to cut across to the highroad, and by its long curve return -home. It was in lifting her eyes to this road that she saw suddenly a -distant figure walking along it at a quick pace that would bring them -together at the very point she aimed for. It needed only the very first -brush of a glance to tell her that it was Perior. For a moment joy and -fear, courage and cowardice, pride and shame, struggled within her. Her -step faltered, stopped even, and Siegfried stopping too, looked round at -her, interrogation in the prick of his ears. - -Camelia walked on slowly. Perior had seen and recognized her--that was -evident. Whatever might be his own press of feeling he did not hesitate. -He took off his cap and hailed her gaily, and Camelia felt that her -answering hand-wave helped to prepare the way for a meeting most -creditable to them both. - -He did not fear the meeting, or would not show he did, for he advanced -over the heather at a pace resolutely unembarrassed. In another moment -they were face to face, and then she could see that his repressed a -tremor, and was conscious that her own was, with the same attempt, a -little rigid in its smile. Partly to recover from this shock of seeing -her again, partly to give her time to recover from her own emotion, -Perior raised her outstretched hand to his lips. He was so determined in -his entrenched resistance to the lover he knew himself to be (the lover -whose complaints had brought him rebelliously back again, his coming a -sop angrily thrown at the uncontrollable gentleman on condition, that -satisfied so far, he would keep still), so sure was Perior, the friend, -of the bargain, that the kiss was most successfully friendly. It sealed -delicately the bond he insisted on recognizing between himself and -Camelia. His relief was great, in looking at her again, to see that she, -too, fully recognized it, and that perhaps her courage was helped by -the fact that the mood--the astonishing mood--had passed. It would much -simplify matters if it had. He longed to be with her again, a longing -her tacit acquiescence in the old friendship could alone justify him in -satisfying. That his coming had not been indelicately ill-judged the -directness of her eyes seemed to assure him; but however much the friend -might rejoice in believing that he alone had anything to conceal, the -repressed lover, most inconsistently, felt a pang. Perior only consented -to recognize his own contentment with the safe footing upon which he -found himself. - -Camelia smiled at him, and he smiled at her, smiles that might have been -children kissing and "making up"; frank, and bravely light. - -"I thought you were in London," said Camelia. "No; come back, Siegfried, -we are going no farther; for you were coming to us, I suppose, Alceste?" -She could look at him quite directly. She was not ashamed, no, -mercifully she was not ashamed, that was her jubilant thought. After the -pang of the first moment she felt the strong conviction, borne in upon -her by her own calmness, that her love for him could never shame her, -nor her confession of it. The warm power of his friendship kept her from -petty terrors. She felt, in a moment, that on her courage depended their -future relationship. To ignore the past, to make him ignore it, would be -to regain, to keep her friend. - -"Yes, I was going to you--of course," said Perior, smiling, as they went -towards the road together. - -"I have been to Italy, you know, but I came back some time ago. I -thought I might be of use." - -"Ah! I should have liked to have been of use! but I had been too badly -bitten to dare put out a finger!" - -"I wouldn't put out fingers, if I were you; it isn't safe--when, they -are so pretty." The intimacy was almost caressing; she leaned against it -thankfully. Proud to show him that of the crying child there was not a -trace, she determined on a swift glance at the past that would put him -quite at ease. - -"And you are coming back? Since this dreary business of the worsted -right is over you won't exile yourself any longer--and rob us? All your -friends will be glad to have you again!" - -"Will they indeed?" his eyes sought hers for a moment, seemed to see in -them the past's triumphant mausoleum, presented for inspection quite -magnificently. - -"Thanks, Camelia." The boldness delighted him, delighted all of him -except that grumbling prisoner who, in his dungeon, felt foolishly -aggrieved. "Yes, I am coming back--since I am welcome," he said, adding -while they went along the road, "As for the worsted right, the right -usually is worsted, in the first place. One must try to keep one's faith -in eventual winning." - -"Tell me," said Camelia, feeling foundations quite secure, since each -had helped the other, "Mr. Rodrigg's opposition, that last speech of -his--the satanic eloquence of it!--you don't think--ah! say you don't -think me altogether responsible?" - -"Would it please you--a little--to think you were?" The old rallying -smile pained her. - -"Ah, don't! That has been knocked out of me--really! Don't imply such a -monstrous perversion of vanity." - -"I retract. No, Camelia, I don't think you _altogether_ responsible. The -eloquence would always have been against us, its satanic quality was, I -fear, your doing." - -"Yet, I meant for the best--indeed I did. Say you believe that." - -"Indeed, I do believe it, Camelia." - -They were nearing home when he said, "You were in London--I heard from -Lady Tramley." - -"Yes, I went up on business." - -"Did you? How are Lady Paton and Mary?" - -"Very well. You don't ask about my business,"--Camelia smiled round at -him. - -"Very blunt in me. What was the business, Camelia?" His answering smile -made amends. - -Camelia placed herself against her background. - -"I am building model cottages! You should see how economical we have -become! _Your_ glory is diminished!" - -"With all my heart!" cried Perior, with a laugh of real surprise and -pleasure. "Lady Tramley did not tell me. Good for you, Celimene!" - -It was delightful to bring him into the drawing-room that she had left -only an hour before. Camelia almost fancied herself perfectly happy as -she flung open the door with the announcement-- - -"Here is Alceste, Mamma!" No nervousness was possible before her mother -and Mary; it required no effort to act for them since she had so -successfully performed her part to him. Mrs. Jedsley was gone, but Mary -and Lady Paton sat before the fire, Mary reading aloud. She dropped the -book; Camelia's voice, in her ears, sounded with a brazen clang of -victory, and Perior seemed to her conquered, brought captive in an old -bondage. She could hardly speak, hardly welcome him; his return crushed -every hope of his liberation, the joy of seeing him was a mere -desolation. With a settled dulness she listened to them--all three -talking and exclaiming. - -Perior had taken her hand, had shaken it warmly, looking at her with -kindest eyes; but now he listened to Lady Paton, and Lady Paton, of -course, after the first flood of rejoicing, condolences, and -questionings, was talking of Camelia. - -The resentment that had smouldered in Mary for many months seemed now to -leap, and lick her heart with little flames of hatred. How she hated -Camelia; she turned the black thought quite calmly in her mind--it was -not unfamiliar. - -Lady Paton was telling Perior about the cottages; she was rather proud -of Camelia's beneficent schemes, though gently teasing her about some of -their phases: "And, Michael, she is going to make them into veritable -palaces of art. Specially designed furniture--and Japanese prints on the -walls! Now they won't care about prints, will they?" - -"They ought to, Camelia thinks," laughed Perior, looking at Camelia, -who, hat and coat thrown aside, leaned forward in the lamplight, smiling -and radiant, the pathos that her thinner face had gained emphasizing -its enchanting loveliness. - -Mary looked at her too, at the curves of the figure in the perfect black -dress, at the narrow white hands, one lying on her knee, like a flower, -with the almost exaggerated length and delicacy of the fingers; at the -profile, the frank upraised eyes, the smiling mouth, the flashing white -and gold that rose from the nun-like white and black of the dress, and -the wide cambric collar falling about her shoulders and clasping her -throat. Beautiful! Mary felt the beauty with a sort of sickening. Of -course he looked at her, had no eyes but for her. Of course he had come -back. - -"They must like them," said Camelia, "I don't see why such people should -not grow into good taste; and taste is often such a negative thing--a -mere leaving out of all ugliness. I have a lot of these prints; I picked -them up in Paris--the arcade of the Odion, Alceste--cheap things, but -excellent in their way; then a few good photographs. The rooms are to be -very bare. I should ask for all decoration a vase of flowers on the -table--I think I shall offer prizes to my cottagers for the best -arrangement of flowers." - -"A very civilizing system!" Perior still laughed, for he found the -prints and the flower-arrangements highly amusing, and he still looked -at Camelia. - -So that first meeting was over. It had passed so easily, with an -inevitable ease, based on long years that would not be disowned. Yet -when he had gone, Camelia was conscious of a sinking of the heart. The -exhilarating moment could not last. Her friend had come back, fond, -gently mocking, tender, yet unimpressed, blind to the change in herself -she passionately clung to as consummated. As her love was noble, she -thought that she had grown to match it. Her self-complacency, though on -a higher plane, circled her more completely, and as the days went on, -his blindness gave her a new sense of defeat. The ease remained, a tacit -agreement to shut their eyes on a certain incident; it was done most -successfully; they were quite prepared to meet _tete-a-tete_, and the -inner wonder of each as to the other's unconsciousness betrayed itself -only in a certain gentle formality that grew between them. That he -should come--and so often--fulfilled the only hope left her, and yet her -heart was darkened at moments by the thought that in these visits there -was an effort. She missed something of the old intimacy; it was not -quite the same--how could it be? that, after all, would have been too -big a feat of forgetfulness. He did not laugh at her, nor grow angry and -rage at her, as he had used to do, yet she could not feel that he -approved of her the more. He was fond of her--that was evident, even -though he might find this rebuilding difficult, and undertake it from a -sense of duty; but the fondness was graver than before, at least, it -made no pretence of hiding its gravity. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -Mary came for Camelia one morning while Perior was with her, to tell her -that Jane Hicks was dying and asking for her. Mary saw that Camelia's -promptitude, where compunction blushed, gratified Perior, as did Jane's -devotion; she knew that he supposed the devotion based upon some new -blossoming of thoughtful kindness in Camelia, and the ironic bitterness -of this reflection was in no way made easier to Mary as she heard -Camelia, while they all three walked to the farm, confess dejectedly to -the one visit. - -"I should have gone again!" Camelia repeated with sincerest -self-reproach, and Mary could see that though he assented to the -reproach her contrition lifted her in his estimation. Perior waited -below while Camelia and Mary went up together. Camelia came down -weeping; Mary's face was quite impassive. - -The poor girl had died with her hand in Camelia's, her eyes fixed on the -lovely Madonna head that bent over her with a beautiful piteousness, -like a vision at the gates of heaven. Jane closed her eyes on that -vision. She had not had one look for Mary, though her perfunctory -thanks--the winding up of the trifling duties remaining to her on -earth--had been feebly breathed out to her some hours before. Mary saw -that she had been very unnecessary to Jane, and that the unknown -Camelia, Camelia's one smile, the one golden hour Camelia's beauty had -given her, made the brightness, the poetry, the symbolized radiance of -things unseen and hoped for that had remained with the dying girl during -the last months of her life. Mary was very still in walking back with -the others. Camelia sobbed, and stumbled in the heavy road, so that -Perior gave her his arm and held her, looking pityingly, more than -pityingly, at the bent head and shaking shoulders. Mary felt her own -lack of emotion to be unbecoming, but, indeed, she had none, was -conscious instead of a dislike for poor, dead Jane. - -For Mary was a most unhappy creature. Outside the inner circle, where -Perior and Camelia wondered about, and evaded, one another, the very -closeness of constant intercourse making blindness easy, Mary saw the -truth, that Camelia did not see, very clearly. With her preconceived and -half-mistaken ideas as to that truth, it remained one-sided. Perior -loved Camelia; loved, and had weakly crawled back to her, craving at -least the crumbs of friendship,--and that she was lavish with her crumbs -who could deny?--since all else had been refused to him. Mary spent her -days in a quivering contemplation of this fact. The bitter, sweet -consolation of the whole truth never entered her mind. Camelia loving, -and Camelia repulsed, was an imagining too monstrous for vaguest -embodiment. Camelia's own naive vanity would not have surpassed in -stupefaction Mary's sensations, had such a possibility been suggested to -her. Camelia, who could have anybody, love Mr. Perior? She would have -voiced her astonishment even more baldly. Not that Mary thought Mr. -Perior nobody. To her he was everybody; but that knowledge was her -painful joy, a perception lifting her above Camelia. Camelia judged by -the world's gross standards, and, by those standards, she must stoop in -loving Perior. - -That Camelia should stoop in the world's eyes, that Camelia should do -anything but soar, were unimaginable things. So her ignorance made her -knowledge more bitter. The man she loved, adored,--her bleached, starved -nature spreading every flower, stretching every tendril, her ideal and -her rapture towards him,--that man did not see her, even. She was no -one; a dusty little moth beating dying wings near the ground, and his -eyes were fixed on the exquisite butterfly tilting its white loveliness -in the sunshine. Under her stolid silence Mary was burning, panting. His -misery, her doom, and Camelia's indifference,--at the thought of all -these a madness of helpless rebellion swam about her; and with a growing -sense of weakness came a growing terror of self-betrayal. For she was -dying, that was Mary's second secret; there was even a savage pleasure -in the thought of absolute and consummated wretchedness hidden so -carefully. Hysterical sobs rose in her throat when she thought of it, -and of their blindness. The sobs were nearly choking her one day as she -sat alone in the morning-room casting up accounts. - -Perior had been with Camelia in the library for two hours, and he had -not come into the morning-room, though over two hours ago poor Mary had -stationed herself there in the sorry hope of seeing him. The little -touch of abandonment stabbed more deeply than ever on this morning, when -her head was so heavy, her chest so hollow, breathing so difficult, all -her sick self so in need of pitying gentleness and sympathy; and though -no tears fell, that rising, strangling sob was in her throat. There was -shame, too; her very rectitude was crumbling in her weakness and -wretchedness; the wretchedness had seemed to exonerate her when, -exasperated by envy and long waiting, she had gone to the library door -and put her ear to the key-hole, like a base thing, to listen. - -Since everything had abandoned her she might as well abandon herself, so -she told herself recklessly; but she had only heard Camelia's clear, -sweet voice; and Camelia was reading Greek! Mary could only feel the -irony as cruel, and on regaining her place at the writing-table she -found herself shaking, and overwhelmed with self-disgust and a sort of -desperation. - -When Perior came in very shortly afterwards she could almost have risen -to meet him with a scream of reproach. The mere imagining of such a -strange revelation made her dizzy as he approached her. - -"I had not seen you. I am just off. How are you, Mary?" he asked. In -spite of the mad imaginings Mary's mask was on in one moment, the white, -stolid mask, as she turned her face to him. - -"Very well, thanks." - -"You don't look very well." - -"Oh, I am, thanks." Mary averted her eyes. - -Perior's brow had an added look of gloom this morning. His eyes followed -hers. The drizzling rain half blotted out the first faint purpling of -the trees. "What a dreary day!" he ejaculated, with a long, involuntary -sigh. He was not thinking of Mary; she saw that very plainly, though her -eyes were fixed on the blurred tree-tops. - -"Very dreary," she echoed. He looked down at her again, this time with a -certain pain and interest that Mary did not see. On his own thoughts, -the perplexing juggling of "If she still loves me as I love her, why -resist?" the ensuing fear of yielding, and yielding for no better reason -than that he could not resist, broke the thought of Mary. It could not -be a very big thought. Mary was a quiet, uneventful little person, -spending a contented existence under her aunt's wings, useful often as a -whip wherewith to lash Camelia, but pitiful mainly from his sense of the -contrast of which he really believed Mary quite unconscious. Something, -now, in her still face, in the lax weariness of her thin hand, lying on -the account book, roused in him a groping instinct. He looked at the -hand with a certain surprise. Its thinness was remarkable. - -"You do look badly, Mary," he said. "Tell me, are you dreary, too? Can I -do anything for you? We must have some rides when it grows finer." His -thoughts, as usual, gave Camelia an accusing blow. - -"You are bored, tired, unhappy like the rest of us, Mary. Is that any -consolation?" He smiled at her. She felt the smile in his voice, but did -not dare to meet it, bending her head over the account books. - -"Don't do those stupid sums!" - -"Oh, I like them!" Indeed, the scrupulous duties were her one frail -barrier against the black sea of engulfing thought. And then, her heart -just rising in the false but delicious joy of his kind presence, came a -call, a call not dreary like the day, but fatally sweet and clear, the -sound of it as if a flower had suddenly flung open rosy petals on the -grayness. - -"Alceste, come here! I want you." - -"Our imperious Camelia," said Perior with a slight laugh. "Well, -good-bye, Mary. Don't do any more sums, and don't look at the rain. Get -a nice, cheerful book and sit down at the fire. Amuse yourself, won't -you?" He clasped her hand and was gone. - -Mary sat quite still, moving her pen in slow curves, waves, meaningless -figures over the paper. The arrested sob seemed frozen, and no tears -came. She looked dully at the black zigzags on the paper while she -listened to the distant sound of voices in the hall, Camelia's laugh, a -lower tone from Perior, Camelia's cheerful good-bye. - -A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and while she shook with it Camelia -came in. Mary's coughing irritated Camelia, but she did not want to hurt -her feelings by departing before it after getting the newspaper she had -come for, so, walking to the table, she said, taking up and opening the -_Times_ with a large rustling-- - -"All alone, Mary?" - -"Yes," Mary replied. The coughing left her, and she clenched her -handkerchief in her hand. The madness rose again, lit by a keener sense -of horror. - -"But Mr. Perior came in, did he not?" Camelia scanned the columns, her -back to the light. - -"Yes," Mary repeated. - -"Well, what did he have to say?" Camelia felt her tone to be -satisfactorily detached. She wanted to know. That sense of something -lacking, something even awkward, had become almost acute this morning; -only her quiet gaiety had bridged it over. Mary was again looking out of -the window. An inner impulsion made her say in a tone as dull as her -look-- - -"He said he was dreary." - -The _Times_ rustled with a somewhat aggressive effect of absorption, and -then Camelia laid it down. Something in Mary's voice angered her; it -implied a sympathy from which she was to be shut out; he had not said to -_her_ that he was dreary. But she still kept her tone very light as she -walked to the fire. - -"Well, he is always that--is he not?" she commented, holding out a foot -to the blaze; "a very glum person indeed is my good Alceste." - -Mary did not reply, and Camelia, with a quick turn of conjecture that -seemed to cut her, wondered if there had been further confidences. She -paused for a moment, swallowed on a rising tremor of apprehension, -before saying, as she turned her back to the fire and faced the figure -at the table--the figure's heavy uncouthness of attitude making her a -little angrier--"What further moans did my melancholy friend pour into -your sympathetic bosom, Mary?" Mary, looking steadily out of the window, -felt the flame rising. - -"He said that he was bored, tired, unhappy." - -After a morning spent with _her!_ Camelia clasped her hands behind her -back, and tried to still her quick breathing. She eyed Mary, but she did -not think much of Mary. - -"Really!" she said. - -"Yes. Really." Suddenly Mary rose from her chair; she clutched the -chair-back. "Oh, you cruel creature! you bad creature!" she cried -hoarsely. - -Camelia stared, open-mouthed. - -"Oh, you bad creature," Mary repeated. Camelia never forgot the look of -her--the ghastly white, stricken out of sharp shadows, the splash of -garish color on either cheek, the pale intensity of her eyes. She -noticed, too, the sharp prominence of Mary's knuckles as she clutched -the chair-back, and in her amazement stirred a certain, quite different -discomfort. She could find no words, and stared speechlessly at the -apparition. - -"You are cruel to every one," said Mary. "You don't care about any one. -You don't care about your mother--or about _him_, though you like to -have him there--loving you; you don't care about me--you never did--nor -thought of me. Well, listen, Camelia. I am dying; in a month I will be -dead; and _I_ love him. There! Now do you see what you have done?" - -A fierce joy filled her as she spoke the words out. To tear the bleeding -tragedy from its hiding-place, and make Camelia shudder, scream at -it--it brought relief, lightness; she breathed deeply, with a sense of -bodily dissolution; and Camelia's look was better than screams or -shudders. Let the truths go like knives to the heart that deserved them. -As she spoke Mary felt her wrongs gather around her like an army. She -had no fear. She straightened herself to send to her cousin a solemn -look of power. - -"You did not know I was dying; of course you would not know it--for you -think of nothing but yourself. There, do you see that handkerchief? I -have been coughing blood for a long time. Nothing can be done for me. -You know how my father died. And when I am dead, Camelia, you may say to -yourself, 'I helped to make the last year of her life black and -terrible--quite hideous and awful.' Yes; say it. Perhaps it will make -you feel a little badly." With the words all the anguish of those -baffled, suffering months came upon her. The sobs rose, panting; the -tears gushed forth. Staggering, she came round the chair and dropped -into it, and her sobs filled the silence. - -Camelia stood rooted in terror. She expected to see the sudden horror -fulfil itself, to see Mary die before her eyes, Mary's curse upon her, -and all her misdeeds one vague, menacing blackness. To clutch at any -doubt was impossible. From the first moment of her uprising Mary's body -had been like a shattered casket from which streamed a relentless light. -Camelia's eyes were unsealed; she saw that the casket was shattered--the -light convicted her. - -"What have I done?" she gasped. "Tell me, Mary, what is it?" - -She found a difficulty in speaking. She did not dare approach her -cousin. - -"I will tell you what you have done," said Mary, raising her head, and -again Camelia felt the hoarse intentness of her voice, like a steady -aiming of daggers. "You have taken from me the one thing--the only -thing--I had. I love him! He is nothing to you; and you took him from -me." - -"Oh, Mary! Took him from you!" - -"Yes, yes; you did not know. He did not know. _I_ saw it all. He might -have loved me had you not come back. He must have loved me, when I loved -him so much! oh, so much!" and, sobbing again, she pressed to her eyes -the blood-stained handkerchief, careless now of its revelations. - -"Oh, Mary!" cried Camelia, shuddering. - -"I was so happy last winter. He would come and read, and ride. He was so -kind. Auntie, and he, and I--it was the happiest time of my life. But -you came, and he never looked at me again! Oh, how horrible! how unjust! -Why should you have everything?--I nothing! nothing! I suppose you -thought me contented, since I was ugly, and poor, and stupid. And you, -because you are beautiful, and rich, and clever, you have everything! -That is all that counts! I am not selfish and cruel; at least, I used -not to be. I have thought about other people always! I have tried to do -right, and what have I got for it? My life has been a cheat! and I hate -it! And I am glad to die, because I see that you, who are bad, get all -the love, and that I will never have anything! And I see that I am -bad--that I have been made bad through having had nothing!" - -"Oh, Mary! forgive me! oh, forgive me!" Camelia found her knees failing -beneath her. She stretched her clasped hands towards her cousin. - -"I did not know; indeed, I did not! Indeed, I love you, Mary!--oh, I do -love you! We all love you!" She felt herself struggling, with weak, -desperate hands, against Mary's awful fate and her own guilt. "How can -you say that, when we all love you? know how good you are!--how sweet -and good--love you for it!" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. -Mary, who herself no longer sobbed, observed her. - -"Oh, you are a little sorry now," she said, in a voice of cold -impassiveness that froze Camelia's sobs to instant silence. "I make you -uncomfortable--a little more uncomfortable than when I cough. It is -strange that when I never did you any harm--always tried to please -you--you should have found pleasure in hurting me. Do you remember all -the little jeers at me before him? You mocked my dulness, my ugliness. -He did not laugh. It made him sad, because he did not like to see you -unbeautiful in anything; but he must have seen me more stupid, more ugly -than before. And when he was with me for one moment you would take him -away. And you lied to keep him to yourself, like that day we were to -have ridden together; and if you had known that I loved him you would -have been all the more anxious to have him--to hurt me." - -"No, no, Mary!" Camelia's helpless sobs burst out again. - -"Yes; why can I speak to you like this? because I am dying, you see that -I am dying--that gives me my only advantage; I can tell you what I think -of you, and you don't dare reply. You would not dare say to me now that -I am a spy--that I have sneaking eyes. I hate you, Camelia! I hate you! -Oh! oh!" She rose to her feet suddenly, and at the change of tone--the -wail--Camelia uncovered her eyes. - -"I am going to die! I am going to die! And I love him, and he does not -care." Mary groped blindly to a sofa, fell upon it, buried her head in -the cushions. - -Camelia rose to her feet, for she had been kneeling, and stood listening -to the dreadful sobs. - -Her life had never known a comparable terror. The blackness of Mary's -point of view encompassed her. She felt like a murderer in the night. -She crept towards the sofa. "Oh, forgive me, say a word to me." - -"Leave me; go away. I hate you." - -"Won't you forgive me?" The tears streamed down Camelia's cheeks. - -"Go away. I hate you," Mary repeated. There was a compulsion in the -voice Camelia could not disobey. Trembling and weeping she went out of -the room. - -Mary lay there sobbing. She had never so realized to the full the extent -and depth of her woe, yet there was relief in the realization, relief in -the flinging off of secrecy and shame. That Camelia should suffer, -however slightly, restored a little the balance of justice, satisfied a -little the outraged sense of solitary suffering, atoned a very little -for fate's shameful unfairness. To poor Mary, sobbing over her one -triumph, the morality of the universe seemed a little vindicated now -that she had taken into her own hand the long-delayed lash of -vengeance. - -Her weakened religious formalities and conventionalities withered under -this devouring, pagan flame. It was good to hate, and to revenge one's -self, good to see the smooth and smiling favorite of the cruel gods, -weeping and helpless. She was tired of rightness--tired of swallowing -her tears. - -The best thing in her life had been turned against her; everything was -at war with her. Well, she would crouch no longer, she would die -fighting, giving blow for blow. She threw her hands up wildly in -thinking of it all--beat them down into the cushions. To have had -nothing, nothing, and Camelia to have everything! Oh, monstrous -iniquity! Camelia, who had done no good, happy; she, who had done no -wrong, unutterably miserable. - -For a long time she lay sobbing, still beating her hands into the -cushion, a mechanical symbolizing of her rebellion and wretchedness. So -lying, all the blackness of the past and future surging over her, -engulfing her, she heard outside the sound of a horse's hoofs on the wet -gravel. A moment afterwards running footsteps came down the stairs and -crossed the hall. Mary pulled herself up from the sofa, and, with the -outer curiosity of utter indifference, walked to the window. Camelia's -horse stood before the door, a groom at his head. The drizzling mist -shut out all but the nearest trees, flat, pale silhouettes on the white -background, against which the horse's coat gleamed, a warm, beautiful -chestnut. Mary's indifference grew wondering. Her sobs ceased as she -gazed. The gaze became a stare, hard, fixed, as Camelia, in a flash, -sprang to the saddle. Mary saw her profile, bent impatiently, the -underlip caught between her teeth, the brows frowning, while the groom -adjusted her skirt. In a moment she was off at a quick trot, and soon a -sound of galloping died down the avenue. - -Mary stood rigidly looking after the sound. A supposition, too horrible, -too hideous, had come to her, too hideous, too horrible not to be true. -Its truth knocked, fiercely insistent, at her heart. Her knowledge of -Camelia, acute yet narrow, and confused by this latter suffering, sprang -at a bound to the logical deduction. - -Camelia could not bear suffering, revolted against it, snatched at any -shield. She had gone now to Perior, that he might lift from her this -dreadful load of responsibility, cast upon her so cruelly by Mary. He -must tell her that he had never thought of Mary, and that the idea of -robbery was a wild figment of Mary's sick brain. Mary's brain, though -sick, was clear, clear with the feverish lucidity that sees all with a -distinctness glaring and magnified. She saw all now. The meanness, the -cowardice of Camelia's proceeding only gave a deepened certainty. - -Then indeed shame came upon Mary. She saw herself gibbeted between them, -knew too well what he would think. He would himself hang her up, since -truth demanded it, and since Camelia must be comforted. The glaring -lucidity dazzled Mary a little at times, and now the awful justice of -Perior's character assumed in her eyes a Jove-like cruelty, that more -than matched Camelia's dastardliness. The past hour seemed painless in -comparison with the present moment; its blackness, in looking back at -it, was gray. To be debased, utterly debased, in his eyes--that was to -drink the very dregs of her cup of agony. Her hatred of Camelia was her -only guide in the night. She went into the hall and took down her hat -and cloak. She could not wait for Camelia's return. She must herself see -the actuality of her betrayal. Camelia might lie unless she could hold -the truth before her face; might say that she had not ridden to -Perior's. Mary would see for herself, and then--oh then! confronting -Camelia, she would find words, if she died in speaking them. - -She ran down the avenue and turned off into the woods by a short cut -that led more directly than the curving high road to the Grange. Her -weakness was braced by the fierceness of her purpose. She felt herself a -flame, hastening relentlessly through the smoke-like mist. - -The woods were cold and wet. She pushed past dripping branches, splashed -through muddy pools; the inner fire ignored its panting frame. When she -arrived at the foot of the hill on which stood the Grange, she knew that -Camelia must have been with him there for an hour or more. She could not -see the house through the heavy atmosphere, but, hidden by the trees and -fog, she could see the road and be herself unseen. On the edge of the -wood was a little stile; she shuddered with wet and cold as she sat down -on it to wait. She would wait for Camelia to pass, and then, by the same -hidden path, she could go home and confront her. Beyond that crash Mary -did not look. It seemed final. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -But Mary was quite mistaken--as absolute logic is apt to be when dealing -with human beings. Camelia, indeed, had gone to Perior, but on a very -different errand from the one Mary's imagination painted for her. -Camelia was not thinking of herself, nor of throwing off the iron chains -of that responsibility with which she felt herself manacled for life. -Mary's story had crushed every thought of self, beyond that -consciousness of riveted guilt. It was of Mary alone she thought as she -galloped through the mist. With terror and pity infinite she looked upon -Mary's love and the approaching death that was to end it; their tragedy -filled everything, and at the feet of the majestic presences her own -personality only felt itself as a cowering criminal. It was as though -the ocean of another's suffering had flooded the complacent rivers of -her life. They overflowed their narrow channels; they were engulfed, -effaced in the mighty desolation; never again could they find their -flowering banks, their sunny horizons. - -This moan of a suffering universe, heard before only in vaguest -whispers, the minor key of the happy melody that she had known, making -the melody all the sweeter for its half-realized web of sadness--this -moan was now like the tumult of great waters above her head, and a loud -outcrying of her awakened soul answered it. She was guilty--yes, as -guilty as Mary knew her to be, for all the mistaken deductions of Mary's -ignorance. She loved Perior, and he did _not_ love her; but those facts -in no way touched the other unalterable facts--a cruelty, a selfishness, -a blindness, hideous beyond words. - -Yet now she did not think of this guilt, irrevocable as it was. - -Mary--Mary--Mary. The horse's hoofs seemed to beat out the cry! Mary and -her fate. Camelia stood with Mary against that fate; but her attitude of -rebellion was even fiercer, more determined than poor Mary's flickering -light could have sustained. Mary good--with nothing. Virtue _not_ its -own reward. Suffering, crushing, unmerited suffering, eating away the -poor empty life. She herself bad, and the world at her feet. Camelia -felt herself capable of taking the immoral universe by the throat and -shaking it to death--herself along with it. - -She was galloping for help, yes, to Perior. He must help her, he alone -could help her, to clutch the malignant cruelty, tear it off Mary, and -then give her some gleam of happiness before she died. Camelia -straightened herself in the saddle at the thought. "She shall not die," -clenched her teeth on the determination. She might be saved. Who could -tell? One heard of wonderful cures. And at least, at least, she should -not die unhappy. Camelia would wrench happiness for her out of despair -itself. She would fight the injustice of the gods until her last breath -left her. - -All the pitiful humanity in Camelia clung to the human hope of -retribution and reward. Her mind fixed in this desperate hope, she could -take no thought of the coming interview; that would have implied a -retrospective glance at her last visit to the Grange, and Camelia could -not think of herself, nor even of Perior. - -The Grange was desolate on its background of leafless trees. Camelia, as -she dismounted at the door, looked down at the whiteness which brimmed -the valley; the tree-tops emerged from it as from a flood; but where she -stood there was no mist--a clear, sad air, and a few faint patches of -blue in a colorless sky above. She rang, holding the horse's reins over -her arm. Her habit was heavy with the wet, and her loosened hair clung -damply about her throat and forehead. Old Lane, when he appeared, showed -some alarm. She could infer from his expression what her own must be. - -"Mr. Perior? Yes, Miss; in the laboratory with Job Masters. Just go up, -Miss, and I'll take the horse round to the stables." - -The laboratory was at the top of the house. Camelia found herself -panting from the swiftness of her ascension when she reached the door. -Entering, she faced the white light from the wide expanse of window, -which overlooked on bright days miles of wooded, rolling country, to-day -the sea of mist. Perior's back was to her, and he was bending with an -intent interest over a microscope; a collection of glass jars was on the -table, and Job Masters, his elementary features lit by the intelligent -gravity of close attention, was standing beside him. Perior was -saying-- - -"Now, Job, take a look at it." His gray head did not turn. - -"It's Miss Paton, sir," Job volunteered. At that Perior rose hastily, -and Camelia advancing, looked vaguely at Job, at the microscope, at the -jars of infusoria. - -A thought of the last visit had shot painfully through Perior on hearing -her name, but, after one stare at her white face, his fear, freed from -any selfish terror, took on a sympathetic acuteness. - -"I must speak to you," she said. - -"Very well. You may go, Job," and as Job's heavy footsteps passed beyond -the door, "What is it, Camelia?" he asked, holding her hands, his -anxiety questioning her eyes. - -For a moment, the press of all that must be said crowding upon her, of -all that must be said with a self-control that must not waver or -misinterpret through weakness, Camelia could not speak. She looked at -him with a certain helplessness. - -"Sit down, you are faint," said Perior, greatly alarmed, but, shaking -her head, she only put her hand on the back of a chair he brought -forward. - -"I have something terrible to tell you, Michael." That she should use -his name impressed him even more than her announcement, emphasized the -gravity of the situation in which he was to find himself with her. In -the ensuing pause their eyes met with a preparatory solemnity. - -"Michael, Mary is dying." He saw then that her eyes seized him with a -deep severity of demand. The shock, though not unexpected, found him -unprepared. - -"She knows it?" he asked. - -"Yes, she knows it. Listen. She told me everything. It was more horrible -than you can imagine. She told me how cruel I had been to her--how I had -neglected her--how I had cut again and again into her very soul. She -hates me, she hates her life, but she is afraid of death. She is not -going to die happily, hopefully, as one would have thought Mary would -die. She is dying desperately and miserably, for she sees that being -good means merely being trodden on by the bad. She has had nothing, and -she regrets everything." Perior dropped again into the chair by the -table. He covered his eyes with his hands. - -"Poor child! Unhappy child!" he said. - -The shuddering horror of the morning came over Camelia. She clasped her -hands, pressing them against her lips. It seemed to her suddenly that -she must scream. - -"What does it mean? What does a life like that mean?" Her eyes, in all -their helpless guilt and terror, met his look of non-absolving pity. - -"It means that if one is good one is often trodden upon. We must accept -the responsibility for Mary's unhappiness. My poor Camelia," Perior -added, in tones of saddest comprehension, and he stretched out his hand -to her. But Camelia stood still. - -"Accept it!" she cried, and her voice was sharp with the repressed -scream. "Do you think I am trying to shirk it? Do you think that I do -not see that it is I--_I_, who trod upon her? Don't say 'We'; say 'You,' -as you think it. You need have no compunctions. I could have made her -happy--happier, at least, and I have made her miserable. I have -done--said--looked the cruellest things--confiding in her stupid -insensibility. I have crushed her year after year. I am worse than a -murderer. Don't talk of me--even to accuse me; don't think of me, but -think of _her_. Oh, Michael! let us think of her! Help me to mend--a -little--the end of it all!" - -"Mend it?" He looked at her, taken aback by her words, the strange -insistence of her eyes. "One can't, Camelia--one can't atone for those -things." - -"Then you mean to say that life _is_ the horror she sees it to be? She -sees it! There is the pity--the awful pity of it! Not even a merciful -blindness, not even the indifference of weakness! Morality is a gibe -then? Goodness goes for nothing--is trampled in the mud by the herd of -apes snatching for themselves! That is the world, then!" The fierce -scorn of her voice claimed him as umpire. Perior put his hand to his -head with a gesture of discouragement. - -"That is the world--as far as we can see it." - -"And there is no hope? no redemption?" - -"Not unless we make it ourselves--not unless the ape loses his -characteristics." He paused, and a deepened pity entered his voice as he -added, "You have lost them, Camelia." - -"Yes; I can hear the canting moralist now, with his noisome explanation -of vice and misery. Mary has been sacrificed to save _my_ soul, -forsooth! _My_ soul!" - -"Yes." Perior's monosyllable held neither assent nor repudiation. - -"Yes? And what does my miserable soul count for against her starved and -broken life?" - -"I don't know. That is for you to say." - -"I say that if virtue is to give a reward to vice, life is a nightmare." -Perior again put his hands over his eyes. The thought of poor Mary, -conscious of injustice, the sight of Camelia writhing in retributory -flames, made him feel shattered. - -"But I didn't come to talk about my problematic soul," said Camelia in -an altered voice; "I came to tell you about Mary." She approached him, -and stood over him as she spoke, so that he looked up quickly. - -"She will probably be dead in a month. She knows it; and, Michael, she -loves you." Perior flushed a deep red, but Camelia whitened to the lips. -He would have risen; she put her hand on his shoulder. - -"Impossible!" he said. - -"No, listen. She told me. She lashed me with it this morning--that -hopeless love--for she thinks that you love me--thinks that I am playing -with you. She loves you. She has loved you for years." - -"Don't say it, Camelia!" Perior cried brokenly. "Mary's disease explains -hysteria--melancholia--a pitiful fancy--that will pass--that should -never have been told to me." - -"Ah, don't shirk it!" her hand pressed heavily on his shoulder. "Her -disease made her tell me, I grant you, but you could not have doubted -had you heard her!--as I did! You understand that she must never -know--that I have told you." - -"I understand that, necessarily, and I must ask you from what motive -you think your revelation justified; it must be a strong one, for I -confess that the revelation seems to me unjustifiable--cruelly so." - -"I have a strong motive." - -"You did not come to pour out to me the full extent of poor Mary's -misfortune for the selfish sake of relieving, by confession, your -self-reproach? And, indeed, in this matter I cannot see that you are -responsible. It is a cruelty of fate, not yours." - -Camelia looked away from him for a moment, looked at the microscope. A -swift flicker of shame went through her, one thought of self, then, -resolutely raising her eyes, she said, "Am I not at all responsible? Are -you sure of that?" - -"Responsible for Mary loving me?" Perior stared, losing for a moment, in -amazement, his deep and painful confusion. - -"No; that is fate, if you will. But had I not come back last summer, had -I not claimed you, monopolized you, absorbed you. Ah! you are flushing; -don't be ashamed for me! I swear to you, Michael, that I am not giving -myself a thought, had I not set myself to work to make love to -you--there is the fact;--don't look away, I can bear it--can you tell me -that Mary might not have had the chance she so deserved, of slipping -sweetly and naturally into your heart--becoming your wife?" - -"Camelia!" Perior turned white. "I never loved Mary, never could have -loved her. Does that relieve you?" He keenly eyed her. - -"Don't accuse me of seeking relief! That is a cruelty I don't deserve. -If you never could have loved Mary, it is even more dreadful for me--for -it is still crueller for Mary. That she should love you. That you -should not care! could never have cared!" - -At this Perior rose and walked up and down the room. "Don't!" he -repeated several times. His wonder at Camelia interfused intolerably his -sorrow for Mary. - -Camelia followed him with steady eyes. The eagerness of decisive appeal -seemed to burn her lips as she said slowly-- - -"Ah, had you seen her! Had you heard her crying out that she was -dying--that she loved you--that you did not care!" - -"You must not say that." Perior stopped and looked at her sternly, "I am -not near enough. It is a desecration." - -"Ah! but how can I help her if I don't? How can _you_ help her? For it -is you, Michael, _you_. Can't you see it? You are noble enough. -Michael--you will marry Mary! Oh!"--at his start, his white look of -stupefaction, she flew to him, grasped his hands--"Oh, you must--you -_must_. You can make her happy--you only! And you will--say you will. -You cannot let her die in this misery! Say you cannot, Michael--oh, say -it!" And, suddenly breathless, panting, her look flashed out the full -significance of her demand. In all its stupefaction Perior's face still -retained something of its sternness, but he drew her hands to his -breast. "Camelia, you are mad," he said. - -"Mad?" she repeated. Her eyes scorned him; then, rapidly resuming their -appealing dignity, "You can't hesitate before such a chance for making -your whole life worth while." - -"Quite _mad_, Camelia," he repeated with emphasis. "I could not act such -a lie," he added. - -"A lie! To love, cherish that dying child! A better lie than most -truths, then! You are not a coward--surely. You will not let her die -so." - -"Indeed I must. Any pretence would be an insult. As it is, if Mary could -see you here, she would want to kill us both." - -"Not if she understood," said Camelia, curbing the vehemence of her -terrified supplication, the very terror warning her to calm. "And what -more would there be in it to hurt her?" - -"That _I_ should know--and should refuse. Good God!" - -"Where is the disgrace?" Camelia's eyes gazed at him fixedly. "Then we -are both disgraced--Mary and I." Her smile, bitterly impersonal, offered -itself to no interpretations, yet before it he steadied his face with an -effort. He could not silence her by the truth--that he loved her, her -alone; loved now her high, frowning look, her passionate espousal of -another's cause. Mary's tragic presence sealed his lips. He said -nothing, and Camelia's eyes, as they searched this chilling silence, -incredulous of its cruel resolve, filled suddenly and piteously with -tears. - -"Oh, Michael," she faltered. Scorn and defiance dropped from her face; -he saw only the human soul trembling with pity and hope. He did not dare -trust himself to speak--he could not answer her. Holding her hands -against his breast, he looked at her very sorrowfully. - -"Listen to me, Michael. I mustn't expect you to feel it yet as I -do--must I? That would be impossible. I only ask you to _think_. You see -the pathos, the beauty of Mary's love for you! for years--growing in her -narrow life. Think how a smile from you must have warmed her heart--a -look, a little kindness. She adores you. And this consciousness of -death, this nearing parting from you--you who do not care--leaving even -the dear sight of you. Think of her going out alone, unloved, into the -darkness--the everlasting darkness and silence--with never one word, one -touch, one smile, to hold in her heart as hers, meant for her, with -love. Oh, I see it hurts you!--you are sorry; oh, blessed tears! You -cannot bear it, can you? Michael, you will not let her go uncomforted? -She is not strong, or brave, or confident. She is sick, weak, -terrified--a screaming, shuddering child carried away in the night. -Michael!"--it was a cry; she clasped his hands in hers--"you will walk -beside her. You will kiss her, love her, and she will die happy--with -her hand in yours!" Her eyes sought his wildly. He had never loved her -as he loved her now, and though his tears were for Mary, the power, the -freedom of his love for Camelia was a joy to him even in the midst of a -great sadness. He could not have kissed her or put his arms around her; -the dignity of her abasement was part of the new, the sacred loveliness, -and it was more in pity than in love that he took the poor, distraught, -beautiful face between his hands and looked at her a negation, pitiful -and inarticulate. She closed her eyes. He saw that she would not accept -the bitterness. - -"I will do all I can," he then said; "but, dear Camelia, dearest -Camelia, I cannot marry her." - -It was a strange echo. Camelia drew away from him. - -"What can you _do_? She knows you are her friend; that only hurts." - -"Does it?" He saw now, through the unconscious revelation, the greatness -of her love for him, and saw that in the past he had not understood. She -loved him so much that there was left her not a thought of self. Her -whole nature was merged in the passionate wish that he should fulfil her -highest ideal of him. He saw that she would have laid down her life for -him--or for Mary, as she stood there, and, for Mary, she expected an -equal willingness on his side. - -"It would only be an agony to her," Camelia said; "she would fear every -moment that she would betray herself to you, as she betrayed herself to -me. Can't you see that? Understand that?" Desperately she reiterated: -"You must pretend! You must lie! You must tell her that you love her! -You must marry her, take her away to some beautiful country--there are -places where they live for years; make a paradise about her. You -_must_." She looked sternly at him. - -"No, Camelia, no." - -"You mean that basest no?" She was trembling, holding herself erect as -she confronted him; her white face, narrowly framed by the curves of -loosened hair, tragic with its look of reprobation. - -"I mean it. I will not. You will see that I am right. It would be a -cruel folly, a dastardly kindness, a final insult from fate. And I do -not think only of Mary--I think of myself; I could not lie like that." - -Her silent woe and scorn, frozen now to a bleak despair, dwelt on him -for a long moment, then, without another word, she turned from him and -left him, making, by the majesty of her defeated wrong, his victorious -right look ugly. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -Camelia galloped home furiously. The tragedy was then to be consummated. -He would not put out a finger to avert it. Mary would go down into the -pit of nothingness, and her love, her agony, her strivings after good, -would be as though they had never been. - -"And _I_ live," thought Camelia, as she galloped, and her thoughts -seemed to gallop beside her; they were like phantom shapes pressing on -her from without, for she did not want to think. "_I_, thick-skinned, -dull-souled I. Yes, materialism wins the day. Morality is a lie, evolved -for the carpeting of lives like mine, for the preservation of the -fittest!--_I_ being fittest! To those that have shall be given, and from -those who have not shall be taken away--the law of evolution. Oh! -hideous, hideous! Oh, horror!--not even the ethical straw of development -to grasp at; Mary's suffering has warped her, lowered her. She has been -tortured into rebellion against her own sweet rectitude; she, who only -asked to love--hates; she, who lived in a peaceful renunciation, now -struggles, thinks only of herself." - -It was this last thought that seemed to lean beside her, look into her -eyes with the most intolerable look. Mary--inevitably lowered. The -blackness shuddered through her. Camelia on that ride tasted the very -dregs of doubt and despair, and knew the helplessness of man before -them. She could have killed herself, had not a sullen spark, the last -smouldering from the fire of resolution that had burned in her as she -rode to Perior, still lit one path through the darkness. She must throw -herself at Mary's feet, seek and give comfort through her own extreme -abasement. She must cling to Mary, supplicating her to believe in her -infinite love and pity. Could not that love, when all errors were -explained, reach and hold her? Camelia felt her defiance of eternity -clasp Mary forever. But when she reached home Mary was not there. -Camelia panted as she ran from room to room; her desire, thrown back, -rose stiflingly. She was afraid of seeing her mother, for at a look, a -question, she felt that her suspense of hard self-control would break -down; she might scream and rave. She sent a few words to Lady Paton by a -servant; she was tired and was going to rest--must not be -disturbed--then she locked herself into her own room. - -Some hours passed before she heard Mary's voice outside demanding -entrance, hours that Camelia was to look back on as the blackest of her -life, so black that all in them, every thought and impulse, made an -indistinguishable chaos, where only her suffering, a trembling leaf -tossing on deepest waters, knew itself. In looking back, she remembered -that she had not once moved until the knock came, and that, on going to -open the door, her hand had so shaken that it fumbled for some moments -with the key. - -Mary stood on the threshold. She was splashed with mud. Beside the -whiteness of her face, Camelia's was passive in its pain. Mary closed -the door, and, as Camelia retreated a little before her, leaned back -against it. Her eyes went at once over Camelia's wet habit and -dishevelled hair; she had expected a careful effacement of all signs of -the guilty errand; Camelia could not now deny the ride. The thought of a -brazen avowal made Mary close her eyes for a moment. She had to struggle -with a sick faintness, as she leaned against the door, before she could -put that monstrous thought aside and say, returning to her first -impulse, and opening her eyes as she spoke-- - -"I know where you have been." - -Camelia stood still. This unexpected blow confused the direct vision of -appeal and abasement that upheld her. She must face an unlooked-for -contingency, and her mind seemed to reel a little as she faced it. - -"You followed me, Mary?" she asked, with a gentleness bewildered. - -"Yes, I followed you." - -Camelia was now becoming conscious of the definiteness of Mary's heavy -stare. It was like a stone, and under the weight of it she groped, -staggering, in a wilderness of formless conjectures. Mary could not know -why she had gone. A pang of terror shot through her. Mary's next words -riveted the terror. - -"I saw you. I know why you went. I know everything," said Mary. -Camelia's horror kept silence, though the room seemed to whirl round -with her. Had Mary by some unknown means reached the Grange before she -did? Had she been hidden near the laboratory? Had she heard? Were all -merciful lies impossible? She felt her very lips freeze in a rigid -powerlessness. - -"You went to tell him that I loved him?" Mary's eyes opened widely as -she spoke, and she walked up to her cousin, close to her. - -"You told him that I loved him," she repeated, and Camelia in her -nightmare horror felt the hatred of the pale eyes. - -"You don't dare deny that you told him." No, Camelia did not dare deny. -She looked down spellbound at Mary. She was afraid of her, horribly -afraid of her. It was like the approach of a nightmare animal, its -familiar seeming making its strangeness the more awful. She did not dare -deny. She could not move away from her; she was paralyzed in her dread. -Mary looked at her as though conscious of her own power. - -"You told him, so that he might comfort you, tell you he had never loved -me, never could have loved me. You betrayed me to save yourself from -that reproach of robbing me." It was like awakening with a gasp that -Camelia now cried-- - -"No, no, Mary! Oh no." - -She could speak. She could clasp her hands. "No, no, no," she repeated -almost with joy. - -"You lie. You are lying. What is the good of lying to me now? It is easy -for you to lie. You went to ask him the truth, and he gave it to you. -For he would never have loved me, whatever I may have hoped--even -believed at moments." - -"No, Mary; no, no!" Mary's dreadful supposition made Camelia feel the -reality as a peace, a refuge. That world of black cruelty where Mary -wandered, that at least was untrue, an illusion. Not hatred, not deceit -surrounded her, but love, and pity, and tenderness. - -"I did not go for that, Mary," she cried. "Listen, Mary, you are wrong; -thank God, you are wrong. I did not go because I was sorry for myself; I -did not go basely. I was so sorry for you," said Camelia, sobbing and -speaking brokenly, while Mary looked at her in a stern tearless silence, -"I knew he would be sorry. I knew we both loved you, and I wanted him to -marry you, Mary." - -"_What!_" Mary's voice was terrible; yet Camelia clung to the courage of -her love, confident that the truth alone could now reveal it--all the -truth. - -"Yes, dearest Mary, yes. There was no hatred, only a longing to make you -happy--to help atone; only love, not hatred." - -"You are telling me the truth?" - -They were standing still before each other. Camelia could not interpret -the pale eyes. - -"Mary, I swear it before God." - -"And he will not marry me!" - -"He loves you, as I do." - -"He will not marry me!" - -"Let me only tell you--everything; it is not you only----" - -"You tossed me to him--and he refused me! How dare you! How dare you! -How dare you!" And Mary, a revelation of rage and detestation flaming up -in her eyes, distorting her face, struck her cousin violently on the -cheek. - -Camelia stood dazed. The blow interpreted, too well, Mary's attitude. -She could not resent, nor even wonder, could only accept the retribution -of cruel misunderstanding and bow her head. She covered her face with -her hands and wept. Except for this sound of weeping the room was still. -In the darkness of her humiliation--shut in behind her hands--Camelia -felt, at last, the silence. She looked up. Mary was once more leaning -against the door. Her eyes were closed. Camelia went to her, took her -hand, and Mary made no motion. Raising the hand to her lips Camelia -kissed it; its coldness chilled the smarting of the blow. Mastering her -terror Camelia put her arms around her, and, Mary sinking forward into -them, she gathered up the piteously light figure and carried it to the -bed. - -"Mary--Mary--Mary," she murmured, staring at the head which lay so -still, so solemnly. Was she dead? Camelia struck aside the thought of a -so cruel finality. Strengthened by her rebellion she sprang to open the -door, and the house resounded with her cries for help. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -The servant, as he showed Perior into the drawing-room, told him that -Miss Fairleigh was dying, and the imminence of the tragedy was -sorrowfully emphasized by Lady Paton's woe-stricken face, as she came in -to him. - -"Yes, Michael, dying," she said before he spoke; his look had asked the -question. He took her hands, and they sat down, finding a comfort in -being together, and Perior was in as much need of it as she, felt not -one whit stronger before the approaching end. - -"Tell me about it. It has been so sudden." - -Lady Paton sobbed out the sad facts. Her own blindness; poor Mary's long -concealment--too successful; the doctor's fatal verdict. - -"I was blind, too," said Perior, "though I always feared it." - -"Ah! that is the cruellest part of it! And her indifference--she does -not seem to care; she does not speak to any of us." - -"Not to Camelia? Is Camelia with her?" - -Perior's heart must spare some of its aching to his unhappy Camelia. - -"She has not once left her. She is so brave; I can only cry; but it has -made Camelia already different; a strength, a gentleness, yet a despair. -She feels it terribly, Michael, and the first shock was hers. Mary was -out all yesterday afternoon--in the wet and cold, and when she came in -she fainted in Camelia's room." - -Perior looked at her, pondering this sinister announcement. - -"I should like to see Mary--when she is able," he said. - -"Yes. She must have her friends about her, my poor, poor child. Ah -Michael! I can never forgive myself." - -"Why do you say that? You gave Mary all her sunshine." - -"Not enough! not enough! She must have seen that it was Camelia, only -Camelia, in whom my heart was bound up. She must have felt it." - -Perior sighed heavily. He, too, had regrets. Had he but known, guessed -what he had been to Mary! But he said, "Don't exaggerate that; Mary must -have understood; it was inevitable, quite, and pardonable. Camelia was -your daughter." - -"Ah! Camelia had so much, Mary so little!" and to this Perior must -perforce assent. - -Meanwhile Camelia sat by Mary's side. She divided the vigils with the -nurse who came down from London. She found that her eternal -self-reproach had strengthened her. She could bear its steady -contemplation and soothe her mother's more helpless grief. - -Mary was sinking fast. During the next three days she hardly spoke, -though her eyes followed the ministering figures that moved about her -bed. Conscious that she was dying, but wrapped in an emotionless -sadness, she watched them all indifferently, and slept quietly from time -to time. It was going to be much easier than she had thought. Hardly a -thread bound her to life; even her passionate hatred of Camelia was -dimmed by the creeping mists; even her love for Perior wailed, it -seemed, at a long distance from her; she listened to it as she lay -there; only at moments came a throb of pain for all the happiness she -had never had. Camelia meeting the calm eyes would smile tremulously, -but Mary gave no answering smile, and her eyes kept all their calm. - -Camelia had to hold firmly to the self-abnegation of perfect -self-control to keep down the cry of confession that would give her -relief, that would perhaps admit her to Mary's heart; it was not until -the third night, as she sat beside her, that the yearning allowed itself -to grow to hope. Mary's eyes, on this night, turned more than once from -their vacant gaze and dwelt upon her with a fixity almost insistent. - -Camelia dared, at last, to take in both her own the tragic hand that lay -on Mary's chest, and, after a timid pause, she raised it to her lips. It -lay resistless; she held it against her cheek; through the dimness, Mary -felt the tears wetting it. - -The merciful hardness about her heart seemed to melt. She knew a keener -pang, a longer aching, that did not end and give her peace again. It was -not calm, after all, not good to die with that unloving frost holding -one. She lay in silence, looking, in the faint light, at her cousin's -bent head, the ruffled outline of the golden hair. The thought of -Camelia's beauty bowed in this desolation touched her sharply, -intolerably. She felt her heart beating heavily, and suddenly, -"Camelia, I am sorry," she said. - -Camelia clasped the imprisoned hand to her breast, and leaned forward. - -"Sorry! Oh, Mary--what have you to be sorry for?" - -"I was wicked--I hated you--I struck you." - -"I deserved hatred, dear Mary." - -"I should not hate you. It hurts me." - -"Oh my darling!" sobbed her cousin, rising, and bending over her. - -"It hurts me," Mary repeated, but in a voice unmoved. - -"Do you still hate me, Mary?" - -There was a pause before she answered--and then with a certain -faltering, "I--don't know." - -"Will you--can you listen, while I tell you something?" said Camelia -almost in a whisper--for Mary's voice was hardly more, "I must tell you, -Mary, I deserve everything you said, and yet--you misjudged me. Will you -hear the truth?" Camelia clasped the hand more tightly to her breast. "I -am not going to defend myself--I only want you to know the truth; -perhaps--you will be a little sorry for me then--and be able to love -me--a little." - -Mary looked up at her silently, and, when she paused, said nothing; yet -her intent look seemed to assent. - -"It will not give you pain," Camelia said tremblingly, "the pain is all -mine here. Mary--I love him too." The words came with a sob. She sank -into the chair, and dropping Mary's hand she leaned her elbows on the -bed and hid her face. - -"I loved him, Mary, and--I imagined that he must love me. My vanity was -so great that I thought I could choose or reject him. I accepted Sir -Arthur--from spite--partly, and then I was dreadfully frightened. On the -very day I accepted Sir Arthur I sent for Mr. Perior. Mary, I made love -to him. I did not tell him I was engaged; I wanted to escape from that -blunder unscathed. I could not believe in his embarrassment, nor in the -reality of his scorn when he found me out. I broke my engagement--as you -know. I went to Mr. Perior's house. I entreated him to love me--I hung -about his neck, cried, implored. He did not love me; he rejected me. He -scorns me--he is sorry for me; he is my friend, but he scorns me. I was -not playing with him--you see that now. I adore him--and he does not -love me at all." - -Uncovering her face, Camelia found Mary's eyes fixed upon her. - -"Do you understand now, Mary, why I went to him? I loved you so--was so -sorry for you--so infinitely sorry--for had I not felt it all? I never -told him that you thought he might have loved you; but I thought it -myself, I thought that he might love you, indeed, when he _knew_ -you--knew the sweetness, the sadness of your hidden love. If he refused, -Mary, it was because he respected you too highly and himself--to act any -falsity towards you. It was not like my rejection; there was no shame, -no abasement for you. You have his reverent pity, his deep, loving -devotion. Don't regret, dear Mary, that through my well-meant folly he -really knows you now." She paused, and Mary still lay silent, slowly -closing and unclosing her hand on the sheet. - -"Believe me, Mary," said Camelia, the monotony of her recitative -yielding to an appealing tremor, "I have told you the truth--the very -truth. I have not hidden a thought from you." - -"You love him?" Mary asked, almost musingly. - -"Yes, dear, yes. We are together there." - -"I never saw it; never guessed it." - -"Like you, Mary, I can act." - -"And you wanted him to marry me," Mary added presently, pondering it -seemed. - -"Oh, Mary!" said Camelia, weeping, "I did. I longed for it, prayed for -it--I would have given my life to have him marry you. Mary, believe me, -when I tell you that to atone in however a little measure for your -dreary life, I would die--oh gladly, gladly." - -"Would it not have been worse than dying?" Mary asked in a voice that -seemed suddenly to subtly smile, though she herself lay unsmiling in the -shadowed whiteness of the bed. - -"What--worse?" - -"To see him marry me." Camelia gazed at her. - -"I think, Mary," she said presently, "I could have seen it without one -pang for myself; I would have been too glad for you to think of that. -And then--he does not love me. The iron entered my soul long ago. I have -long since lost even the bitterness of hope." - -"And he does not love you," Mary repeated quietly, raising her eyes and -looking away a little. - -"He does not, indeed." - -Camelia's quivering breaths quieted to a waiting depth. But Mary for a -long time said nothing more. Her hand lay across her breast, and above -it her face now surely smiled. - -At last she turned her eyes on her cousin. Looking at her very gently, -she said, "But I love you, Camelia." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -Camelia was sitting again by Mary's bed when Perior was announced the -next morning. - -"You must go and see him to-day," said Mary. - -"Why--must I?" - -"I should like to see him," Mary's voice had now a thread only of -breath; to speak at all she had to speak very slowly, "and you must tell -him first, that I know." - -"Mary--dear----" - -"I do not mind." - -"No, one does not, with him. I will see him, tell him. - -"Talk--be nice to him; do not be angry with him because he will not -marry me." Her smile hurt Camelia, who bent over her, saying-- - -"If I had not gone!--you would not be here now; we might have kept you -well much longer." - -"That would have been a pity--wouldn't it?" said Mary, quite without -bitterness. - -"Oh, Mary! Could we not have made you happy?" - -"Perhaps it is knowing that I can never be well that keeps me now from -being sad," Mary answered; "don't cry, Camelia--I am not sad." - -But Camelia cried as she went down the stairs. - -A pale spring sunshine filled the morning-room, where she found Perior. -She had hardly noticed the outside world for the last few days, and it -gave her now a sweetly poignant shock to see that the trees were all -blurred with green, a web of life embroidering the network of black -branches; beyond them a high, pale, spring sky. She saw the green really -before seeing Perior, for he was looking at it, his back turned to her -as she came in. Then, as he faced her, his aging struck her more -forcibly than the world's renewal of youth. As she looked at him, and -despite the memory of their last words together, despite the tears upon -her cheeks, she smiled. She had forgiven him. He had been right, she -wrong; and then--his sad face, surely his hair had whitened? The love -for Mary that overflowed her heart seemed to clasp him in its pity and -penitence, but she could only feel it as the overflow. - -"She wants to see you," she said, giving him her hand, and she added, -for the joy of last night must find expression, "She knows everything. -She followed me that day--and half guessed the truth--only half; I had -to tell her all. And she has forgiven me--for everything." Camelia bent -her forehead against his shoulder and sobbed--"She is dying!--and she -loves me!" - -"My darling Camelia," said Perior, putting his hand on her hair. - -To Camelia the words could only mean that he forgave--and loved--as Mary -did; but she felt the deep peace of truest union. - -"Then she is dying in the sunshine, isn't she?" he added, "not in that -horrible darkness." - -"Yes--but such a cold, white sunshine. It is because she feels no -longer. It is peace--not happiness; just 'peace out of pain.'" - -"And cannot we two doubters add, 'With God be the rest'?" - -"We must add it. To hope so strongly--is almost to believe, isn't it? -Come to her now." - -She left him at Mary's door. - -The nurse, with her face of hardened patience, rose as he entered. - -"I will leave you with Miss Fairleigh, sir. Call me if I am needed." - -Her look was significant. - -Perior felt his heart shake a little as he went round the white curtain. -He was afraid. If he should blunder--stab the ebbing life with some -stupidity! Something of this tender fear showed in his look at the dying -girl, and the fear deepened for a moment to acutest pain at sight of -her. Was that the Mary he had last seen sitting over the account -books?--the Mary he had fatuously told to keep cheerful? Remorse wrung -his heart. But as for the fear of hurting her, Mary was very far beyond -all little mundane tremors, and they faded away, ashamed for having -been, as he clasped her hand, and met her eyes; their still smile -quieted even his pain, and wrapped him in its awe and beauty. - -He sat down beside her, keeping her hand in his. - -"Dear Mary," he said. - -For a long time she did not speak; indeed Perior thought that she might -not wish to employ the coarser medium of communication, could not, -perhaps; her eyes, as they rested upon him, seemed amply significant; -but he could not fathom, quite, their ultimate meaning. Perhaps a great -sadness underlay their calm. But at last, very faintly and very slowly -she said-- - -"You saw Camelia." - -"Yes." - -"You know--that I was--cruel to Camelia?" - -"No, I did not know." - -"I was." - -"I cannot believe that, Mary." - -"I was, I misjudged her. I struck her. She did not tell you that?" - -"No," said Perior, after the little pause his surprise allowed itself. - -"I did, I struck her," Mary repeated, with a certain placidity. "You -understand?" she added. - -Perior was putting two and two together; the result was clearly -comprehensible. - -"Yes, I understand," he said. - -"Camelia understood too." - -"Yes," Perior repeated his assent, adding, "You have saved Camelia, -Mary; I don't think she can ever again be blind--or stupid." - -"Camelia--stupid?" Mary's little smile was almost arch. - -"That is the kindest word, isn't it?" Perior smiled back at her, "Let us -be kind, for we are all of us stupid--more or less; you very much less, -dear Mary." - -Mary's look was grave again, though it thanked him. "You are kind. -Camelia has been very unhappy," the words were spoken suddenly, and -almost with energy. - -"I don't doubt that." Mary closed her eyes, as if all effort, even the -passive effort of sight, must be concentrated in her words. - -"And I am afraid--she will be very unhappy about me." - -"That is unavoidable." - -"But--unjust. She is nothing--that I thought. Nothing is her fault. It -is no one's fault.--I was born--not rich, not pretty, not clever, not -even contented; it is no one's fault. I have been cruel. You must -comfort her," and Mary suddenly opening her eyes looked at him fixedly. -"You must comfort her," she repeated, adding, "I know that you love -Camelia." - -Perior, with some shame, felt the red go over his face. Mary observed -his confusion calmly. - -"You need not mind telling me," she said. - -"Dear Mary, I am abased before you." - -"That isn't kind to me," Mary smiled. "You do love her--do you not?" - -"Yes, I love her." - -"And she loves you." - -"I have thought it--sometimes," said Perior, looking away. - -"She has always loved you. You too have misjudged Camelia. She told -me--last night--she told me that you had rejected her." - -"Did she, Mary?" Perior looked down at the hand in his. - -"Yes--through love of me. You understand?" - -"Perfectly." - -"It brought us together," said Mary, closing her eyes again. - -She lay so long without speaking that Perior thought she must, in her -weakness, have fallen asleep, but at last she said, the words wavering, -for her breath was very shallow, "That is what Camelia needed. Some -one--to love--a great deal----" And with an intentness, like the last -leap of a dying flame, she added, looking at him, "You will marry -Camelia." - -"If Camelia will have me," said Perior, bending over her hand and -kissing it. - -A gleam of gaiety, of pure joyousness, shone on Mary's face. Humorously, -without a shadow of bitterness, she said, "I win--where Camelia failed!" - -The tears rushed to Perior's eyes. He could not speak. He rose, and -stooping over her, he took her in his arms and kissed her. - -"Ah!" she said quickly, "it is much better to die. I love you." She -looked up at him from the circle of his arms. "How could I have lived?" - -At the great change in her face he wondered if he had done well in -yielding to the impulse of pure tenderness; but still supporting her -fragile shoulders he said, stammering-- - -"Dear child--in dying--you have let us know you--and adore you." - -The light ebbed softly from her eyes as she still looked up at him. -"Perhaps--I told you--hoping it----" she murmured. These words of -victorious humility were Mary's last. When Camelia came in a little -while afterwards she saw that Mary's smile knew, and drew her near; but -standing beside her, holding her hand, she felt that Mary would not -speak to her again. Through her tears she looked across the bed at -Perior; his head was bowed on the hand he held; his shoulders shook -with weeping. At the unaccustomed sight a half dull wonder filled her. - -For a long time Mary smiled before her, as they held her hands; and -Camelia only felt clearly that the smile was white and beautiful. She -waited for it to turn to her again. Only on meeting Perior's solemn look -the sense of final awe smote upon her. - -"She is dead," he said. - -To Camelia the smile seemed still to live. - -"Dead!" she repeated. Perior gently put the hand he held on Mary's -breast. - -"Not dead!" said Camelia, "she had not said good-bye to me!" - -Perior came to her; his silence, that could not comfort, answered her. -She fell upon her knees beside the bed, and her desperate sobs wailed -uselessly against the irretrievable. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -It was many weeks afterwards that he told her what Mary had said. Her -woe, not selfish, but inconsolable, made it impossible that during the -first days of bereavement he should do more than help and sustain her by -the fullness of a friendship now recognized as deep and unrestrained. - -It was she herself who asked him one day if Mary had said anything that -he could tell her, had spoken of her with a continuation of the -forgiveness, her trust in which made life possible. Camelia, in her new -devotion to her mother, its vehemence almost alarming Lady Paton, -controlled for her sake all tears and lamentations, but lying on a sofa -this afternoon, alone in the twilight, the tears had risen, and they -were falling fast when Perior came in and sat down beside her. It was -then that she asked him about Mary. - -"She told me what you said to her the night before she died," Perior -answered, and Camelia let him take her hand. She lay reflecting for some -moments before saying-- - -"She wanted you to think as well of me as possible." - -"She wanted to make me happy. She knew that you were mistaken." - -"How mistaken?" Camelia asked from her pillow. - -His voice had been unemphatic, but in the slight pause that followed -her question she felt that his eyes dwelt upon her, and she looked up at -him. - -"You told her--that I did not love you." Camelia lay silent, her hand in -his, her eyes on his eyes. - -"You believed that, didn't you?" he asked. - -"How could I help believing it?" - -"Ah! that shows a trust in me! Well, Mary did not believe it. Mary told -me that I loved you." - -"And do you?" cried Camelia. She took her hand away, sat upright, and -faced him. Perior was forced to smile a little at the baldness of his -answering, "I do, Camelia." - -"You did not know till----" - -"Oh, I knew all along," Perior confessed, interrupting her. Camelia's -eyes widened immensely as she took in the astounding revelation. He -replied to their silent interrogations with "I have been a wretched -hypocrite. How I convinced you of the lie I don't know." - -"And you told that to Mary." He saw now that her gaze passed him, -ignored him and his revelation in its personal bearing. - -"I told her the truth. It did not hurt her. She was far above such -hurts. You had showed her that you were worthy of any love. To share her -secret made her happy." - -"Happy! Oh, Mary! Mary!" Camelia murmured, looking away from him. "It -must have hurt," she added. "Ah, it must have hurt." - -"She was as capable of nobility as you--that was all." - -"As I!" It was a cry of bitterness. - -"As you, indeed. I feel between you both what a poor creature I am. I -suppose I did for a test. You proved yourselves on me." - -There was silence for a little while. Camelia looked out of the window -at the spring evening. It was here they had sat together on that day of -their first meeting after her return. Her mind went back to it in all -the sorrow of hopeless regret. What had Mary been to her then? - -"What more did she say?" she asked at last in a voice of utter sadness. -She still looked out of the window, but when he answered, "She said that -you loved me," she looked at him. - -"Is that still true, Camelia?" he asked, smiling gravely and with a -certain timidity. - -"So you know, at last, how much." - -"My darling." His tone brought the tears to her eyes; they rolled down -her cheeks while she said brokenly, "And I told her; I gave her the -weapon--and she smiled at us. Oh, that smile!" - -"There was triumph in it. She asked me to marry you, Camelia, and I said -I would--if you would have me. But, I must not ask you now--must I?" He -sat down beside her on the sofa, and kissed her hand. - -"Ah, no; don't think of that. It would kill me, I think, if for one -moment I forgot." - -"You need not forget--yet you may be happy, and make me happy." - -"Oh, you don't know," said Camelia, clasping her hands and looking down -at them, "you don't know. Even you don't know how wicked I have been." - -"We all have such dark closets in our hearts. Don't shut yourself in -yours." - -"I don't shut myself. I am locked in. That is my punishment. Michael," -and she looked round at him without turning her head, "I think of -nothing else; that I made her miserable--that I made her glad to die. I -must tell you. You don't know how I treated her. I remember it all -now--years and years--so plainly. I robbed her of everything. If a -sunbeam fell on her path I stood between her and it." - -Perior was silent, but putting his hand over hers he held it faithfully. - -"Listen. Let me tell you a few--only a few--of the things I remember. I -don't know why you love me!--how you can love me! It hurts me to be -loved!" she sobbed suddenly. - -"If it will help you, tell me everything. And I must love you, even if -it hurts you." - -And, her hand in that faithful hand, her eyes on his, demanding -inflexible judgment, Camelia began the long confession--a piteous tale, -indeed. All the blots and failings gathered in a huge blackness; she -spoke from it. He felt as she spoke that the clasp of his hand was her -one link with revival. It was a piteous tale: for the robbery of Mary's -ride, the brutal taunts flung at her on that winter night--these were -but the bigger drops in the sea of selfish thoughtlessness. After each -incident, rounded with a succinct psychology that showed her pitiless -clearness of vision, she paused, as if waiting for him to speak. His -silence seemed to acquiesce, and she wanted no soothing denial. And even -now his hand held hers, and did not cast her off. When she had done, and -after the silence had grown long, he said-- - -"And so I might lay bare my heart to you." - -"I would not be afraid of its dark corner. You have never been meanly -selfish, never trodden on people." - -"But I might affirm other things. I will open the door if it will help -you to sit down with me in the doubled darkness." - -"No, dear Michael, no. Mine is enough." - -"I have heard you; and may I now tell you again that I love you?" - -"Not again. Not now. But I am glad that you love me. I feel it. I should -like to sit like this forever, just feeling it, with my hand in yours." - -This very debatable love-scene must be Perior's only amorous consolation -for many months. Of her quiet content in his presence there could be no -doubt. No barrier, no pain, was now between them. Their union was -achieved, as if by a mere wave-wash, effacing one misunderstanding--it -hardly seemed more now, nor their change of relation apparent; but under -all Camelia's courage was the fixed determination to allow herself no -happiness. Superficially there was almost gaiety at times; her regret -would never become conventional or priggish; but even Lady Paton did not -guess that Camelia and Michael were lovers, although a secret hope--very -wonderful, and carefully hidden--painted for her future rosy -possibilities. With all the sadness, with all the regret, these days -were the happiest Lady Paton had known; and as Camelia's devotion was -exclusively for her, she could not guess that the secret hope was -already realized. - -Yet Camelia did not leave her silent lover utterly bereft. After the -deep gravity of the first avowal her little demonstrations were of a -light, an almost mocking order. In this new phase she returned to the -teasing fondness of the old one; and sometimes the central tenderness -would pierce the lightness. - -Perior could afford patience. Reading one afternoon in the library (his -daily presence at Enthorpe was a matter of course), he heard steps -behind him, then felt her hand clasp over his eyes. - -"You are keeping on--loving me?" she demanded. - -"Yes, I am keeping on," said Perior, turning his page with a masterly -calm. He knew that the little outburst conceded nothing, and that even -when Camelia dropped a swift kiss on his hair he was by no means -expected to retaliate. - -For the lighter mood the cottages made endless subjects for conversation -and discussion. In talking--squabbling amicably--over their interior -civilization, Camelia felt that she and Perior had much the playful -gravity of children making sand pies at the seaside. - -Camelia insisted on her prints and photographs, and on hanging them -herself. She had fixed theories on the decoration of wall-spaces. - -Perior held the ladder and criticised. "They are quite out of place, you -know. That exotic art is most incongruous. It jars." Camelia was hanging -up a modern print after Hiroshighe. - -"It wouldn't jar on us, would it?" she asked, driving in a nail. - -"We are exotic mentally." - -"Let us train them to a more cosmopolitan out-look, then." - -"They would far prefer the colored prints from Christmas numbers." - -"Well, they shan't have them!" Camelia declared, and he laughed at her -determined tyranny. But when her tenants were duly installed Camelia was -forced to own that the honest forces of the soil were difficult to -manage. She came in to tea one afternoon with the announcement, that the -Dawkins had taken down all their prints and put up flower-entwined texts -and horrible colored advertisements. Mrs. Dawkins had said that her -husband objected to "those outlandish women"; they made him feel "quite -creepy like." - -Later on she had to confess that the Coles by no means appreciated their -photographs of the Sistine Sibyls, so charmingly placed along the walls, -and that from among them glared a well-fed maiden with upturned, -prayerful, and heavily-lashed eyes; testifying to the Coles' religious -instincts and to their only timid opposition. - -"How can they be so stupid!" cried Camelia. "And how can I!" - -"You can't grow roses on cabbages, Camelia," said Perior, "to say -nothing of orchids. You are demanding orchids of your cabbages." - -"Desire precedes function," Camelia replied sententiously, "if the -cabbages want to, very much, they may grow orchids. I shall still -hope." - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -On a beautiful October afternoon a visitor came to Enthorpe. - -Camelia was summoned to find Mrs. Fox-Darriel in the drawing-room. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, with a pastoral hat--rather Gallic in its conscious -innocence--tipped over her emphasized eyes, her gown of muslin and lace -very fluffy on very rigid foundations, looked with her triumphant -artificiality of outline quite oppressively smart. Camelia, after her -year's seclusion, felt her to be oppressive. - -It was rather difficult to smile on meeting her, their parting had such -painful associations--the dark turmoil of those days drifted over -Camelia's memory as she gave her friend her hand. - -"You are surprised to see me, aren't you, Camelia?" said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel. - -"Yes. Rather surprised." - -"No wonder, you faithless young woman. You haven't troubled to toss me a -thought for this twelvemonth. Well, I bear you no grudge; it is a -psychological phase that will, I hope, wear itself away. Yes, I am -stopping down in these parts again, twenty miles away, with the -Lambournes. You have not seen them yet, I hear. New importations. Mr. -Lambourne is a bloated capitalist, and as my poor Charlie is Labor -personified, I hope that my display of four new gowns daily in the -Lambourne ancestral halls--they will be ancestral some day--will result -in a beneficial return of favors. Charlie is going in very much for -companies; Mr. Lambourne's companies are extremely advantageous. Oh, I -uphold the uses of Lambournes in our modern world; they make us poor -penniless aristocrats so very comfortable; they are good, grateful -people." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel, while she talked, was looking Camelia up and down in a -slowly cogitating manner. - -"No, I can't stop to tea; I must be going back directly, it is a long -drive. I only came to have a look at you, and, if possible, to solve the -mystery. What's up, Camelia? That is what I want to know. Is this all -the result of last year's little _esclandre_?" - -Camelia evaded the question. - -"We have had trouble. You heard that my cousin was dead." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye travelled again over Camelia's black dress. -"Yes--I heard. Poor little thing. And she would never appreciate how -charming was the mourning being worn for her; that gown is really--well, -there is a great deal in it, a great deal. I don't know how you manage -to make your clothes so significant. You've got all Chopin's Funeral -March into those lines. Well, it makes you feel badly, of course." - -"Yes. Very badly." From the very patience of Camelia's voice Mrs. -Fox-Darriel was keenly aware of barriers. How Camelia had disappointed -her! A certain baffled, angry affection rose within her. - -"You certainly treated her horribly, my dear. I understand regrets." -Camelia made no reply, and looked at her with a steady sadness. - -"And--she was in love with the vial of wrath. You knew that, I suppose." - -"I knew that I was in love with him, Frances." - -At that Mrs. Fox-Darriel gasped. Her eyes took on an unblinking fixity. -"So you own to it?" - -"Yes, I certainly own to it." - -"Camelia! You are not going to--" The conjecture made her really white. - -"To what?" and Camelia smiled irrepressibly. - -"Camelia, I am fond of you. I did wish best things for you. I did hope -to see you _somebody_. You would have been. You _can_ be. Sir Arthur -will be on his knees before you if you lift a finger." - -"Oh! I hope not," cried Camelia. - -"You know it. You know it. Lady Elizabeth hasn't a chance. She has -become literary--is writing the life of her great-grandfather, deep in -archives--that means hopelessness.--Camelia!" and Mrs. Fox-Darriel's cry -gathered from Camelia's impassive smile a frenzied energy. "You are -not--tell me you are not--going to marry that man--relapse into a -country matron! He will swamp you. You have nothing in common. It is -calf-love, pure and simple. I felt it all along; hoped he would see the -incongruity of it--take your poor little cousin, who was cut out for -submission and nurseries." - -"Oh, I don't think a superfluity of either will be expected of me," said -Camelia, with a laugh really unkind. - -"Oh, heavens! You are going to marry him?" - -"Yes, immediately," said Camelia, somewhat to her own surprise. She had -not expected her rather indefinite views on this subject to crystallize -so suddenly and so irrevocably. "Console yourself, Frances," she added, -really feeling some compunction before Mrs. Fox-Darriel's tragic -contemplation, "it won't be my funeral. He dug me out, and I am going to -dig him out. You may hear of me yet--as his wife." - -"Ah!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel had found the calm of her despair. "It is the -same old story. His indifference has done it all. It may be brutal, but -I must say it, you threw yourself at his head. The flattery at last -penetrated his priggishness; Endymion stooped to Selena." - -Camelia's serenity held good. - -"You can't make me angry. I like your disinterestedness, Frances. Let me -thank you for Endymion; I am sure the simile would flatter his -forty-five years." - -"And I came hoping----" - -"Hoping what my kind Frances?" - -"That I was to be a link; that I would find you sane again--willing to -pay me a visit, and meet _him_." - -"But, as you see, I am on Latmos, and like it." - -"Yes, I see. I am disillusionized, Camelia; I confess it. I didn't -expect that sort of floppiness from you. And there is a -self-righteousness about your whole manner that is insufferable, quite; -I tell you so frankly." Mrs. Fox-Darriel, as she spoke, shouldered her -closed parasol, and clasped her hands over it in a militant antagonism -of attitude. "The sheep looking suavely from its fold at the goat. We -are all goats to you now." - -"Come, let us kiss through the bars, then." - -"Oh, you are miles away--aeons away!" - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel submitted drearily. "You are lost! done for! And the -name, the power, the future you might have had! You were clever." - -"I rather doubt that." - -"Ah! of course you doubt it; you must doubt it. As the wife of a crusty -country squire it would be a corroding cleverness merely. You turn your -back on it." - -"We won't be hopelessly provincial. You will see us in London. He may -get into Parliament." - -"Us! He! Alas! he will swamp you," she repeated. "He will turn you into -a pillar of salt--looking back, and being sorry. _You_ to be wasted!" -was the last Camelia heard. - -When she had gone Camelia went slowly across the lawn; Perior, she knew, -was lurking about the garden waiting for her. Some of Mrs. Fox-Darriel's -remarks had cut--so far less deeply, though, than her own thoughts -during past months. It was the strong revival of these thoughts that -pained her more than the mode of revival. - -It was dusk, a pensive dusk, the evening sky faintly barred with pink. -Perior was walking up and down the garden between rows of tally growing -flowers. Was the thought of his patience and loneliness, of her -selfishness in prolonging them, a mere sophistry meant to hide her own -longing for happiness? As she walked down the path towards him her mind -juggled with this thought; it was very confusing. - -"Who do you think it was?" she asked, putting her hand in his, a little -_douceur_ Perior had never presumed upon. - -"Mrs. Jedsley? Mrs. Grier? Lady Haversham?" he asked affably, but -scanning, as she felt, the sadness of her face. - -"No--the past has been having a flick at me--Mrs. Fox-Darriel the whip." - -"Ah yes. I never liked her." - -"There is not much harm in her." - -"No, perhaps not," Perior acquiesced. - -"I told her," said Camelia, after a little pause in which they turned a -corner of the garden, and walked down it again by an outward path. - -"Well, what did you tell her? She has hurt you. I can see that." - -"No, not she. She asked me if I had never seen that Mary loved you, so, -in reply, I said that I had only seen that _I_ loved you." - -"Did that excellent piece of truth-telling pain you?" - -"No; it was a delicious mouthful. But, she said too, that the flattery -of my love had pierced your indifference--or your priggishness, she -called it"--and Camelia gave him a rather arch glance, "and I didn't -really wonder, not _really_; but you were so much more indifferent than -I was, weren't you?" and she paused in the path to look at him, not -archly, but very seriously. Her candor was so charming, with its little -touch of fear, that Perior's answer could not resist an emphasis. - -"Dearest," he said, and Camelia's wonder was not unpleasant, and his -daring went unrebuked, as he put his arm around her. - -"That means you were not?" - -"It means a great deal more. I was in love with you when I was nothing -to you. I've always been in love with you--horribly in love with you. -Indifference! Great heavens! that was what I prayed for, that was what I -tried to feign, for I thought you such an abominable little siren. All -the time that you were picking me up, and putting me down, and whisking -past me, and torturing and teasing me, all the time I was adoring you, I -couldn't help myself! adoring you with all your crimes upon you! -thinking myself a fool for it, I grant." - -"Putting you down? No, I never did that," Camelia demurred. - -"Well, I thought so. And at all events you know that you were most -comfortably indifferent until you found out that you couldn't get me for -the asking." - -"No, no!" cried Camelia. "From the first, if you had really let me think -you loved me, told me so, nicely, and begged a little, I should have -fallen straight into your arms, and perhaps never have found out how bad -I was!" - -"And that would have been a pity, eh? No," he added, with an -argumentative gravity that touched and made her smile sadly. "You were -never _bad_. It was always half my fault. I misjudged you, and you -danced to my lugubrious piping." - -"This is the very madness of devotion! Oh, dear Alceste, with you, -perhaps, with you I have not dealt so badly; but, _but_----" She walked -on again, turning away her head. - -"Don't," said Perior gently. - -"Ah, I must, I must remember." - -For a long time they were silent during the rounding of the whole -garden, where the high walls grew dark against the sky, and the flowers, -in the faint light, were ghostly. - -"Michael," she said at last, "I rebel sometimes against my own -unhappiness. I want to crush it--I am afraid of it; but I am more afraid -of being happy." - -"Why can't they go together?" he asked. - -"Ah! but can they?" - -"They must, sooner or later. Then you won't be afraid of either. Doesn't -this all mean," he added, "that _now_ I may tell you how much I love -you?" and he stopped to look at her. Her face was like a white flower in -the dusk. Far away, over long sweeps of thin purpling cloud, shone one -star, faint and steady. He saw together her face, the sky, and the star. - -"Oh!" said Camelia, "_do_ you know me? Even now, do you know me? I'm not -one bit good! I am still the horrid child who clamored for your love; my -love for you the only good thing in me! You love me, all the same? You -don't mind? don't expect anything? I want so much, but I will have -nothing, not a kiss, not your hand holding mine,--there, let it go,--on -false pretences." - -"I can only retaliate. _I_ am not one bit good. Dear, horrid child, will -you put up with me?" - -"Oh, I never minded!" she cried. "I loved you, good or bad." - -"And I you; only I minded. That is all the difference. There isn't a -falsity between us, Camelia," he added. - -"No, there isn't." - -"Then, may I kiss you, and hold your hand?" - -"Yes; only--first--first--" she held him off, smiling, yet still -doubting, still tremulously grave, "I am not good enough; no, I am not -good enough." - -"Quite good enough for me," said Perior. "I am getting tired of your -conscience, Camelia." - -THE END. - - -Typographical errorscorrected by the etext transcriber: - -befere=> before {pg 274} - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Confounding of Camelia, by -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - -***** This file should be named 41917.txt or 41917.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/9/1/41917/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/41917.zip b/41917.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8b2a388..0000000 --- a/41917.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/41917-8.txt b/old/41917-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ee21247..0000000 --- a/old/41917-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9273 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Confounding of Camelia, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Confounding of Camelia - -Author: Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Release Date: January 26, 2013 [EBook #41917] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -The Confounding of -Camelia - -By -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Author of -"The Dull Miss Archinard," Etc. - -New York -Charles Scribner's Sons -1899 - -Copyright, 1899, by -Charles Scribner's Sons - -MANHATTAN PRESS -474 W. BROADWAY -NEW YORK - - -_TO - -"CHARLIE" AND "JIMMIE"_ - - - - -The Confounding of Camelia - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -When Camelia came down into the country after her second London season, -descended lightly upon the home of her forefathers, her coming -unannounced, and as much a matter of caprice as had been her long -absence, a slowly growing opinion, an opinion that had begun to form -itself during Camelia's most irresponsible girlhood, became clearly -defined, a judgment fixed and apparently irrevocable. The Patons had -always been good, quiet people; absolutely undistinguished, were it not -that the superlative quality of their tranquil excellence gave a certain -distinction. There were no black sheep in their annals, and a black -sheep gives, by contrast, a brilliancy lacking to unaccented bucolic -groupings, strikes a note of interest at any rate; but none of the Paton -sheep were even gray. They fed in pleasant, plenteous pastures, for it -was a wealthy, though not noticeably wealthy family, and perhaps a -rather sheep-like dulness, an unimaginative contentment not conducive to -adventurous strayings, accounted for the spotless fleeces. - -Their cupboards had never held a skeleton--nor so much as the bone of -one. The family portraits, none even pretending to be Sir Joshuas or -Vandycks, only presented a respectable number of generations, so that -the mellow perspective of old ancestry, remarkable at least for a -lengthy retrogression into antiquity, made no background to their -commonplace. Sir Charles, Camelia's father, was the first Paton weighted -with an individuality that entailed nonconformity, and since Sir -Charles's individuality had confused all anticipations, further -developments of the wild streak could not be unexpected. Many of the -quiet, conservative people, who had known Camelia, her father and -mother, and Patons of an earlier epoch, pronounced with emphasis that -Camelia was spoiled; there was a tenderness in the term, an implication -of might-have-beens; and other people, more bitter and perhaps more -sensitive, remarked that not her head-turning London successes, of which -big echoes had rolled down to Clievesbury, but the inherent, the no -doubt inherited defects of Miss Paton's character were responsible for -her noticeable variation from family traditions. Did not that portion of -Blankshire, which lay about the dim old village of Clievesbury, send up -to the capital every year its native offerings of maidenhood? A London -season had never induced in these well-balanced young ladies the merry -arrogance so provokingly apparent in Miss Paton. Old Mrs. Jedsley it -was, the last rector's widow, who most openly denounced Camelia, and -that, despite her long friendship for the Patons; denounced her -frivolity, her insincerity, her egotism, and her wonderful gowns--their -simplicity did not deceive Mrs. Jedsley's keen eye; the price of one -would keep the parish in flannel for a year she declared, and, no doubt, -include the school feast. Mrs. Jedsley prided herself on her impartial -faculty for seeing disagreeable truths clearly and for announcing them -unflinchingly. Her fondness for Lady Paton--"poor Lady Paton"--could not -blind or silence her. Poor Lady Paton was more than ever effaced, Mrs. -Jedsley said; one might have thought that Sir Charles had required as -much submission as a woman's life could well yield, but the daughter had -called forth further capabilities. - -"The very way in which she says 'Oh, Camelia!' is flattering to the -girl. Her mother's half-shocked admiration encourages her in the belief -that she is very naughty and very clever; and really while Camelia talks -Lady Paton looks like a hare under a bramble." - -The simile hit the mark so nicely that the alarmed retirement of Lady -Paton's attitude was pictorially apparent forthwith. And, "Ah, well!" -Mrs. Jedsley added, "What can one expect in the child of such a father! -The most gracefully selfish man who ever lived. Charles Paton would have -smiled you out of house and home, and left you to sit in the snow, while -he warmed himself at your fireplace." - -Indeed this application of the laws of heredity might have induced a -certain charitable philosophy on Camelia's behalf. The love of -adventure, of prowess, of power, had shown itself in Charles Paton; but -much had been forgiven--even admired--with a sense of breathlessness, in -a cloud-compelling younger son (his good looks had been altogether -supreme), which, when seen flaunting indecorously in the daughter, was -highly unpopular. Charles Paton at a very early age had found the family -traditions "devilish dull" (and, indeed, it could not be denied that -dull they were); he entered the army, kicked over the traces, and was -"wild" with all his might and main. Clievesbury disapproved, but at the -same time Clievesbury was dazzled. - -Surrounded by this naughty atmosphere, reverberating with racing and -betting, dare-devil big-game shooting, and the extreme fashion that is -supposed to reverse the "devilish dull" morality of tradition, Charles -Paton--like his daughter--returned to Clievesbury, and there fell most -magnanimously and becomingly in love with little Miss Fairleigh, the -eighth daughter of a country baronet--a softly pink and white -maiden--wooed and married her and settled down, after a fashion, to -carve out an army career for himself. He carved to good purpose, luck -giving him the opportunity. He carried his life as lightly and gallantly -as a flag; sought peril, and the tingling excitement of the strangest -feats. His reckless bravery won him a knighthood; his fame, his happy -good-nature, and extreme good looks, made him a hero wherever he went. -Charles Paton's yellow curls, his smile, the Apollo-like line of his -lips, were as well known as his martial exploits. - -He was vastly popular, and his little wife in the shadow by his side, -looked up, like the others, and adored where they admired. Sir Charles -liked a sunny atmosphere, and though the hearthstone flame in its steady -commonplace did not count for so much as the wider outdoor effulgence, -it was very cosy to come back to, when domesticity was a momentary -necessity. He would not have liked a change of temperature, and -tolerated the wifely worship very graciously. He was fond of her too; -she was very pretty, not clever--(an undesirable quality in a wife)--far -more of a help than a hindrance, though how much of a help he perhaps -never realized. That broad triumphal road down which the hero marched -was swept and garnished by the indefatigable wife. The dustiness and -thorniness of daily life were kept from him. Lady Paton packed and paid, -and dashed from post to pillar. She was a delicate woman who, petted and -made much of, might have allowed herself an occasional headache and a -tea-gown existence. The years in India were not easy years; through them -all she unwaveringly adored her husband, and in many phases of a varied -life showed the steely fibre so often and so unexpectedly displayed by -the most delicately inefficient looking women. - -Camelia was the fifth child; the others died, two in India and two in -England, away from the poor mother. This last one was little more than a -baby when ill-health and the death of his brother decided Sir Charles on -a return to England. Lady Paton rejoiced in the home-coming. With her -pretty baby--a girl, alas! but the estate was unentailed--and her great -and glorious husband by her side--the future seemed to open on an -unknown happiness. But Lady Paton was to know few compensations. Sir -Charles found the rôle of country gentleman very flavorless, and his -attempts to evade boredom left his wife more lonely--and too, more -conscious of loneliness, than in busier days. - -When Camelia was eight her father died. One saw then that Lady Paton was -supremely adapted to eternal mourning. As a widow, she reached a -black-encompassed repose, a broken-hearted finality of woe. Camelia was -the one reason for her life. The child had never to enforce her will, -her mother's devotion yielded to the slightest pressure. Camelia was -hardly conscious of ruling, nor the mother of being ruled. As the -stronger egoism, Camelia domineered inevitably. She was a gay, kind -child, happy in the unfettered expansion of her individuality; she -delighted in its exercise, and in all sorts of unconventional -acquirements. She read voraciously and loved travel. Lady Paton had by -no means reached the end of packing and paying days. Camelia hated -beaten tracks; the travelling must be different from other people's; she -managed in a tourist-ridden Europe to find the element of adventurous -experience. Camelia was keen on experiences. Lady Paton did not -appreciate them properly; but then Lady Paton saw life from no artistic -standpoint. She thought undiscovered Greece and Poland more trying than -the most trying places in India. The steppes depressed her; she dared -not mention wolves, but her mind dwelt dejectedly upon them. She could -hardly think of the cooking in certain out-of-the-way corners in Spain -without shuddering. But she bore all with apparent placidity, and her -helpful qualities won her daughter's approval just as they had won her -husband's. - -There was nothing rude or uncouth in Camelia's domineering spirit, it -was too happy, too spontaneous, too sure of its own right. Even after -these two years of London her severest detractors could not accuse her -of the grosser forms of vanity, nor of affectation, nor of the ugly -thing that goes by the name of "fastness." Her unerring sense of the -best possible taste made "fast" girls seem very tawdry, and her coolly -smiling eyes told them that she found them so. Even with the fact of her -serene indifference to them growing into the consciousnesses of the -people about Clievesbury, they still owned, generously, but perforce, -that she was neither strident nor slangy, nor given to any form of -posing. The change in Camelia, if change there were, was a mere -evolution. She had tasted the joys of a wide effectiveness. She was only -twenty-three, and more than once had been told that she was the only -woman in London fitted to hold a "salon," a "salon" that would be a -power social, artistic, and political. Authors talked to her about their -books, painters about their pictures; her presence at the opera was -recorded as having judicial importance; a new pianist was made if he -played at one of her musicals. She was a somebody to whom the -Clievesburyites were nobodies indeed. - -Camelia smiled at her own power. She did not think more highly of -herself, but less well of other people, for she measured at once the -comparative worth of her own attributes in a world of mediocrity. She -saw through the flattery, valued it at its proper rate, but enjoyed it, -and indulged in a little air of self-mockery that to appreciative minds -crowned her beauty irresistibly. But she was rather disappointed in -finding most people so stupid. It was difficult to hold to one's -standard in a world where the second-best passed so fluently. By those -standards Camelia saw herself very second-best; but were there then no -clever people to see it with her? She caught herself in a yawning -weariness of it all. A lazy month or so in the country appealed to her; -other motives, too, were perhaps not wanting. With a little retinue of -friends she reappeared at Clievesbury, and, by degrees, old neighbors -discovered that little Camelia had developed into a rather prickling -personality. On calling they found Lady Paton very much in the -background. Camelia seemed to make no claim, and yet she was the -important personage, and to ignore her prominence was to efface oneself -with her mother. It was thought--and hoped--that Lady Haversham, the -magnate of the county, would vanquish that complacent sweetness, the -aerial lightness of demeanor that glanced over one's head while one -spoke, and "positively" said Mrs. Jedsley "makes one feel like a cow -being looked at along with the landscape." - -But although Lady Haversham held rule in the country, in London she, -too, was a nobody, and Camelia very much the contrary. Lady Haversham -knew right well that in going to see her old friend Lady Paton, Camelia -was her objective point, and to try a fall with Camelia upon her native -heath, her intention. Lady Haversham knew that in the eyes of the -world--the world that counted--she was a mere country mouse creeping -into the radiant effulgence of the young beauty, and this unpleasant -consciousness gave her quite a drum-like sonority of manner--a fatal -manner, as she felt helplessly while she beat out her imposing phrases -beneath the clear smiling of Camelia's eyes. Lady Haversham tried in -the first place to exclude Camelia, and addressed herself with most -solicitous fondness to Lady Paton; but Camelia's silent placidity stung -her into self-betrayal. Camelia evidently cared nothing for Lady -Haversham's graciousness--or lack of it; seemed, indeed, unconscious of -the cold shoulder turned so emphatically upon her. Lady Haversham -thumped and rumbled, and knew herself worsted. - -"Manner! Unpleasant manner!" she said to Mrs. Jedsley later on in the -day, "the child has no manners at all! That takes in London nowadays, -you know. Anything in the shape of arrogant youth and prettiness is sure -of having its head turned. And as to prettiness, I should call her -curious-looking rather than pretty." And by this Mrs. Jedsley knew that -Camelia had snubbed Lady Haversham, without trying to--there was the -smart; Camelia was making no effort at all to be unpleasant, to impose -herself, but, unmistakably, she only thought of the good people about -her home as cows in the landscape. - -"I suppose she finds us all very provincial," said Mrs. Jedsley, not -averse to planting the shaft, for she had felt Lady Haversham's -graciousness to be rather rasping at times. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -On the sunny autumn day with which this story opens, Miss Paton was in -the morning room at Enthorpe Lodge, waiting for some one--a some one who -to her was not a nobody; and though her attitude hardly denoted much -anxiety, her mind was alert and very conscious of a pleasing and yet -exasperating suspense. Her friend Mrs. Fox-Darriel was with her. Miss -Paton leaned against the mantelpiece as she talked, her eyes often -swerving to the clock, but calmly, with no perceptible impatience, or -passing in a quiet glance over her hand, the falling folds of her white -dress, her friend's face and figure--figure and face equally artificial, -and perhaps affording to Miss Paton's mind a pleasing contrast to her -own distinctive elegance. - -There is in Florence a plaque by one of the della Robbia; a long -throated girl's head leans from it, serenely looking down upon the -world; a delicate head, with a clear brow, a pure cheek, a mouth of sad -enchanting loveliness; Camelia's head was like it; saint-like in -contour, but with an added air, an air of merry irresponsibility. The -outward corners of her eyes smiled into a long upward curve of shadow, -her brows above them made a wing-like line, wings hovering extended, and -a little raised. The upward tilt pervaded the corners of her mouth, a -sad mouth, yet even in repose it seemed just about to smile, and its -smile sliding to a laugh. The very moulding of her cheek and chin showed -a tender gaiety. As for coloring it might have been the coloring of a -pensive Madonna, so white was her skin, so palely gold her smooth thick -hair. She was slender too, with the long narrow hands and feet of an -Artemis, and on seeing her one thought of a maiden-goddess, of a St. -Cecilia, and, without surprise over the incongruity, of an intimately -modern young taster of life, whose look of pagan joyousness took neither -herself nor other people seriously, said "que voulez-vous," to all -blame, and gently mocked puritanical earnestness. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel was plunged into the depths of an easy-chair, a type -without hints and whispers to baffle and fascinate. She was thoroughly -conventional and not in the least perplexing. Her elaborate head, a -masterpiece of wave and coil and curl, rested against the high-chair -back, its lustre a trifle suspicious where the light caught too gold a -bronze on the sharp ripples. - -She was considered a beauty, and her steely, regular face looked at one -from every stationer's shop in London. Miss Paton's photographs were to -be procured at no stationer's, one among the many differences that -distinguished her from her friend. - -On Camelia's "coming-out" in all the dryad-like freshness of her one and -twenty years, Mrs. Fox-Darriel, smartest of the "smart," kindly -determined to "form" and "launch" her. She was very winning, and Camelia -seemed very willing. But Mrs. Fox-Darriel soon recognized that she was -being led--not leading, soon recognized that Camelia would never follow. -The first defeat was at the corsetière's visible symbol of the "forming" -process. Under Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye, Miss Paton's nymph-like slimness -was measured for stays of all sorts and descriptions; Camelia, when the -stays were done, surveyed her figure therein confined, with reflective -rather than submissive silence. - -The week after she went to Paris, and when she returned it was with a -stayless wardrobe. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was fairly quelled as Camelia swept -before her in these masterpieces of the Rue de la Paix. - -"They are not æsthetic," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel--"I own that--not a -greenery-yallery whiff about them; nor too self-conscious; but my dear, -why? Don't you like my figure?" - -Camelia turned candid eyes upon the accurate waist, the rigid curves and -right angles. "I can't say I do, Frances," she owned, wherewith Mrs. -Fox-Darriel winced a little. "I don't think it looks alive, you know," -said Miss Paton. "Of course one must know how to dress one's -nonconformity. I think I have succeeded." And Camelia went to court -looking like a glorified Romney, with hardly a whalebone about her. -Their future relationship was forecast by this declaration of -independence. The stayless protégée conferred, did not receive lustre. - -Inevitably Mrs. Fox-Darriel found herself revolving about the young -beauty--a satellite among the other satellites, and more than Camelia -herself was Mrs. Fox-Darriel impressed by Camelia's effectiveness. - -On this morning from the depth of her laziness she observed her young -friend's glances at the clock with some wondering curiosity; it was -difficult to imagine a cause for the stirring of Camelia's contemplative -quiescence under country influences, but Mrs. Fox-Darriel was quick to -see the faintest ripple of change, and to her well-sharpened acuteness -the ripple this morning was perceptible. - -"No new guests coming to-day?" she had asked, receiving a placid -negative. "And what are you going to do?" she pursued, patting the -regular outline of her fringe. - -"I thought of a ride with Mr. Merriman and Sir Harry. Do you care to -come?" - -"No, no, I have too much of Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman as it is." - -"It is dull down here, Frances. Perhaps you had best be off to Homburg. -I am bent on recuperative vegetating, you know." - -"Whom are you waiting for?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel asked, coming to the point -with a circumspection rendered rather ridiculous by the frank promptness -of Miss Paton's answer. - -"I'm waiting for Mr. Perior, Frances," and she laughed a little, -glancing at her friend with a rapid touch of ridicule, "and he is -half-an-hour late; and I want to see him very badly." - -"Mr. Perior?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel's vagueness was not affected. "One of the -vegetables, my dear? Has not the curiosity of the neighborhood exhausted -itself?" - -"Ah--this vegetable isn't curious, I fear, not a shoot shows at least. -If he is curious he will pretend not to be, and pretend very -successfully." - -"That is subtle for a vegetable. Perior, the name is familiar. Who is -this evasive person?" - -Miss Paton's serene eyes looked over her friend's head at the strip of -blue and green outside framed by the long window. She was asking herself -with an inward smile for her own perversity, whether she had not come -down into the country for the purpose of seeing the "evasive person." -She would not mind owning to it in the least. Pickles after sweets; she -anticipated the tart taste of disapproval pleasantly. - -"Who is he?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel repeated. - -"He is my oldest friend; he doesn't admire me in the least--so I am very -fond of him. I christened him 'Alceste,' and he retaliated with -'Célimène.' He is forty odd; a bachelor; he lives in a square stone -house, and taught me very nearly everything I know. My Greek is almost -as good as my skirt dancing." - -"The square-stone gentleman didn't teach you skirt-dancing, I suppose. I -begin to place him. The editor; the family friend; the misanthrope." - -"Yes, my 'Alceste.' He has reason for misanthropy. His life has been a -succession of disappointments. I am one of them, I fear." - -"Dear me, Camelia!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel sat upright, "have you ever dallied -with this provincial Diogenes?" - -Miss Paton smiled over the supposition. "His disappointments are moral, -not amorous. Why do I tell you this, I wonder?" - -"To show me that you don't care for him perhaps," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -who to tell the truth, was rather alarmed. Since she had resigned -herself to a planetary, a reflected brilliancy, her star at least must -never wane; its orbit must widen. Camelia's whole manner seemed suddenly -suspicious. She was evidently waiting for this person, pleased, -evidently, to talk of him, and though Camelia might be trusted for a -full appreciation of her future's possibilities, Mrs. Fox-Darriel was -hardly satisfied by the frankness of her "Oh! but I do care for him; he -preoccupies me." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflected for some moments on the dangers of -country-house propinquity and retrospective intimacy before saying -pleasantly-- - -"What does he look like?" - -Camelia laughed again, soothing Mrs. Fox-Darriel somewhat by the -good-humored glance which seemed to pierce with amusement the anxiety on -her behalf. - -"His eyes are thunderous; his lips pale with suppressed anger." - -"Dear me! I am really anxious to see this vial of wrath." - -"And since that is his footstep on the gravel, you shall see him -immediately," said Camelia. - -A moment after Mr. Perior was announced. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Mr. Perior was a tall man, well built, yet carrying himself with a -certain ungainliness. He had an air of eagerness reined back. His face -was at once severe and sensitive. - -He gave no notice to Mrs. Fox-Darriel, whose head twisted round to -observe his entrance, and walking up to Miss Paton he took her -hands--she had put out both her hands in welcome--and, looking at her -kindly, he said-- - -"Well, Célimène." - -"Well, Alceste." - -The smile that made of Camelia's face a changing loveliness seemed to -come and go, and come again while she looked at him, as a butterfly's -wings fold and open while it rests upon a flower. She rarely laughed -outright, but her face in gravity was unfamiliar; one could hardly -imagine it without the shifting charm. - -"You might have come before," she said--her hands in his, "and I -expected you." - -"I was away until yesterday." - -"You will come often now." - -"Yes, I will." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye--a none too friendly eye--travelled meanwhile up -and down the "vial of wrath." Clever, eccentric, he had evidently made -an impression upon the not easily impressed Camelia, and his -clean-shaved face, and the rough gray hair that gave his head a look of -shaggy heaviness, seemed to express both qualities significantly. - -"Did you ride over?" Camelia asked. "No? Hot for walking, isn't it? -Frances, my friend Mr. Perior." - -"You live near here, Mr. Perior?" said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, glancing at his -boots, which were peculiarly solid and very dusty. - -"Only five miles away," he said. Mr. Perior's very boots partook of -their wearer's expression of uningratiating self-reliance. - -"We have heard of you in London too, I believe. You are editor of--what -review is it, Camelia?" - -"I was the editor of the _Friday Review_, but I've given that up." - -"He quarrelled with everybody!" Camelia put in, "but you can hear him -once a week in the leading article--dealing hatchet-blows right and -left. They don't care to keep him at closer quarters." - -Mr. Perior looked at her, smiling but making no repartee. - -"And Camelia has been telling me that you are responsible for her -Greek." - -"Is Camelia ashamed of her Greek? She needn't be. She was quite a good -scholar." - -"But Greek! For Camelia! Don't you think it jars? To bind such dusty -laurels on that head!" - -"Laurels? Camelia can't boast of the adornment--dusty or otherwise." - -"Oh! leave me a leaf or two. You are disloyal. I am glad of my Greek. -When one is so frivolous the contrast is becoming. And every twig of -knowledge is useful nowadays in a woman's motley crown, provided she -wears it like a French bonnet." - -Perior observed her laughingly--Mrs. Fox-Darriel had as yet seen no -hatchets. - -"No danger of your being taken for a blue-stocking, Camelia." - -"No, indeed! I see to that!" - -"You little hypocrite," said Perior. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eyebrows arched into her fringe. She got out of her -chair trailingly. - -"I will go into the garden. Lady Paton is there, Camelia? I think so. I -know that you have reminiscences. I am in the way." - -"You are, rather," said Perior, when she had gone out. "A very -disagreeable face that, Camelia; how do the women manage to look so hard -nowadays?" - -"Thanks. She is a dear friend." - -"I am sorry for it. I hate to see eyes touched up; it gives me the -creeps. I am sorry she is a dear friend." - -"I am afraid I shall often give you cause for sorriness." Camelia stood -by the mantelpiece, smiling most winningly. "Come, now, let us -reminisce. I saw you last in London. Why didn't you stop there longer?" - -"I had enough of London to last me for a lifetime when I lived there," -said Perior. "I do go up for a bout of concerts now and then," he added, -and looking away from her he took up a large photograph that stood on -the table beside him. "Is this the latest?" - -"How do you like it?" she asked, leaning forward to look with him. - -"It makes a very saintly little personage of you; but it doesn't do you -justice. Your Whistler portrait--the portrait of a smile--is the best -likeness you'll ever get." - -Camelia looked pleased, and yet a trifle taken aback. - -"What a nice Alceste you are this morning!" she said. "Tell me, what are -you doing with yourself down here? Growing more and more of the stoic? I -expect some day to hear that you have left the Grange and moved into a -tub. How do you get on without your pupil?" and Camelia as she stood -before him made ever so faint a little dancing step backwards and -forwards, expressive of her question's merriment. - -"I have existed--more comfortably perhaps than when I had her." - -"Now tell me, be sincere," she came close to him, her own gay steadiness -of look exemplary in the quality she recommended, "_Are_ you crunchingly -disapproving? Ready to bite me? Have you heard dreadful tales of -frivolity and worldliness?" - -"Not more than are becoming to a pretty young woman with such capacities -for enjoyment." - -"You don't disapprove then?" - -"Of what, my dear Camelia?" - -"Of my determination to enjoy myself." - -"Why should I? Why shouldn't you have your try like the rest of us? I am -not going to throw cold water on your laudable aspirations." - -Camelia still looked at him steadily, smilingly, and a little -mockingly. Their eyes at these close quarters could but show a -consciousness of familiarity that made evasions funny. Camelia's eyes -were gray, the sunlit gray of a brook--reflecting broken browns and -greens, _yeux pailletés_, as changing as her smile; and Perior's eyes, -too, were gray, but the fixed, stony gray that is altogether another -color, and they contemplated her fluctuations with an apparently -unmoved, though smiling calm. - -She laughed outright, and then Perior permitted himself a dry little -responsive laugh that left his lips unparted. - -"What are you up to, Camelia?" he asked. - -"We _do_ see through one another, don't we?" she cried joyfully. "I see -you are going to pretend not to mind anything. 'That will sting -her!--take down her conceit! I'll not flatter her by scoldings!' Eh! -Alceste?" - -"You little scamp!" he murmured, while Camelia, sitting down on the -sofa, swept her white draperies over her feet and motioned to the place -beside her. "You will not--no, you will not take me seriously." - -"If you see through me, Camelia," said Perior, taking the seat beside -her with a certain air of resignation, "you see that I am very sincere -in finding your behavior perfectly normal--not in the least surprising. -You are merely gay, and happy, and self-centred; and behaving as all -girls, who have the chance, behave," he added, putting his finger under -her chin with a paternal pat and a look of gentle ridicule. - -"Well done! That was very neat! Do you want me to show signs of -discomfiture. I won't. You know that I am quite individual, and that -for years you have thought me a selfish, hard-hearted little scoundrel." - -"Oh no; not so bad as that." - -"What have you thought, then?" she demanded. - -"I have thought that, like other girls, you can't evade that label----" - -"Oh, wretch!" Camelia interjected. - -"That, like other girls," Perior repeated with an unkind emphasis, "you -are going to try to make a 'good match.'" His face, for all its attempt -at lightness, took on a shade of irrepressible repugnance as he spoke. -"The accessories don't count for much. You may be quite individually -naughty, but in your motives I see only a very conventional conformity." - -"That's bad--bad and crude. The good match is, with me, the accessory; -therein lies my difference, and you know it. You know I am not like -other girls. You saw it in London. You saw," Camelia added, wrinkling up -her nose in a self-mockery that robbed the coming remark of fatuity, -"that I was a personage there." - -"As a noticeably pretty girl is a personage. You really are beating your -drum rather deafeningly, Camelia." - -"Yes; I'll shock you by mere noise. But, Alceste, I am not as conceited -as I seem; no, really, I am not," and with her change of tone her look -became humorously grave. "I know very well that the people who make much -of me--who think me a personage--are sillies. Still, in a world of -sillies, I am a personage. It does come round to that, you see." - -"Yes; I see." - -Camelia leaned back in her end of the little sofa, her arms folded, her -head bent in a light scrutiny of her companion's face. The warm quiet of -the summer day pervaded the peaceful room, a room with so many -associations for both of them. They had studied, read there together for -years; laughed, quarrelled, been the best of friends and the fondest of -enemies. Perior, as he looked about it, could call up a long vista of -Camelias, all gay, all attaching, all evasive, all culminating and -fulfilling themselves with an almost mathematical inevitableness, as was -now so apparent to him, in the long, slim "personage" beside him, her -eyes, as he knew, studying him, her mind amused with conjectures as to -what he really thought of her, she herself quite ready to display the -utmost sincerity in the attempt to elicit that thought. Oh no, Camelia -would keep up very few pretences with him. Perior, gazing placidly -enough at the sunlit green outside the morning-room, knew very well what -he thought of her. - -"Are you estimating the full extent of my folly," she asked presently, -"tempering your verdict by the consideration of extenuations?" - -This was so apt an exposition of his mental process that Perior smiled -rather helplessly. - -"See," she said, rising and going to the writing-table, "I'll help you -to leniency; show you some very evident extenuations." From a large -bundle of letters she selected two. "Weigh the extent of my influence, -and find it funny, if you like, as I do." - -"I wonder if you quite realize the ludicrous aspect of our -conversation," said Perior, taking a thick sheaf of paper from the first -letter. - -"Quite--quite. Only you push me to extremes. I must make you own my -importance--my individuality." - -"Ah, from Henge," said Perior, looking at the end of the letter. "He was -my fag at Eton, you know; dear old Arthur!" - -"Yes, and you quarrelled with him five years ago, about politics." - -"We didn't quarrel," said Perior, with a touch of asperity; "he was -quite big enough not to misunderstand my opposition. Must I read all -this, Camelia? It looks rather dry." - -"Well, I should like you to. He is one of the strongest men in the -government, you know." - -"Quite. He is the man for me, despite past differences of opinion. The -man for you, too, perhaps," he added, glancing sharply up at her from -the letter; "his devotion is public property, you know." - -"But my reception of his devotion isn't," laughed Camelia. - -"I am snubbed," said Perior, returning to the letter, and flushing a -little. Camelia noted the flush. Dear old Alceste! Shielding so -ineffectually, under his sharp blunt bearing, that quivering -sensitiveness. - -She put her hand through his arm, sinking down beside him, her eyes over -his shoulder following his, while he read her--certificate. Perior quite -understood the smooth making of amends. - -"Well, what do you say to that?" she asked when he had obediently read -to the very end. - -"I should say that he was a man very much in love," said Perior, folding -the letter. - -"You are subtle if you can trace an amorous influence in that letter." - -"It doesn't call for subtlety. Samson only abandons himself so -completely under amorous circumstances. I hope you are not going to -shear the poor fellow." - -"For shame," said Camelia, while Perior, looking at her reflectively, -softly slapped the palm of his hand with Arthur Henge's letter. "I am -his comrade. I help him; I am on his side, if you please, and against -the Philistines." - -"Oh, are you? And this? Ah! this is from the leader of the Philistines, -Rodrigg. Yes, I heard that Rodrigg was in the toils." Perior examined -the small, compact handwriting without much apparent curiosity. - -"That is simply nonsense. There was a time--but he soon saw the -hopelessness. He is my friend now; not that I am particularly fond of -him--the grain is rather coarse: but he is a good creature, far more -honest than he imagines, simple, after a clumsy fashion. He aims at -distinguished diplomatic complexity, I may tell you, and, I fancy, comes -to me for the necessary polishing. Read his letter." - -Perior had looked at her, still smiling, but more absently, while she -spoke. - -"Oh! Rodrigg is more cautious," he said glancing through the great man's -neatly constructed phrases. "You are not with the Philistines; he feels -that." - -"Politically no; but I have a good deal of influence with him. You see -those reviews he mentions; I went through a lot of heavy French and -Italian reading for him--sociology, industrialism--and saw the result in -his last speech." - -"Really." - -"Ah, really. Don't be sarcastic, Alceste, to me. One of those men will -probably be Prime Minister some day. You can't deny that they are -eminent men." - -"And therefore you are an eminent woman. Well, the logic isn't too lame. -I'll conclude, Camelia, that you may do quite a lot of harm in the -world." - -"You don't believe that a woman's influence in politics can be for -good?" - -"Not the influence of a woman like you--a--a _femme bibelot_." - -"Good!" cried Camelia, gently clapping her hands. - -"It is as that, you know, that these men court you. An _objet d'art_ for -their drawing-rooms." - -"You are mistaken, Alceste." - -"If I am mistaken--if they cherish ideals, they are unlucky devils." - -"No, Alceste, I am well justified in keeping my self-respect intact. It -is not for my _beaux yeux_ that I am courted--yes, yes--that wry look -isn't needed! I know in what hideously bad taste I am talking, but one -can't use artistic methods with you. As I say, I have my finger in any -number of pies besides the pie political. You should see the respect in -which I am held by the writers and painters. And I _have_ good taste; I -know that. You can't deny it, since you helped it to grow. What other -woman in London has a collection to equal mine? Dégas--Outamaro--Oh, -Alceste, don't look so funnily! Do you really imagine that I am not -conscious of the baldness of my exposition? But what is the good of -putting on a wig for you!" - -"And all this to convince me----" - -"Yes, to convince you." - -"Of what, pray?" - -"That I am not a little insignificance to be passed by with indulgence." - -"Should you prefer severity?" and Perior, conscious that she had -succeeded in "drawing" him, could not repress "You are an outrageous -little egotist, Camelia." - -Camelia, her hands clasped over her knee, contemplated him with more -gravity than he had expected. - -"No," she demurred, "selfish, but not egotistic. There is a difference, -isn't there? Egotism is subjective, selfishness objective. I wonder," -she added, "what you _do_ think of me. Not that I care--much! Am I not -frank? I must care, since I am shuffling about before you; getting a -cuffing for my pains!" She rose suddenly, laughing, not in the least -bitterly, and walked to the window. - -"Mamma and Mary," she announced. "Did Frances evade them? They disconcert -her. Frances, you know, goes in for knowingness--cleverness--the modern -vice. Don't you hate clever people? Frances doesn't dare talk epigrams -to me; I can't stand it. You saw a lot of Mamma and Mary last winter, -didn't you? Took Mary out riding. Now, come here, Mr. Perior, and tell -me _how_ she looked on horseback." - -Camelia was smiling irrepressibly as he joined her, and they watched the -approach of the two ladies across the lawn. Certainly the angular, -thick-set form of the younger gave no hint of pleasing possibilities -under circumstances so trying as the equestrian. - -"_I_ never could wheedle Mary into the saddle. I should like to see her -on horseback immensely." Camelia's eyes twinkled: "A sort of cowering -desperation, wasn't it?" - -"No, she rode rather nicely," said Perior concisely. There was something -rather brutal in Camelia's comments as she stood there with such -rhythmic loveliness of pose and contour. - -"I wish Mary did not look so much like a milk pudding," she went on; "a -raisinless milk pudding--so sane, so formless, so uneventful." - -Perior did not smile. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Lady Paton was a thin, graceful woman, her slenderness emphasized, like -her daughter's, by a very small head. Since her husband's death she had -worn black, and even now it seemed to invade her delicate whiteness -rather overwhelmingly, rising closely about her throat, falling over her -fragile hands, enfolding her with a soft solemnity. Her white hair was -smoothed thickly under the transparent cambrics of an exquisite cap, and -framed the sweetness of a faded face, in profile like Camelia's. -Camelia's eyes were her father's, and her smile; Lady Paton's eyes were -round like a child's, and her smile half-frightened, half-explanatory. -With all the gentlewoman's mild dignity, her look was timid, as though -it besought indulgence for a lifelong sense of insignificance, a look -that aroused in Perior his grimmest scorn for a world in which such -flower-like moral loveliness is inevitably victimized by garish -egotisms. He had known Sir Charles, a charming companion, a good -fellow--in the somewhat widely licensed sense the term implies, but not -fit to untie his wife's shoe-strings when it came to a comparison. -Camelia now had stepped upon her father's undeserved pedestal, and -Perior, watching the new epoch of incense-burning, had smiled more and -more grimly. He was devoted to Lady Paton, and had been so since the -days when a raw, sensitive, high-strung youth, fresh from college, her -Madonna head had roused in him poetical idealizations, and her husband's -gay indifference a chafing resentment. With years he had grown rather -fond of Sir Charles, could make allowances for him, and, too, had no -longer idealized Lady Paton; but though he now saw her, sweet but dull, -lovely in unselfishness, yet weak in all except a submission noble in -its own way, the fragrant charm still stirred him with an almost -paternal tenderness, a pity, even a reverence. She was too obtuse to see -her own cramped and imprisoned life, but he saw it, and her -unconsciousness was part of the pathos. He was very fond of her, and she -of him, so that with all his protective partisanship there was, too, a -willing filial deference. - -This little corner of appreciation and affection was the softest spot in -Perior's character. He took both her hands now and said, looking at her -with a whimsical gentleness, "So you are back at last! And glad to be -back, too, are you not?" - -"Oh, very. And Camelia seems to like it so much," she smiled round at -her daughter; "she was beginning to look quite fagged; already the -country has done her good." - -Camelia smiled back with a humoring lightness. - -Mary Fairleigh stood quietly behind her aunt. Her expressionless face -certainly did suggest a lacteal dulness. The Fairleighs were not -responsible for her short nose and clumsily-cut mouth. Impecunious -Maurice Fairleigh, third son, had "done for himself" when he married his -younger sisters' nursery governess. Maurice had no money--and not many -brains, and poor Miss Hockey had neither brains nor beauty, nor family -nor money. Her flaxen hair and vacant blue eyes captured Maurice's -vagrant fancy during a lazy summer. He was very young, that fact was the -only excuse possible; but, as the Fairleighs said, there was no -accounting for Maurice's folly. Maurice himself, after a very little -time, could no longer account for it. He was a good-natured fellow, and -his wonder at himself did not become too painfully apparent to his wife; -but the short years of their married life were by no means a success. -Maurice was very delicate, and the struggle to make both ends meet was -but grudgingly aided by disapproving relatives. Lady Paton, only, was -sympathetic, practically sympathetic too; but during the greater part of -Maurice's matrimonial venture she was in India, and, as the other -Fairleighs said, Angelica never had the wit to resent anything. Maurice -died at Davos-Platz, and Mrs. Fairleigh, when her daughter was sixteen, -departed her seemingly very pointless existence. Her last years had been -sweetened by Lady Paton's devoted kindness, and she left Mary to this -guardian angel. Since that time Mary had lived at Enthorpe Lodge; a -grave, good little girl, solemnly submissive to her cousin, painstaking -in dutiful gratitude toward her aunt. Camelia had always found this -gratitude irritating, and Mary's manner--as of one on whom Providence -had laid the patiently-borne burden of obscurity and dependence, very -vexing. Camelia intended as little as her mother to recognize a -difference, and did not realize that her own dominant characteristics -necessitated Mary's non-resistance. - -She laughed at Mary's gravity, tried to tease her out of her stolid -acceptance of the rôle of poor relation, but, inevitably, she came to -treat Mary with the tolerant carelessness she seemed only to expect. As -for Lady Paton, she never surmised about Mary, nor analyzed her. Lady -Paton accepted people and things as they appeared, and without -conjecture. Mary was a dear, good girl. It was indeed impossible that -her uninteresting virtues should arouse enthusiasm, and her aunt's -appreciation from its very fulness was calmly unemotional. - -Lady Paton having become in these latter days a sort of decorative -adjunct to her daughter--for Camelia used her mother to the very best -advantage,--lace caps, sweetness and all,--it was upon Mary that the -duller duties fell. Mary managed bills and servants, and household -matters; wrote little notes, ran little errands, chose embroidery silks, -and sent for the books to Mudie's,--the tender books with happy -matrimonial endings that Lady Paton liked. She read these books aloud, -and talked to her aunt--as Camelia never did, never could. Lady Paton -listened to her daughter, but she and Mary talked about her. Mary's -conversation required no adjustment of amazed faculties, no quelling of -old-fashioned alarms, nor acceptance of a wondering incompetence. - -The little prattle of gardening and gowns, and Camelia's doings went on -happily, unless hushed in an absorbed observance of that young heroine -herself,--flinging pretty missiles of speech far above the heads of her -mother and cousin. - -Both dull dears; such was Camelia's realistic inner comment, but Mary -was an earthenware dear, and Mamma translucent porcelain. Camelia, who -appreciated and loved all dainty perfection, appreciated and loved her -mother, with much the same love that she would have given a slender -white vase of priceless ware, displayed on a stand of honor in her -knowingly grouped drawing-room. She was a distinctly creditable and -decorative Mamma. As for Mary, she was not decorative; a harmless, -necessary hot water jug. - -Camelia, now, as her mother spoke to Perior, went to her side and gave -the muslin that fell over her shoulder a little touch and settling. - -"You have had a nice walk round the garden?" she said, smiling, "your -cheek is just the pink of a sweet-pea." - -"And how are you, Mary?" Perior asked, turning to Miss Fairleigh. "You -might have more color I think." - -"Mary has a headache," said Lady Paton, the fluttering smile with which -she had received her daughter's commendation fading, "I think she often -has them and says nothing." - -"You must play tennis with the Mappuck girls. You need more exercise," -Perior continued. "They are at it vigorously from morning till night." - -"Oh--really," Mary protested, "it is only Aunt Angelica's kindness--I am -quite well." - -"And no one must dare be otherwise in this house," Camelia added. "Go -and play tennis at once, Mary. I don't approve of headaches." Mary -smiled a modest, decorous little smile. - -"Nor do I," said Perior, and then as Lady Paton had taken a chair near -her work-table, he sat down beside her, while Mary sank from her -temporary prominence, and, near the window, took up some sewing. Camelia -remained near her, looking out at the smooth green stretches of the -lawn, lending half an ear to the talk behind her, but keeping up at the -same time a kindly little flow of question and reply with her cousin. -How were the flowers getting on? and the hay making? Had she seen that -morning her poor village people? The questions were rather perfunctory; -and while she spoke Camelia aided the faltering march of a burnished -little beetle up the window, and helped him out on to the fragrant -branch of syringa that brushed the pane. - -"I hear that you are embarked on a season of parties," said Perior to -Lady Paton. - -"Yes, Camelia has so many friends. She thought she would like it here if -she could keep it gay with people." - -"You will like it too. You were lonely last winter." - -"Ah, Camelia was not here; but I was not lonely, Michael; you were too -kind for that; and I had Mary. You don't think Camelia looks thin, -Michael?" She had always called the family friend by his Christian name. -Perior had Irish ancestry. "She has been doing so much all spring--all -winter too; I can't understand how a delicate girl can press so many -things into her life--and studying with it too; she must keep up with -everything." - -"Ahead of everything," Perior smiled. - -"Yes, she is really so intellectual, Michael. You don't think she looks -badly?" - -"She is as pretty a little pagan as ever," said Perior, glancing at Miss -Paton. - -"A pagan!" Lady Paton looked rather alarmed. "You mean it, Michael? I -have been troubled, but Camelia comes to church with me. It is you who -are the pagan, Michael," she added, finding the gentle retort with -evident relief. - -"Oh, I wasn't speaking literally. I have no doubt that Camelia is a -staunch church-woman," he smiled to himself. Camelia was a brazen little -conformist, when conformity was of service. - -"No, not that. I don't quite know. I have heard her talk of religion, -with Mr. Ballenden, who writes those books, you know, scientific, -atheistic books, and Camelia seemed quite to overpower him; the -illusions of science, the claims of authority." Lady Paton spoke with -some little vagueness. "I did not quite follow it all; but he became -very much excited. Controversial religion does not interest me, it -confuses me. It is the inner change of heart, Michael," she added with a -mild glance of affection, "the reliance on the higher will that guides -us, that has revealed itself to us." - -Perior looked somewhat gloomily on the ground. The thought of Lady -Paton's religion, and Camelia's deft juggling with negatives, jarred -upon him. - -"You don't agree with me, Michael?" Lady Paton asked timidly. - -"Of course I do," he said, looking up at her, "that is the only -definition needful. We may interpret differently, from different points -of view." - -"You would find, I think, greater peace in mine, Michael. May you come -to it in time!" - -They were both silent for a moment, and both looked presently at -Camelia. - -"She is so much admired, and so unspoiled by it. So frank, so -unaffected. She is found so clever." - -"So she tells me," Perior could not repress. - -"And so humorous," Lady Paton added, taking his smile in its kindest -sense, "she says the most amusing things." - -"Mr. Perior," said Camelia, turning rather abruptly, "if Mamma is -singing my praises I give you leave to repress her sternly." She joined -them, standing behind Lady Paton's chair, and, over her head, looking at -Perior. "I know how trying such praises are, heard outside the family -circle." - -"In which I hope I may include myself. I enjoy Lady Paton's -interpretation." - -"Mamma would not believe the biting intention of that speech. Cuff! -cuff! cuff! _Il me fait des misères_, Mamma!" - -Lady Paton's smile went from one to the other. - -"You have always teased Michael, Camelia, and he has always been so -patient with you." - -"Every one is patient with me, because I am a good girl. 'Be good, sweet -maid--' I believe in a moral universe," and Camelia over her mother's -head wrinkled up her nose roguishly as she made the edifying statement. -"Mamma," she added, "where is my flock this morning? I fancied that you -were shepherding some of them. I want to trot them out before Mr. -Perior. I want to study his expression as Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman -present themselves. Sir Harry the mere superlative of Mr. Merriman's -fatuity. I imagine that by some biological adaptation of function they -use their brains for digestive purposes, since I am sure they never -think with them." - -Lady Paton took refuge from a painful recognition of the inhospitable -nature of these remarks in a vague smile. Lady Paton had a faculty for -misunderstanding when either misunderstanding or disapproval was -necessary. If Camelia hoped by her brisk personalities to shock her -former preceptor she failed signally, for laughing appreciatively he -asked, "And for what purpose were these latest sports of evolution -imported?" - -"Purpose! Could one pin a purpose to such aimless beings? They came -because I like to have beautiful things about me, and, in their way, -they are beautiful. Then, too, with a plant-like persistency they turn -to the sun, and I do not flatter myself in owning that I am their sun. -It would have been cruel to deny them the opportunity of basking." - -"The hunting, dancing, yachting species, I suppose." - -"Yes; their lives comprise a few more movements, but very few. It is a -mere sort of rhythmic necessity." - -Perior laughed again, and his eyes met hers, as she leaned above her -mother's chair, in quite a twinkling mood. - -Mary, near the window, paused in her stitching to look at them both with -a seemingly bovine contemplation. - -"And who are your other specimens?" asked Perior, less conscious -perhaps than was Camelia of the purely dual nature of the conversation. -She enjoyed this little display before him, and her enjoyment was -emphasized by the presence of two alien listeners, it defined so well -the fundamental intellectual sympathy. - -Her smile rested on him as she replied, "You saw Mrs. Fox-Darriel." - -"Yes." - -"My only other guest just now is Gwendolen Holt, in appearance a -youthful replica of Mrs. Fox-Darriel, but in character very embryotic." - -"A very pretty girl," said Lady Paton, finding at last her little -foothold. - -"A spice of ugliness--just a something to jar the insignificant -regularity of her face, would make her charming. As it is, her -prettiness is a bore. You will stay to lunch, Alceste, and see these -people?" - -"I can't say that you have made me anxious to see them." - -"Have you no taste for sociology?" - -"You will stay and see _us_, however, will you not?" said Lady Paton, -advancing now in happy security. "I want a long talk with you." - -"Then I stay." - -"His majesty stays!" Camelia murmured. - -"How are the tenants getting on?" asked Lady Paton, taking from the -table a soft mass of white wool, and beginning to knit. She was one of -those women whose hands are always uselessly and prettily busy. - -"Mary and I drove past the cottages yesterday--I wish you had come, -dear--you would have liked to see them. So pretty they are, among their -orchards, with such beautiful gardens full of flowers." - -"Yes, don't they look well?" said Perior, much pleased. "I am trying to -get the people to devote themselves to fruit and flower growing. It pays -well." - -"And do the cottages themselves pay?" Camelia inquired mischievously. "I -hear that, asking the ridiculous rents you do, you need never expect to -make the smallest profit--or even get back the capital expended." - -"Thank Heaven the money-making epoch of my life is over," said Perior, -folding his arms and looking at her rather defiantly. - -"But what blasphemy against political economy! Cottages that don't pay! -It's very immoral, Alceste. It is feminine. You are pauperizing your -tenants." - -"I don't at all disbelieve that a little infusion of femininity into -political economy would be a very good thing. Besides, the cottages will -pay in the end." - -"The rents are lower than the lowest in the village. Lord Haversham was -telling me about it yesterday." - -"Oh, Haversham!" laughed Perior. - -"He was very plaintive. Said that times were hard enough for landlords -as it was, without your charitable visionaries and your socialistic -theories." - -"The two accusations don't fit; but of the two I prefer the latter." - -"It is a mere egotistic diversion then?" - -"Yes, a purely scientific experiment." - -"And your tenants have bath-tubs, I hear. Do they use them with Pears' -soap every morning?" - -"I flatter myself that they are fairly clean. That alone is an -interesting experiment. Dirt, I firmly believe to be the root of all -evil." - -"Ah, we come down to the bed-rock of ethics at last, don't we? Well, how -is the laboratory getting on? Have you found traces of original sin in -protoplasm?" - -"I think I have spotted perverse tendencies," Perior smiled. - -"What a Calvinist you are!" - -"Michael a Calvinist, my dear child!" Lady Paton looked up from her -knitting in amazement. - -"An illogical Calvinist. Instead of burning sinners he washes them! and -I've no doubt that to some of them the latter form of purification is as -disagreeable as the former. He puts them into model cottages, with -Morris wall-papers." - -"I beg your pardon. No Morris wall-papers." - -"Camelia, my dear, how extravagantly you talk," said Lady Paton, her -smile reflecting happily Perior's good-humor. Michael did not mind the -teasing--liked it perhaps; and though she did not understand she smiled. -Camelia sank down to a low chair beside her mother's, and taking her -mother's hand she held it up solemnly, saying, "Mamma, Mr. Perior is a -tissue of inconsistencies. He despises humanity; and he works for it -like a nigger." - -"You are an impressionist, Camelia. Don't lay on your primaries so -glaringly." - -"Confess that you are a philanthropist, though an unwilling one." - -"I confess nothing," said Perior, looking across the room at Mary with a -smile that seemed to invite her participation in his well-borne baiting. - -"Is not your life one long effort to help humanity--not _la sainte -canaille_ with you--but, and hence your inconsistency, the gross -_canaille_, the dull, treacherous, diabolical _canaille_?" - -"Not to hurt it, rather; and as one is oneself gross, dull, treacherous, -and diabolical, that may well engage one's energies. There would be less -cant and more comfort in the world if we would merely avoid treading -upon our neighbor's corns. Let us cultivate the negative virtues. What -do you say, Mary? You have a right to a strong opinion, since I never -saw you hurt anybody." - -Mary, thus unexpectedly appealed to, started, grew red, and laughed an -embarrassed and apprehensive laugh. Camelia cast a glance upon the long -strip of rather foolish embroidery lengthening under her cousin's -fingers. - -"My philosophy!" she declared. "People who make a row about things are -such bores." - -Lady Paton, still smiling, quite at sea, but conscious of a pleasant -atmosphere, bent her eyes upon an intricate turn in the futile garment -upon which she was engaged. - -"Do you avoid your neighbor's corns, my young lady?" Perior inquired. - -"I never think of such unpleasantnesses," Camelia replied lightly. "As I -haven't any corns myself, I proceed upon the supposition that other -people enjoy my immunity. If they don't, why, that is their own -fault--let them cut them and give up tight boots." - -Perior, looking on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his hands -clasped, laughed again. - -"Little pagan!" he said. - -"Frank, healthy paganism, an excellent thing. I don't own to it, mind; -but is not the soul in our modern sense a disease of the body?" - -"Oh, Camelia!" said Lady Paton, looking up with eyes rounded. Camelia's -smile reassured her somewhat, and she glanced for its confirmation at -Perior. - -Mary Fairleigh, in her distant seat, carefully drew her silk about the -contour of an alarming flower. - -"Never mind, Lady Paton, she doesn't shock me at all," said Perior. - -"I am glad of that, Michael; she will make herself misunderstood. -Camelia dear, it is one o'clock. The others must be in the drawing-room. -Shall we go there?" - -"Willingly, Mamma. I'm very hungry. Did you order a _good_ lunch, Mary?" - -"I hope you will like it." Mary paused in the act of neatly rolling up -her work. "Fowls, asparagus----" - -"_Don't_," Camelia interposed in mock horror; "the nicest part of a meal -is unexpectedness!" She laughed at her cousin; but Mary, securing her -work with a pin, murmured solemnly, "I am so sorry." - -"Mary, you are as silly as your own fowls!" cried Camelia; she gave her -cousin's flaxen head a pat, and then, as Lady Paton had taken Perior's -arm and led the way, she drew herself up in a mimicry of their stately -progress, and followed them demurely. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Michael Perior was an unfortunate man; unfortunate in his temperament, -which was enthusiastic, sensitive, and idealistic; unfortunate in the -circumstances with which that temperament found itself called upon to do -battle. To a man who had expected less of life the circumstances might -have been more amenable and far more endurable, but Perior had the -ill-luck to be born with an unmanageable instinct for the best, with an -untamable scorn for the second-best. It is not necessary to go into the -details of a life which had not spared these qualities nor improved -while disillusionizing him. Two blinding buffets met him at its -threshold. His father was ruined in a lawsuit, which by every ethical -standard he should have won, and Perior was in consequence jilted by the -girl whom he had enshrined in his heart as the perfect star of his -existence. At twenty-three he found himself under a starless sky, with a -heart stupefied at its own emptiness, and in a world of thieves and -murderers--for his father died under the shock of disaster, and Perior -did not pick his phrases. - -The abject common-sense of his ex-_fiancée_ could be borne with perhaps -more philosophy. He accepted the starlessness as in the nature of -things, and his own brief belief in stars as typifying the ignorance of -youth; but his father's death--the crushing out of life rather than its -departure--was tragedy, and it was with the sense of inevitable and -irretrievable tragedy that he began life. He had been thought clever at -Oxford, and had considered himself destined for Parliament. With a huge -load of debts upon his back, and an unresigned mother to support, all -thoughts of the career for which he had fitted himself were out of the -question. He turned to its only equivalent, and took up journalism. He -was much in earnest; he believed in a right and in a wrong, and was -intolerant of expediency. In a world of interested motives he bore -himself with unflinching disapproval. He would limit his freedom by no -party partiality, and in the laxity of public life his keen -individuality made itself felt like a knife cutting through cheese. At -the end of years of very bitter struggle he found himself in a position -of some eminence, editor of a courteous, caustic review, whose chief -characteristics were a stubborn isolation and a telling of truths that -made both friends and foes blink. No half-measures, no half-truths. -Conformity with the faintest taint upon it was intolerable to him. His -idealism had not evaporated in the storm and stress, it had condensed, -rather, into a steely resistance to ugly reality. Insincerity, -injustice, meanness, hurt him as badly in middle-age as they had at -twenty-five, but he now expected them, and by a stoical presage braced -himself against disappointment. The stoicism was only a rather brittle -crust, hastily improvised by Nature's kindly adaptation; he was soured, -but his heart was still soft; he expected nothing, and yet he was hurt -by everything. It was now some time since he had promised himself that -Camelia should never hurt him. Camelia had occupied his thoughts for a -good many years. The pretty child, with her face of subdued saint-like -curves, and her smile of frank unsaintliness, had seemed to claim him -from the very first home-coming. By a final irony of fate poor Mrs. -Perior died only a few months before the Grange was freed from its last -encumbrances. She had not made life easier for her son. She had always -refused to believe in the necessity for letting the Grange, had always -resented the lodgings in South Kensington, had always considered herself -injured, and had not been chary in demonstrations of injury. Perior had -looked forward with pride to the time when he should reinstate her in -her own home, and her death made a mockery of his own home-coming. - -It was in Camelia's early girlhood that ill-health, overwork, and a -violent row with the powers of political darkness, made this home-coming -definite. The battered idealist sought rather sulkily a retreat from the -intolerable contemplation of a wider world's misdeeds. Young Camelia, so -different from her dully worthy ancestors, so different even from her -dashing but not intellectual papa, charmed him as the woods and flowers -of spring charm eyes weary with city winter. She was too young to be -taken seriously; that was a lifted weight, in the first place. The -joyous receptivity of her mind afforded to his scholarly instincts just -the foothold he required to excuse to himself an indulgent and -thoughtless affection. As friend and adviser of Lady Paton, he drifted -easily into a paternal attitude towards the fatherless Camelia; he was -over twenty years her senior, and her eagerness for knowledge appealed -to him. As she had said, he taught her nearly everything she knew; she -rebelled against other methods, and Perior himself would have felt -robbed had governess or tutor supplanted him. During those quiet and -pleasant years he felt that on a melancholy walk he had picked a handful -of primroses--their pale young gold irradiated his solitude. He did not -say to himself that Camelia would never disappoint him, nor own that the -handful of primroses meant much in his life, but hopefulness seemed to -emanate from her, and insensibly he lived in the sunny impression. Her -very defects were charming, the mere superfluity of exuberant vitality, -and with this conviction he observed her happy, youthful selfishness as -one observes a kitten's antics, and treated her claims for dominion with -gentle ridicule. Camelia laughed with him at herself, and this gave them -an irresistible sense of companionship; consoling too, since no defect -so humorously recognized could be deep; his primroses still kept their -dew. But as she grew older, Perior began to realize uncomfortably that -Camelia could laugh at the deepest defect, recognize it, analyze it, and -stick to it--a deft combination. This faculty for firm sticking despite -obstacles gave the paternal Perior food for reflection, and, as he -reflected, he felt with a sudden little turn of terror that he was in a -fair way to take Camelia seriously after all. His terror struck him as -very cowardly, a shrinking from responsibilities--his, of a truth, to a -certain extent. That lightly assumed guardianship meant much in her -life. Had he failed in some essential? Was she not the product of her -training? He owned with a sigh that the note of true authority it had -not been his right to emphasize; yet in defending himself from the -probable pain of a deep affection, had he not weakened his claim to a -moral influence? And had he defended himself? Perior turned from the -question. Camelia respected him, he knew that; and yet his very -frankness with her--he, too, had laughed at himself for her benefit--had -given her a power over him. He was not at all afraid of seeming -priggish, but he was shy before certain contingencies; he knew that he -should blunder if he preached, and that Camelia would force him to smile -at the blunder and to blur the sermon. - -At the age of eighteen he caught her more than once managing, -manipulating the plastic elements about her with a skill approaching -deceit. The very absence of a necessity for deceit alarmed him; she had -so few temptations, there was no way of testing her, yet, that once or -twice, when circumstances by a little twist or turn opposed her, he had -caught her--too dexterous. Perior had not controlled himself, nor taken -the advantage he might have seized. He had immediately lost his balance, -exaggerated what Camelia regarded as a quite permissible and pretty -compromise into a fault worthy of biting denunciation, and in so doing -had given her a point of vantage from which she laughed--not even -angrily. Perior for many years had thought most goodness negative, and -preferred to see it tested before admiring, but he had forgotten to -apply his philosophy in this case. He lost his temper, and Camelia kept -hers, kept hers to the extent of soothing him by a smiling confession of -her misdoing, an affectionate declaration that she was wrong and he -quite right--"But don't be cross, dear Mr. Perior." What was he to do? -She did not care if she were wrong. Perior thought he would be wiser in -the future; he would give Camelia no further opportunity for facile -confession; but though the first sting of unexpected disappointment was -over, many unmerited aches were still reserved to him--all the more -painful from the fact that he had never intended to ache for Camelia. -Mary Fairleigh had come to the Patons when Camelia was sixteen, and -Camelia's treatment of her cousin was another and more constant cause -for growing discontent. Perior could not define the discomfort with -which he watched Camelia's indifferent kindness, or, worse still, an -unkindness as unintentional. He assumed by degrees an attitude of -compensatory gentleness towards poor Mary; it held, however, no sting -for Camelia; she seemed to watch his doing of the things she left undone -very complacently. It was by degrees that his dismay took refuge in a -manner of unshocked indifference which he hoped would prove salutary. It -did seem to irk and perplex her somewhat, and he had the consolation of -thinking that many of her perversities might be intentionally engineered -for his benefit. Perior, too, had learned to smile, and Camelia was -baffled. He would not scold her. After all, he counted for very little, -so Camelia assured herself as she entered upon her London life, and he -should see that she could be indifferent with far more effectiveness. -Perior saw little of her during those years. The little he saw on his -rare visits to London confirmed his grim conviction. She was a pretty, -clever, foolish, worthless creature; her frankness threw no dust into -his eyes. She might own herself a self-seeking worldling, and she did -not overshoot the mark. Many were the corns she danced over in her quest -of power and happiness. Her sincerity was insincere--it adapted itself -too cleverly. Perior had seen her flatter, when only he and she knew -that she was flattering; had seen her make her effect by pliancy or by -resistance; had watched her smile light for those who could serve her, -or stiffen to a sweet blankness for the incompetent. He recognized in -her his own scorn for the world without his ideal, which would not -permit him to stoop and use it; but, so Perior thought, Camelia knew no -ideals; reality did not hurt her--she met it with its own weapons. One -did not conquer an immoral world by moral methods; and if one lived in -it, not to conquer it would be intolerable. The scorn no doubt excused -her to herself, but it hedged her round with a sort of stupidity from -which Perior's quick recognition of moral beauty preserved him. Ethical -worth had come to be everything to him. Camelia simply did not see it. -He himself had armed her with that scientific impartiality before which -he felt himself rather helpless, before which good and bad resolved -themselves into very evasive elements. She told him that her science was -more logical than his, it had made her charitable to the whole world, -herself included, whereas he was hard on the world and hard on himself. -His very kindness lacked grace, while her unkindness wore a flower-like -color. He was sorry for people, not fond of them--but Camelia was -neither fond nor sorry. They were shadows woven into the web of her -experience, her business was to make that experience pleasant, to see it -beautifully. It was this love of beauty--beauty in the pagan sense--that -baffled him in her. She had put appreciation and an exquisite good taste -in the place of morality. Life to her was a game, to him a tragic, -insistent conundrum. These, at least, were Perior's reluctant -conclusions. - -When he walked away from Enthorpe Lodge his mind was to a certain extent -already reverting to the daily preoccupations of cottages, perverse -protoplasm, and his weekly article for the _Friday Review;_ but also -dwelling with the dual peculiarity observable in our meditations, upon -the people he had just left, Lady Paton, Mary, Camelia's guests, and -Camelia herself. It seemed really unnecessary to remind himself of that -promise he had made himself some time ago; Camelia could not disappoint -him; he knew just what to expect from her; she could not hurt him. Yet -the promise had been made at a time when she was hurting him very badly, -and even now, while he recalled it with some vehemence, he was feeling a -most illogical smart. - -The country road wound among dusty hedges and through the little -village. About half a mile beyond it lay a remnant of the Perior estate, -once large, second only in importance to the Haversham's, now sadly -shrunken and dislocated. By degrees, and during years of only meagre -competence, he had built upon this pretty bit of land a cluster of -cottages, his playthings; to make them unnecessarily delightful was his -perverse pleasure. - -Perior was by no means a paternal landlord; the lucky occupants of the -cottages were never reminded of the propriety of gratitude. Indeed -Perior had enraged neighboring landowners by remarking that the cottages -were none too good for the rent--a saying big with implications, and -perhaps intentionally spiteful. Indeed intentional spite was attributed -to many of his actions. It was a great fox-hunting country; and one of -the finest coverts, rich in foxes lovingly preserved by Perior's -forefathers, lay on his estate. Now it was currently reported that -Perior had had all the foxes shot! A murder would have made him less -unpopular. Malicious insanity seemed the only explanation. - -He did not scruple to proclaim his blasphemous heresies on the sacred -sport. He grew angry, said he abominated it, would do all in his power -to stamp it out, and at least would see that no animal should be -"tortured" on his property. The foxes had certainly disappeared from -Mandelly Woods, and good, honest sportsmen could hardly trust themselves -to mention the criminal fanatic's name. It must be owned that Perior's -love of animals approached the grotesque. He entertained at the Manor a -retinue of battered cats and outcast dogs, many garnered from London -streets. He could hardly bear to have surplus kittens drowned, and only -by the firmness of the housekeeper was the necessary severity -accomplished. He was exaggerated, peculiar, unpractical; the kindest -said it of him. He had sent two clever village boys to the University, -one the son of the village poacher and ne'er-do-weel, a handsome lad -with a Burns-like streak of genius, who had distinguished himself at -Oxford, and disappointed many pessimistic prophecies by turning out more -than creditably. At the present moment the son of one of Perior's -field-laborers came every day to the Grange for a coaching in the -humanities. Perior was a fine master, and Camelia was none too well -pleased when she heard of her successor. These experiments in sociology -aroused only less hostile comment than the black affair of the foxes. - -Our misanthropic gentleman paused at an angle of the road to survey his -cottages, each set in its own happy acres, stretching flower-beds and -young orchards into the sunny country. His tenants all had a pleasant -look of successful adaptation. One was a cobbler, and made most of -Perior's boots; a fact rather apparent. - -It was evening by the time he reached the tall gates through which the -roadway led up to the Grange, a high-standing, unpretentious, gray stone -house, rather bleakly situated on its height, but backed by a further -rise of wood, and, despite its vineless severity of outline, gravely -cheerful in aspect. An immaculately-kept lawn stretched in a gradual -slope before it, shaded by two yew trees, and the light grace of -beeches. Under the windows of the ground floor were beds of white and -purple pansies, and at one side, near the shrubberies, were long rows of -irises, also purple and white. From the other side of the house the -ground descended very abruptly, giving one the realization of height, -and a long view over woods, hills, and valleys to the distant sunset. - -The house within carried out consistently the first impression of -pleasant bareness. The wainscotted walls were reflected in the gleaming -floors. No tenderness of draperies, no futile ornament. In the -drawing-room three old portraits of three dead Mrs. Periors looked -quietly from the walls; some good porcelain was on shelves where there -was no danger of its breaking; the faded brocade of the furniture was -covered with white chintz sprigged with green. The library, where the -light came serenely through high windows, was lined with books; here and -there on the peaceful spaces a good engraving or etching; philosophical -bronzes above the shelves. The writing-table was spacious; opposite it -was Perior's piano--he played well. This was the room he lived in. Now, -when he entered, an old setter, glossily well-groomed, looked up with an -emotional thudding of the tail, and of two cats curled exquisitely in -the easy-chair, one only opened placid eyes, while the other, after -arching itself in a yawn, advanced towards him with a soundless mew. - -Perior was devoted to his cats, and adored his dogs. After stooping to -pat these animals, he took up a letter from the table. Arthur Henge's -writing was familiar, though of late years Perior had rarely seen it. -The old friendship had borne pretty sharp twinges--had survived even -Perior's ruthless handling of Henge's pet measure some years ago: Henge -had believed ardently in the bill, and thought Perior responsible to a -certain extent for its failure. That Henge had not been embittered by -this political antagonism had deeply touched Perior. He always -remembered the fact with a delightful, glowing comfort. His respect and -fondness for Henge were a staff to him. The two men were intrinsically -sympathetic, though they had hardly an opinion in common. Arthur Henge -was an optimist, and deeply religious, his wide humanism going hand in -hand with a fervent churchmanship. He was aided towards a happy view of -things by happy circumstances. He was one of the richest men in England, -and one of the most powerful; he held a high place in the present -Government. No sword of Damocles in the shape of a peerage hung over his -career in the Lower House, and at the same time the baronetcy, hoary -with an honorable antiquity, had the consequence and standing of many -greater but less significant titles. He was young, handsome, and -serious. Above all small cynicisms and hardness, his experience of life -seemed only to have taught him a wise, fine trust, and, perhaps in -consequence of this attitude of mind, it was impossible not to trust -him. - -This was the man who had fallen in love with Camelia Paton. The fact was -town talk, though it was surmised that despite his evident absorption he -had not yet given her occasion to accept him. That he was courting her -was not yet apparent, but his devotion remained gravely steady. Lady -Henge was supposed to be the cause of this adjournment of decisive -measures. Lady Henge was even more serious than her son, and her -influence over him was paramount. - -Now with all her ready qualities Camelia seldom pretended to -seriousness. To Perior there was something highly distasteful in the -whole matter. That Camelia should be the object of such comment, that -her achievement of the "good match" should be canvassed, infuriated him. -No blame could attach itself to Arthur's reticence; if reticence there -were it was on the highest grounds. It was the world's base, -materialistic chatter that jarred, its weighing of her charm and -loveliness against his wealth and prominence merely. Perior weighed -Camelia's merits against Arthur's. In his heart of hearts he did not -consider Camelia fitted to make a high-minded man happy--and some dim -foreboding of this fact no doubt chilled her lover's resolution. Perior, -however, was not logical. He might not approve of Camelia, but that Lady -Henge should disapprove nettled him. Arthur no doubt was a fool in -loving Camelia, but Perior wished to be alone in that knowledge. As for -the world's gross view of Henge as one of the greatest "catches" in -England, of Camelia as lucky if she got him, Perior's blood boiled when -he thought of it,--and that Camelia, with all her reliance on her own -attractions, was quite aware of the world's opinion and was not angered -by it. - -She, too, thought Henge a great "catch," no doubt; a great catch even -for Camelia Paton. - -Perior read the letter now, standing near the window and frowning very -gloomily. It was natural that Henge should write to him in this strain -of only thinly-veiled confidence. - -Henge knew of the long paternal intimacy with Camelia, and relied -perhaps too much on a paternal sympathy. Henge and his mother were -coming down to Clievesbury to spend some weeks at Enthorpe. He avowed -no intention, but the whole note, its very restraint, was big with -intention. He seemed, too, to emphasize his mother's pleasure in coming, -and Perior felt in the emphasis a touch of triumph. He hoped to see a -great deal of Perior, there was in the concluding passages of the note -quite a prophecy of future relationship, nearer than any they had known. -But through it all Perior fancied just the hint of an appeal--a quite -unconscious appeal, none the less significant for that. - -Camelia was to be put on trial before Lady Henge, and to Arthur the -process would be painful. The Henges had stately requirements; and -although Perior imagined that, were these requirements not satisfied, -Arthur had almost determined to overlook them, he felt the keenness of -the hope that all would be satisfactory, the support that the hope found -in Perior's intimacy with Camelia. - -Lady Henge shared her son's respect for Perior, and to her Perior's -friendship could interpret many phases in Camelia's charming character -perplexing to the anxious mother's unaided vision. - -"I am glad my mother is to know her better; she has seen only the -surface as yet," wrote Arthur. Arthur's love was a surety not quite -trustworthy, but the lifelong friendship of a man like Perior must -convince grave Lady Henge of many depths. Perior felt that his rigidity -was to be made use of. His well-known earnestness was to vouch for -Camelia's. His brow was very black as he finished the letter. He was -nearly angry with Arthur. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -"Mrs. Jedsley is in the drawing-room," Camelia announced, "so I ran -away. I am really afraid of her." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel laughed slightly; she put down the book with which she -was solacing a lazy afternoon on the sofa, and, looking at Camelia's -cloth dress and sailor hat, asked her if she had been out again. - -"Yes, just back. I only stayed in the drawing-room long enough to show -Mrs. Jedsley that she scared me. It's those eyebrows, you know, that -lack of eyebrow rather, emphasized by an angry redness in the place -where they should be. No, I cannot face her." - -"She is rather _épatante_. I suppose you were walking with your brace of -suitors." - -"No, I don't know where they are. I was walking by myself. I think I -must have walked eight miles," Camelia added, stretching out her feet to -look at her dusty shoes. - -"You certainly are an unsociable hostess, but those boys are becoming -bores. Whom do you expect next week? You must have something to leaven -the lump of pining youthful masculinity." - -"That poet is coming--the one who writes the virile poems, you know, and -whose article of faith is the _joie de vivre;_ and Lady Tramley, dear -creature, Lord Tramley, and--would you specify Sir Arthur as leaven?" - -"Do you mean to imply that he _isn't_ pining?" - -"I imply nothing so evident." - -"Wriggling, then--that you must own." - -Camelia was sitting near the window, opened on its framing magnolia -leaves, and said rather coolly as she took off her hat-- - -"No, _I_ am wriggling. _I_ must decide now." - -This was a masterly assurance. Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflecting that nothing -succeeds like unruffled self-confidence, and that Camelia's had never -shown a ripple of doubt, owned to herself that her slightly stinging -question was well answered. - -"Don't wriggle, my dear; decide," she said, accepting the restatement -very placidly, "you could not do better. To speak vulgarly--the man is -rich beyond the dreams of avarice." - -"Beautifully rich," Camelia assented. - -"Ah--indeed he is." - -"And he himself is wise and excellent," Camelia added; "I like him very -much." - -"He is coming alone?" - -"No, Lady Henge comes too." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel gave her friend a sharp glance. - -"That's very serious, you know, Camelia. I think you must have -decided--to suit Lady Henge." - -Camelia smiled good-humoredly. "I will suit her--and then see if he -suits me." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel lay reflecting on the sofa. Camelia accepted frankness -to a certain point, beyond that point she repulsed it. It was rather sly -of her, Mrs. Fox-Darriel thought, to keep up these needless pretences. -Camelia must be anxious for the match--anxious to a certain degree, and -her careful preservation of the false dignity of her position was really -rather mean. As for Mrs. Fox-Darriel, she desired the match with a -really disinterested fervor. She felt a certain personal pride in -Camelia's success; she had resigned supremacy, and only asked Camelia to -uphold her own. Camelia as Lady Henge would, from a very charming -person, have become a very important personage, a truly momentous -friend. Her fondness for the child would ensure the child's loyalty. A -near friend of the Prime Minister's wife--who knew? The thought flitted -pleasantly through Mrs. Fox-Darriel's mind, and the thought, too, of all -that Camelia, in an even less exalted position, could do for the -impecunious Hon. Charlie, Mrs. Fox-Darriel's husband. There was really -no possibility of a doubt in Camelia's mind. Mrs. Fox-Darriel simply did -not believe her, and regretted her lack of candor; but at the same time -she felt a little anxiety. There were certain phases in Camelia that had -always baffled her investigations, an unexpectedness that Mrs. -Fox-Darriel had encountered more than once. - -"It is really the very best thing you could do," she observed now, "and -I wouldn't play with him if I were you. I know that he is the image of -fidelity, and yet the Duchess of Amshire is very anxious for him to -marry her girl, that ugly Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Henge favors that -match, and he really is under his mother's thumb." - -"Decidedly I must waste no time," said Camelia, laughing, "and decidedly -it would be the best thing I could do, since the Marquis was snapped up -by the American girl--swarming with millions. I think I should have been -a Marchioness, Frances, had not that strange look, between a squint and -a goggle, in his eyes made me hesitate." - -"Oh, the Marquis! You know that this is far better. This man means a -lot." - -"He swarms with millions too," said Camelia. "Come, Frances, preach me a -nice little worldly sermon on the supreme utility of riches--without the -gloves now." - -"I usually remove them when I approach the subject," Mrs. Fox-Darriel -sighed with much sincerity. "My poor Charlie! How we keep our heads -above water I really don't know, and, as it is, the sharks are nibbling -at our toes! Supreme! Money, my dear, is the only thing! Once you've -that foundation you may begin to erect your sentiments, your -moralities." - -"And how few people are honest enough to say so. You and I are honest, -Frances; it buys everything, of course." - -"Well, almost everything. One must thank Nature for beauty and -cleverness." - -"Beauty and cleverness in rags have a sorry time of it in this world. -But money, of course, especially if not too new, buys friends, power, -good taste, morality. Poverty makes people base and cringing--makes -criminals. One is jumped on in this world, scrunched into the earth, -into the dirt, if one hasn't money, and yet the hypocrites talk of -compensation! Of all the sloppy, canting optimism with which people try -to make themselves comfortable that is the sorriest! And while they -talk they go on scrambling and scrunching for all they are worth; nasty -beasts! They kick a man on the head, and say 'the stupor compensates for -the pain.' That is the current theory about the lower classes." - -"Yet you enjoy the world, Camelia." - -"I am not jumped on." - -"You jump on other people, then?" - -"Not in a sordid manner; I don't have to soil my feet. Why shouldn't I -enjoy it?" - -"And you think that Sir Arthur's millions would emphasize the -enjoyment?" - -"Widen it, certainly. But don't be gross, Frances. A great deal depends -on him. I am not offering myself for sale, you know." - -"No, I don't think you would. You have no need to." - -"He would really be glaringly golden, wouldn't he, were he not draped -with the mossy antiquity of his name?" said Camelia, drawing a white -magnolia flower within the window frame, and bending her head to the -scented cup. - -"An ideal husband, from every point of view," Mrs. Fox-Darriel resumed; -"clever, very clever, and very good--rather overpoweringly good, -Camelia." - -"I think goodness a most charming phenomenon, I shouldn't mind studying -it in a husband." - -"Mrs. Jedsley is good. Why don't you study her?" - -"There is nothing phenomenal in her goodness, it is a product of -circumstance only. There is Mary," Camelia added, tipping her chair a -little towards the window for a clearer view of the lawn below. "Mary -in a Liberty silk, of yellow-green, and smocked. Why, Mary, why wear a -Liberty gown, especially smocked?" - -"I have sometimes suspected that your colorless little cousin is here to -play the part of a discord that resolves into and heightens your -harmony," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel; "or is it the post of whipping-boy that -she fills?" - -Camelia continued to look from the window placidly, only raising her -eyebrows a little. - -"No, Mary never gets a whipping, not even when I deserve one. Mamma is -very fond of Mary; so am I," she added. Mrs. Fox-Darriel took up her -book with a little yawn that Camelia for all her placidity resented. - -"How can you read that garbage?" she inquired smilingly, glancing at the -title. - -"The _bête humaine_ rather interests me." - -"Even interpreted by another? The man is far more insupportable than -Zola, inasmuch as he is clever, and an artist." - -"That's why I read him. You seem to know a good deal about garbage, my -dear." - -"I know a good deal about everything, I fancy!" said Camelia, with her -gayest laugh. "I took a course of garbage once, just enough to make up -my mind that I did not care for the flavor. We have a right to choose -the phases of life we want to see represented." - -"I like garbage," Mrs. Fox-Darriel said stubbornly. - -"Yes, you are very catholic, I know. I am more limited." Camelia still -eyed the lawn, sniffing at the magnolia. Now she rose suddenly and went -to the mirror. - -"Mary puts on a sailor hat--so," she said gravely, setting hers far back -at a ludicrous angle. "Poor Mary!" She tilted the hat forward again, and -briskly put the pin through it. "I am going down to harry Mrs. Jedsley. -Good-bye, Frances." - -"Good-bye. I shall be down to tea presently." - -"The _bête humaine_ will spoil your appetite!" laughed Camelia as she -went out. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel heard her running down the corridor and the light -rhythm of her feet on the stairs. - -"Pretty little minx!" she said good-humoredly; and her thoughts turned -to Sir Arthur. What a lucky girl was Camelia! It was rather tiresome, -perhaps, to sit by and watch her triumphs. Mrs. Fox-Darriel found the -rôle of second-fiddle a little dull; still, it was well worth while to -play it. She got up and went to the window, where the magnolia still -swayed faintly from the suddenness of Camelia's departure. Tapping the -sill lightly with her finger-tips, Mrs. Fox-Darriel looked out, yawning -once more, at the translucent blue of the sky, the still shining of the -little lake beyond the trees, the sun-dappled lawn, and at Mary -Fairleigh on the lawn in the funny Liberty dress. Mr. Perior was walking -beside her, in riding costume, a whip in his hand. Mrs. Fox-Darriel -surveyed them as they walked slowly away from the house. He had -evidently just joined Mary; and as Camelia herself appeared on the lawn -her departure took on an amusing aspect. - -Now it really was too bad of Camelia, she could have no use for him -herself. The sun flashed from her hair as she bounded gaily across the -turf and caught Perior's arm with a schoolgirl familiarity. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel drew back sharply, but still observed from the screen of -magnolia leaves Mary's slow return to the house, and Camelia's skipping -step as she led Mr. Perior towards the garden. He held the whip clasped -in his hand behind his back, and, as he walked, switched his calf in its -leather gaiter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel fancied some temper in the action. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -When Mrs. Fox-Darriel descended to the drawing-room a quarter of an hour -later, she found Lady Paton and Mary alone with Mrs. Jedsley, who as yet -showed no intention of departing. Mrs. Jedsley was very stout, but of a -vigorous bearing. Her firm, wide face was dashed with rather choleric -notes of red on cheeks, chin, and eyebrows. Her eyes were witty and -humorous. Mrs. Fox-Darriel, very indifferently, felt these quickly -travelling eyes taking in every gleam and glitter of her tea-gown. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel always jingled a little as she walked; she was one of those -women who dangle lorgnettes at the ends of swaying neck-chains, and -circle their wrists with a multitude of bangles, and now, as she sank -into a chair beside Lady Paton, and smiled a languid acceptance of tea, -the infinity of pendent jewels and the linked gold that draped her -person, chimed out quite a harmonious clatter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel always -gave Lady Paton a fluttered look, the look of a child shrinking from a -too persistently obtrusive rattle, and she handed her the tea and bread -and butter with gently scared glances. - -"What delicious tea," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel affably, "and the pouring of -tea is an art in its decadence. Really, dear Lady Paton, you have -spoiled me for all cups poured by other hands. Your aunt's hands add a -distinct charm, do they not?" she added, looking at Mary,--"and her -cap." Indeed Lady Paton's caps and hands resembled one another in -blanched delicacy. - -"Oh yes," Mary replied hastily; she was not accustomed to this suave -mode of address from Mrs. Fox-Darriel. - -"I saw you walking in the garden just now," pursued that glittering -personage; "you made quite a picture in your pretty dress, I assure -you." - -"Oh! do you like it?" Mary's face was transfused by a blush of surprised -pleasure. - -"It is really charming," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel unblinkingly, while Mrs. -Jedsley's eyes travelled up and down poor Mary's ungainliness. - -"Against the deeper shades of green, you know, and with your golden -hair, you looked quite--quite like an Albert Moore. Has your friend, Mr. -Perior, gone? I saw him with you." There was a subtly delightful -intimation in this question that filled Mary with a half painful, half -delicious embarrassment. - -"Mr. Perior is with Camelia," she said, the crude fact hardly jarring on -the dulcet echo of Mrs. Fox-Darriel's question. He was her friend, Mary -knew, felt it with a wave of gratitude that quieted many aches, but was -it then so evident--so noticeable? - -"Ah yes! Camelia is rather fond of teasing him, I am afraid," said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, observing Mary's flush, and noting as an unkindness of -nature that her hair, the only grace she possessed, should grow so -thickly at the back and with such unbecoming scantiness around the high -brow. Mary's whole being had been quivering with the pain of her -dispossession, but a grateful warmth now stole through the chill of -bereavement. - -Her flush had not died when Camelia came in, Perior following her. -Camelia's face was imperturbably gay, but from a certain severity and -tension in Perior's expression, Mrs. Fox-Darriel surmised that the -pastoral promenade had not been altogether peaceful. - -It was hardly possible, of course, that the indifference of this stiff -provincial should pique Camelia into an attitude that might compromise -real interests; no, hardly possible; yet Mrs. Fox-Darriel, with some -acuteness, determined that all her efforts should tend to make such an -absurdity impossible indeed. - -Ugly Mary was evidently in love with the unattractive Diogenes; but -Camelia need not know that. Mrs. Fox-Darriel almost laughed at herself -while she meditated; Camelia could hardly intend more than the -purposeless capturing of Diogenes; Camelia's head was perfectly sound -when it came to decisive extremes. Only--well--women, all women, were -such _fools_ sometimes. That bounding, pursuing step across the lawn had -given Mrs. Fox-Darriel a new impression of Camelia. - -"Look, Mamma, is not this beautiful? Look, Frances." Camelia held out a -branch of white roses, buds and leaves climbing on lovely curves to a -heavy, swaying flower;--"it is such a perfect spray that I am going to -attempt a Japanese arrangement with this bit of pine. Mary, will you -fetch me that bronze vase out of the morning room--with its little -stand, you know--and have it filled with water; and, Mary,--" Mary was -departing obediently, "a pair of scissors--don't forget. If there is -anything I dislike," Camelia went on, hers was always a temperate manner -of speech, "it is a heavy mass of flowers bunched together with all the -individuality, all the form and vitality, of line quite lost." - -She smiled at Mrs. Jedsley as she spoke, skimming caressing finger-tips -over her rose branch, and adding, "You may see me at your place -to-morrow, Mrs. Jedsley. Mr. Perior has been giving me a dreadful -scolding on my neighborly deficiencies. To-morrow I make a conscientious -round of calls--and pour balm into all the wounded bosoms." Mrs. -Fox-Darriel glanced quickly at Perior to see how he relished this -offensive obedience; Perior, as he stood before the fireplace, was -looking at his boots. Mrs. Jedsley's eyebrows grew very red. - -"I won't be at home to-morrow," she said decidedly, "and if I were -conscious of wounds I'd keep at a good distance from you, Camelia." Lady -Paton looked from her daughter to Perior, an alarmed appeal, but he did -not raise his eyes nor seem to notice Camelia's graceful promises. - -"Mrs. Jedsley, _why_ are you always so unkind to me?" Camelia asked, -laughing. "I assure you that you may trust my balms. Mrs. Jedsley, I -will wager you--do you ever bet?--that by to-morrow night the whole -county-side will be singing my praises. I like people to sing my -praises--I like to feel affection and sympathy about me; now Mr. Perior -has been telling me that there is a distinct absence of these elements -in my atmosphere. I begin to feel the vacuum myself. Won't you help me -to fill it--help my regeneration?--No, Mary, that is the wrong vase--how -could I arrange flowers in that? On the stand, was it? The house-maid's -stupidity, then; and I bought together the stand and the proper vase to -go with it. No; don't take the _stand_ back with you, you goosie! put it -here. Now, Mrs. Jedsley," she added, when Mary had once more departed, -Perior having relieved her of the stand and carried it, not at all -graciously, to Camelia, "tell me how I can best please every one most? -You know them all so well--their pet pursuits, their pet hobbies. Mrs. -Harley has orchids, of course; I shall immediately ask her to take me to -the conservatory. And Mrs. Grier--that pensive little woman with the -long, long nose--has she not a son at Oxford, a boy she dotes on? Isn't -she very fond of music?" - -Mrs. Jedsley was stirring her third cup of tea with an entirely -recovered composure. "Yes, Mrs. Grier plays the violin, and has a son -she dotes on; if you flatter her nicely enough, she will certainly join -in the 'Hallelujah.'" - -"Well, that is nice to know." Mary had now brought the correct Japanese -vase, and Camelia neatly trimmed from her branch while she spoke a few -superfluous leaves and twigs. - -"Is not Mrs. Grier a dear friend of Lady Henge's?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel -asked in an aside to Lady Paton--to the latter a very welcome aside, as -in murmured acquiescence she found a momentary refuge from the -bewildered sensations her daughter's projects gave her. - -Yes, Lady Henge and Mrs. Grier were great friends, both musical, both -deeply interested in charitable work. Mrs. Grier, a sweet woman,--"and -you know," said Lady Paton, bending gently towards her guest, "her nose -is not so long. That is only Camelia's droll way of putting things, you -know." - -"Oh, yes,"--Mrs. Fox-Darriel's smile was very reassuring--"you and I -understand Camelia, Lady Paton. It doesn't do to take her _au grand -sérieux_." Indeed, Mrs. Fox-Darriel smiled inwardly, feeling that all -disquiet on Camelia's account was very unnecessary, and convinced that -she knew her very thoroughly. - -"You won't be at home to-morrow, then?" asked Camelia, looking around -from her vase as Mrs. Jedsley rose to go. - -"No, my dear; and I'm afraid you won't find me of use at any time. I -haven't any particular foibles. You won't discover a handle about me by -which to wind me up to the required musical pitch." - -"You traduce yourself, Mrs. Jedsley; with your charitable heart, do you -mean to tell me that, were I to wrap Clievesbury in red flannel, fill it -with buns and broth, you wouldn't think me charming, and make sweet -music in my ears?" - -"I never denied that you were charming, balefully charming, you naughty -girl," said Mrs. Jedsley with a good humor that implied no submission. - -"Here is a rose for you. May it give you kind thoughts of me." Camelia -fastened one of the rejected buds in the lady's portly bosom, and when -she was gone, Lady Paton, leaving the room with her, she added, "Mary, -is the piano tuned?" - -Mary went to the Steinway. "Lady Henge is a composer, as you know." She -turned a face sparkling with mischief to Perior, who maintained his -silence beside the mantelpiece. - -"You have heard her? Yes? Well, you shall hear her again. That's enough, -Mary," she added, lightly; "we hear that the piano needs tuning." - -Now Mary had a certain little pride in the neat execution of Beethoven's -Sonatas, that many hours of faithful practice had seemed to justify, and -while Camelia stood back to admire her flower arrangement, both Perior -and Mrs. Fox-Darriel noticed the flush that swept over Mary's face. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -By the time Sir Arthur and Lady Henge arrived, Camelia had fulfilled her -prophecy and become a popular person. Under the blighting indifference -of her first appearance Clievesbury had naturally retaliated with -severity, but that the first impression had been erroneous the most -severe owned--after Camelia had called on them. Camelia found the -process of winning the whole neighborhood great fun, and its success -gave her a delicious sense of efficiency. She cared nothing, absolutely -nothing, for her neighbors, but once she determined to be cared for by -them she found the facility of the task highly flattering to -self-esteem. - -She drove from place to place, sweet, modest, adaptable. She dispensed -pretty compliments with a grace that disarmed the grimmest suspicion. -She showed a pretty interest in every one. Indeed why should they not -like her? Camelia thought she really deserved liking; and though she -laughed at herself a little for the complimentary conclusion, her -kindness struck her as rather nice. It was motiveless, was it not? -almost motiveless, a game that it pleased her to play. Certainly she did -not care to appear before Lady Henge on a background of unpopularity; -the background must harmonize, become her; she would see to that. At -the bottom of her heart Camelia cared very little for Lady Henge's -approval or disapproval; Lady Henge was part of the game; but Camelia -had determined that the game required Lady Henge, like everybody else, -to find her charming; the game required Arthur Henge to propose--then -she might accept him; but she must make quite secure the possibility of -refusing him. So Camelia aimed steadily at one result, and was not at -all sure of her own decision once the result was reached, and this -indecision gave her a happy sense of freedom. - -She must capture Sir Arthur; this visit was definite, the last test; but -once captured, Camelia wondered if she would care to keep. Theoretically -she owned to a hard common-sense ambition that would make rejection -doubtful; but when the moment for decision finally arrived, Camelia felt -that this trait in her character might fail her; she did not really -believe in it, though she paraded it, flaunted it. Every one might think -her a hard-headed, hard-hearted little worldling--as far as practice -went they were right, no doubt, in all honesty she must own that she -gave them no occasion to think anything else; but she reserved a warm -corner of unrevealed ideals--ideals she never herself looked at, where a -purring self-content sat cosily. - -Lady Henge and her son arrived on a Monday. Lady Henge was nervous, -though her massive personality concealed the tremor, and unhappy--for -she felt Arthur's fate to be a foregone conclusion. She was not a clever -but an immensely conscientious woman. She lived up to all her -principles, and she took only the highest view of everything. Her son's -love for the pretty Miss Paton, who meddled frivolously with politics -(Lady Henge meddled ponderously), and made collections of Japanese -pictures, had thrown her into a dismal perturbation. She could not like -Miss Paton; her cleverness was not disinterested; her sense of duty was -less than dubious, she lived for pleasure, for admiration; she was no -fit wife for a Henge. - -The most imperative of the Henges' stately requirements was that solemn -sense of duty which Lady Henge embodied so conclusively. - -She felt the tremor quieted, the unhappiness soothed, however, on seeing -Camelia in her home. Indeed, Camelia's background was masterly. By the -end of the first day Lady Henge was owning to herself that the glare of -London had perhaps been responsible for her former unfavorable -impression. Camelia's manner was perfect; she was quiet and gentle; her -wish to please was frank but very dignified. Lady Henge felt that in no -way was her favor being courted, and she was quite clever enough to -appreciate that. Lady Paton was left to take all the initiatives, and -behind her mother Camelia smiled with an air of happy obscurity. - -The following days emphasized the initial approval. The image of the -excellent Lady Elizabeth faded by degrees from Lady Henge's mind, and -the ache of disappointment with it. She wonderingly expanded into -confidence under Camelia's gentle influence. - -She was a shy woman; she had been afraid of Camelia; but with tender -touches the shyness and the fear seemed to be pressed away. There was -nothing to be afraid of. Was it possible? She doubted sometimes, when -alone and deeply thoughtful; but with Camelia quiet satisfaction was -irresistible. - -Perior watched the little comedy, convinced of its artificiality. That -doubt of her final choice which preserved for Camelia her sense of -independent pride free from all tarnish of self-interested scheming, he -could not have believed in. Her motives were, he thought, very clear to -him--as they must be to everybody else. He could not credit her with -love; a girl so dexterously managing her hand was held by no compulsory -force of real feeling. She was going to marry Arthur Henge, because he -was a good match, not because she loved him; any girl might have loved -him certainly, but Camelia was capable of loving no one. He was very -sore, very angry, very moody. Lady Henge's transparent bids to him for -sympathy in irritating his scorn for Camelia irritated him, too, against -her, against Arthur even. Why couldn't they let him alone? They should -get neither yea or nay from him, for, after all, Perior was -inconsistent; the scorn did not shake his rather negative loyalty to his -pupil, and beneath that there lay another and a deeper feeling, the -feeling that made it possible for Camelia to hurt him. - -"I was talking to her--to Miss Paton--about Woman's Suffrage to-day," so -Lady Henge would start a conversation, "she seems to have thought rather -deeply on the subject of a widened life for women--the development of -character by responsibility--the democratic ideal, is it not?" Lady -Henge combined staunch conservatism with a devout belief in Humanity. - -Perior answered "Yes, I suppose so," to the question. - -"She has, I see, a great deal of influence down here in the -country--more than I could have expected in such a gay young creature. -Mrs. Grier spoke to me of her good-heartedness, her generous help in -charitable matters. Mrs. Grier, as you know, is deeply interested in the -improvement of the condition of the laboring classes. I shall count upon -Miss Paton next year; her aid would be very effective; she could help me -with some of my clubs--a pretty face, a witty tongue, popularize one; -she has promised to address the Shirt Makers' Union. She takes so much -interest in all these absorbing social problems,--interest so -unassuming, so free from all self-reference." - -They were in the drawing-room after dinner. Perior seemed, in watching -Camelia fulfil herself, to find a searing fascination, for he was often -at Enthorpe Lodge of late. The faint flavor of inquiry in Lady Henge's -assertions only elicitated, "I'm sure she'd be popular." No; he would -not be held responsible for Camelia; and again he determined that Lady -Henge should on the subject of Camelia's full fitness get from him -neither a yea or a nay. - -Lady Henge's clear brown eyes had turned contemplatively upon her son -and Camelia, who were sitting on an isolated sofa in a frank -_tête-à-tête_. - -Perior's glance followed hers, and while she read in Arthur's absorbed -attitude and expression the wisdom of submissive partisanship--the utter -futility of further resistance, Perior studied the half grave, half -playful smile with which Camelia received her lover's utterances. She -seemed to feel Perior's scrutiny, for her eyes swerved suddenly and met -his, and the smile hardened a little as she looked at him. - -"She is very lovely," Lady Henge said with an irrepressible sigh. "It is -a very unusual type of loveliness," at which Perior looked away from -Camelia and back at his companion. "He is very fond of her," Lady Henge -added--a little tearfully, Perior suspected. - -"He has taken it seriously for quite a while, I believe." - -"Oh yes, yes indeed," Lady Henge, conscious of having herself made the -only barrier to an earlier declaration, spoke a little vaguely. -"Arthur's wife will have many responsibilities," she went on; "I think -that--if she accepts Arthur--Miss Paton will prove equal to them." The -"if she accepts Arthur" Perior thought rather noble, "and her gaiety -will be good for him, he needs such sunshine. I must not be so selfish -as to think that _I_ could give it him. And then--with all her gaiety," -here a recrudescence of the vein of urgency crept once more into Lady -Henge's voice, "she has depths, Mr. Perior--great depths, has she not? -Neither Arthur nor I take life lightly, you know," and Lady Henge held -him with a waiting pause of silence. - -"Yes, I know you don't," he said, and then found himself forced to add, -"there are many possibilities in Camelia." - -At all events, he might have said much more. Again he looked across at -Camelia as he spoke, and again her eyes met his. She rose abruptly, and -crossed the room. - -"Lady Henge," she said, standing before her guest in an attitude of -delicate request, "won't you play for us? We all want to hear you--and -not as mere interpreter, you know--one of your own compositions, -please." - -If there were a vulnerable spot in Lady Henge's indisputable array of -virtues it was a touching egotism in regard to her musical capabilities. -She fancied herself the pioneer of a new school, and hoped for a rather -shallow smattering of form and polyphony to more than atone by an -immense amount of feeling. She smiled now, drawing off her gloves -immediately, even while saying, with the diffidence of a master-- - -"I am afraid my _poèmes symphoniques_ are not quite on the after-dinner -level, my dear. You know I can't promise a comfortable accompaniment to -conversation." - -"Don't degrade us by the implication," smiled Camelia; "we are at least -appreciative." - -"My music is emotionally exhaustive," said Lady Henge, shaking her head -and rising massively. "In my humbler way I have tried to do for the -abstract what Wagner did for the concrete. I do not depict the sea, but -the psychological sensations the sea arouses in us." Lady Henge was -moving towards the piano, her very back, with its serene, brocaded -breadth, imposing by its air of large self-confidence a hush upon the -babble of drawing-room flippancy. - -"Oh, good gracious!" Gwendolen Holt ejaculated in an alarmed whisper to -her neighbor Mr. Merriman. - -"Poor dear Lady Henge," murmured Lady Tramley, leaning back in her -delicate thinness, and fixing sad eyes upon her musical friend. - -"Awfully bad, is it?" Mr. Merriman inquired. - -"Awfully," said Gwendolen. - -"Well, it's all one to me," said Mr. Merriman jocosely. - -"I paint the soul of man, as influenced by the forces of nature," still -delivering explanatory comments, Lady Henge had seated herself at the -piano. "My symphonic poem--'Thalassa,' shall I give you that?" and from -a careful adjustment of the piano-stool, she looked up at Camelia, who -had followed her. - -Sir Arthur, on his solitary sofa, showed some dismay at the imminence of -his mother's performance. Perior, who had heard Lady Henge play, fixed -enduring eyes on the cornice. Camelia dropped into the vacant seat -beside him. - -"Hold your breath, Alceste," she murmured, her smiling eyes still gently -observant of Lady Henge, who, after a majestic turn up and down the -key-board, had paused in a menacing attitude, one hand lifted in a -heavily pouncing position. - -"She'll have our heads under water in a minute. Ah! here comes the -splash!" The very walls quivered as that fierce hand fell. A volcanic, -incoherent volume of sound hurtled forth upon the stillness. From -thenceforward they might have been sitting amidst the clamorous -concussions of a thunder-storm, Lady Henge, high priestess of terrified -humanity, making valiant warfare with the angry gods. The wind, or -rather the effect of the wind upon the shrinking mind of man, shrieked -in long sweeps down the key-board--Lady Henge's execution with the flat -of her hand being boldly impressionistic; the waves beat out their -stormy rhythm in crashing chords of very feeble construction, but in -noisiness immensely effective, leaping, bounding, shouldering, -swallowing one another with a splendid inconsequence as to time or key. -A chaos of stammering phrases cried out fitfully above the steady -bellowing of the bass. - -Physically the composition was most certainly exhausting. Lady Henge's -fine, flushed profile, bent with brooding intensity above the key-board, -evinced a panting effort to cope with the mighty requirements of her -creation. - -"It sounds as if she were being tossed in her cabin, doesn't it?" -Camelia's soft voice murmured under the safe cover of the tumult, her -face keeping the expression of grave attention, "and horribly seasick. -One hears the bottles breaking, and the basins clashing, and the boots -being hurled from side to side. Anything but abstract. Intimately -descriptive rather--don't you think?" A side glint of her eye evidently -twinkled for sympathy; but Perior solemnly stared at the ceiling. - -"The construction too," Camelia said more soberly, "she plunged us into -the free fantasia--and perhaps at the end she may fish us out with the -dominant phrase--but I haven't caught it yet; ah, this thudding finale -announces the journey's end." And she jumped up as Lady Henge, with a -fine, tense look of soul-experience, rose from the piano. The dazed and -wilted listeners chimed out the polite chorus usual on such occasions. -Camelia led Lady Henge to her chair. "Thank you--so much," she said. -Lady Henge smiled dimly, her eyes fixed on vacancy. - -"It was like a glorious wind blowing about one. It made me think of -Wordsworth's sonnets--of the soul in nature," said Camelia. Perior still -looked stolidly at the ceiling, and she felt his silence to be ominous. - -"Such music," she added, "gives one courage for life." She was angry -with Perior. Lady Henge pressed her hand. - -"Thanks, my dear. Yes--you _felt_. One must hear, of course, a -composition many times before entering into the sanctuary of the -artist's meaning." Camelia's mouth retained its sympathetic gravity. -Perior said nothing; and faint, relieved little groups of talk twittered -like birds after a storm. - -"And you, Mr. Perior," Lady Henge, fanning herself largely turned to -this silent critic. "You, too, are a musician as I know, a musician at -least in appreciation. What do you think of my 'Thalassa'? Frankly -now--as one artist to another." Perior moved his eyes slowly from the -ceiling, and dropped them to Camelia's face. He grew very red. - -"Frankly now," Lady Henge reiterated with genial urgency. - -"I think it is very bad," said Perior. The sentence fell with a thud, -like a stone. - -Lady Henge flushed, and her fan fluttered to stillness; Camelia, her -eyebrows lightly lifted, met Perior's square look. - -"Bad," Lady Henge repeated, with a pathetic mingling of deprecating -pride and pain, "really bad, Mr. Perior?" - -"Very bad," said Perior. - -The unmitigated sentence reduced her to feeble plaintiveness. - -"But why? This is really savage, you know." - -"Excuse me, I know I seem rude," he looked at her now with something of -an effort. "You see I tell you the uncompromising truth. Your piece is -weak, and crude, and incoherent!" - -Now that she met his eyes, Lady Henge saw that it gave him pain to speak -so. Camelia standing over them smiled unruffled. - -"It is a case of Berlioz and the Conservatoire, Schumann and the -Philistines, Lady Henge. Mr. Perior is an old classicist--understands -nothing outside strictest adherence to form. Your more modern march of -the _Davidsbündler_ could say nothing to him." Perior did not look at -her. - -"If you will allow me, Lady Henge, I will come some day and go over a -lot of Schumann with you. I think you will recognize the difference. His -power and genuineness are apparent. And Schumann has a great deal to -say." - -He smiled at her as he spoke, a very sweet smile--asking tolerance for -the friend in spite of the critic's unwilling arrogance. Lady Henge was -soothed, though decidedly shaken. - -"You are severe, you know." - -"But you prefer severity to silly fibs." - -"I may be silly," Camelia here put in with a touch of coldness, "if so, -I stand convicted with you, Lady Henge, for I found your 'Thalassa' -neither crude, nor weak, nor incoherent; but I can't be accused of -fibbing. You will play your symphonic poem to me again, won't you? and -we will leave Mr. Perior to the pleasures of iconoclastic conservatism." -After so speaking, Camelia went back to her seat beside Sir Arthur. - -He had a book in his hand, and was turning the leaves vaguely, he put it -down as he looked up at her. For a man well over thirty, Sir Arthur had -certain boyish traits, as a frank nervousness of glance now revealed. - -"Well?" Camelia smiled, feeling a something in the silence. - -"It was bad, wasn't it?" said Sir Arthur. - -"Bad?" - -"Yes, poor mother." - -"I don't think it bad." - -Sir Arthur surveyed her with pained hesitation. - -"Why do you say that?" he demanded, with an abruptness of wounded -tenderness that put Camelia alertly on her guard. - -"Why do you say _that_?" she asked, rounding innocent eyes at him. - -"I saw you laughing at it, with Perior--not that he laughed. I heard -what he said too, I prefer that, you know." - -Camelia herself was feeling wounded, was smarting under a sense of angry -humiliation. This added and unexpected blow brought the blood vividly -to her face, and the sincerity of her discomfort seemed even to herself -to warrant the sincerity of her quick question. - -"You suspect me of lying?" - -Camelia hardly thought that she had lied; neither the flush nor the tone -of voice was acted. - -Sir Arthur looked away. "I saw you laughing," he repeated. - -"I _was_ laughing," Camelia declared. "Not at Lady Henge," she added. - -Sir Arthur kept a silence in which doubt and a longing to believe -evidently struggled. - -"I said to Mr. Perior that the rocking passage with the chord -accompaniment made me feel seasick--from its realism; that touch of -levity doesn't imply insincerity in my admiration--I always smile at the -birds in the 'Pastoral.' Why should I be insincere? If I had not liked -it, I would have said so." - -Sir Arthur's long breath escaped with the relief of recovered joy. - -"Don't be insincere;--dearest," he added, looking at her; and seeing the -surprise with which she received the grave, impulsive word, he went on -quickly, yet gently. - -"You know you often want to please people--to make every one like -you;--even I have fancied it--forgive me, won't you, at the price of a -little falseness. When one feels as I do, the least flaw cuts into one -like a knife." With Camelia's triumph there now mingled a bitter -distaste; she could hardly bring herself to look into his honest, -adoring eyes; the quickness of her breath and wavering of her glance -were, again, quite spontaneous, and that she knew them to be effective, -deepened her humiliation. - -"To see you laugh at mother--and then praise her--I thought it; and I -can't tell you how it pained me. You forgive me?" - -Her self-disgust now seemed to lend her a certain sense of atoning -self-respect. "How good you are!" she said, looking at him very gravely, -and this recognition of his goodness restoring still more fully that -sick self-respect, she was able to smile at him, to think that she must -not exaggerate the little _contretemps_, and to ask herself whether she -might not fall in love with Sir Arthur--simply and naturally. Dear man! -The words were almost on her lips--her eyes at least caressed him with -the implication. - -He looked embarrassed, but very happy. "No--no! Please don't say that! -How divinely kind you are. I have been insufferable. It is noble of you -to understand--. Can't we get away from all these people--if only for a -moment. Let us go into the garden--it is very warm." She would rather -not have gone into the garden, but she could not refuse him, she felt -that to some extent she would like to justify his faith in her, and to -shake from her that snake-like imputation of baseness. She glanced at -Perior as she went out; he was talking most affably with Lady Henge, and -did not look at her. His lack of faith stung perhaps more than Sir -Arthur's faith. It was unmerited too, more unmerited than Sir Arthur's -trust, so she told herself, stepping down from the terrace on to the -gravel-path, and the sense of unmerited scorn sharpened that wish to -justify herself--as far as might be--to the kinder judge. - -"No, Sir Arthur, you are good," she went on, pausing before him, her -hands clasped behind her after a little-girl fashion habitual with her; -"and I am horrid--it's quite true--but not as horrid as you thought me. -I do like to please people. I am often pettily, impulsively false; it's -quite, quite true. I do like your mother's piece, but probably not as -much as I implied to her by my praise--not as much as greater things: -and Mr. Perior's silence made me angry too; but I probably was a little -insincere, and that every one is the same is no excuse for me. I don't -want to be like every one, and you don't want me to be, do you? But if I -had _not_ liked it, you would not have wished me to express myself with -the bludgeon-like directness of our rugged friend, would you?" Camelia -asked the question with real anxiety, conscious though she was that she -had thought the composition quite as ridiculous as Perior had declared -it. After all, his ugly sincerity justified her kindly fibbing; and as -for the laughing, she was sorry she had laughed, since Sir Arthur had -seen her. His erectness of moral vision would so distort that -unintentional meanness that she could not be asked to confess it; but -her partial confession, all the same, left her confused by the stinging -of small, uncomfortable compunctions. These, however, did not show -themselves in her eyes, nor in the pure lines of her face. Her silvered -garments and exquisite whiteness gave her in the moonlight an angelic -look that might well humble modest manhood before her. Sir Arthur had -never felt himself so near to the girl he loved, nor his love so well -justified. - -"No, I don't think it's necessary to give a person the truth like a box -on the ear," he said, and he would have taken her hands, but Camelia -again put them behind her back, and stood smiling at him. - -"Poor old Perior," he added, and they walked slowly for a little way -down the path. "You can understand it, though, can't you? He thought you -were fibbing, and that made him give mother the ruthless _coup de -dent_." - -This was very true, and so Camelia knew, knowing, too, that she _had_ -been fibbing. "But that didn't justify the _coup de dent_," she -declared, "and why should he think I was fibbing?" The bit of audacity -was so inevitable that she hardly felt a qualm over its enunciation. On -Perior's loyalty she relied as she relied on the ground beneath her -feet. - -"Well, he knows that you are clever, and that your taste has not been -distorted--as mother's has--by fancied talent." Sir Arthur was all -candid confidence. - -"He was _very_ nasty," said Camelia, "and I shall tell him so. And now -that I have made my little confession, and that you have absolved -me--for I am absolved, am I not?--shall we go in?" Camelia drew back -from the proposal she saw looming in the moonlight; there was time, -ample time, for that, now that she was sure of him, quite sure. A warm -little thrill of pleasure went over her at the thought that it was she -who was not ready, was not sure, though she had never liked him more. - -"Must we go in?" Sir Arthur looked up at her as she stood on the step -above him. He was very handsome Camelia thought with some complacency. - -"I think we must," she said prettily, adding, "I promised to do my skirt -dancing for them, you know. You must tell me it is delightful when I -have done, even if you laugh at me while I am dancing." Sir Arthur had -held out his hand, and she put hers in it. - -"You absolve me, don't you?" he said. "You forgive me? You are not -angry?" - -"Angry? Have I seemed angry?" - -"You had the right to be." - -"Not with you," said Camelia, and at that he kissed her hand, and they -went back into the drawing-room. - - * * * * * - -Camelia as she undressed that night decided that Perior was responsible -for her still smarting irritation. It was too tiresome. Of course, -apparently she had not behaved nicely; but, in neatly analyzing the -whole affair, she could find herself guilty of nothing worse than a -little humorous gaiety--that took an old friend's sympathy for -granted--(could one not think things one did not say? she had only -thought aloud--to him), and a little kindly hypocrisy practised every -day by models of uprightness. Perior's rudeness set a standard by which -social conventions were guilty of black falseness. It was too bad of -him, and her anger put him aside with a sense of relief. The only really -serious part was the stinging sequel. How closely Arthur Henge must have -watched her to catch that irrepressible glint of the eye. He had caught -it, though, and she had lied about it--well, yes--lied, deliberately -lied to a man she respected. - -Of course it made her feel uncomfortable--of course it did. "I am not -the vain puppet _he_ thinks me," she said, leaning on her -dressing-table, and looking gravely at her illuminated reflection--the -_he_ being Perior--"the very fact of my worrying over such a trifling -incident proves that I am not. It is _his_ fault that I should feel so." -She paused for a further turn of silent meditation before adding, "My -only fault was in having trusted to his sense of fun, in having been -amused. The rest followed inevitably. I could not have told Arthur Henge -that I found his mother ridiculous, now _could_ I, you foolish -creature?" and irrepressibly Camelia smiled at her lenient accuser in -the glass. At this point of the colloquy a gentle tap at the door -ushered in Mary. Mary, in a dressing-gown of just the wrong shade, was -not an interesting object, and Camelia glanced over her reflection in -the mirror without turning. She continued her own train of thought, -hardly listening to Mary, though vaguely conscious that the awkward -inquiries after her comfort were rather pointless. - -"I thought you might want something, Camelia. I thought you looked -rather pale," said Mary, drawing near with some timidity. - -"No, thanks. I should have asked Grant, you know," replied Camelia, her -elbows still on the dressing-table. She absently watched Mary lift her -discarded gown from the floor, fold it, and lay it neatly over the back -of a chair. "Don't mind about picking up those things, Mary," she -added, yawning a little, and wishing rather that Mary would go. "Grant -can do all that." - -"I like to tidy up after you." Mary's smile was slightly forced. "See, -Camelia, you need me to look after you--your pearl necklace under a -chair." - -"It must have caught in my bodice," said Camelia, glancing at the -necklace as Mary laid it on the dressing-table. "That certainly was -stupid of me. Thanks, dear." Mary still lingered. - -"You don't want anything, you are sure? You feel quite well--and--happy, -Camelia?" The question was so odd that Camelia turned her head and -looked up, surprised, at Mary's rather embarrassed countenance. - -"Happy?" she repeated. - -"Yes; I fancied you might have something to tell me." This initiative -was certainly amazing in the reserved Mary, and Camelia stared. - -"Something to tell you?" Then her deliberate departure for the moonlit -_tête-à-tête_ with Sir Arthur coming luminously to her mind, she began -to laugh. "Why, Mary, did you come in a congratulatory mood?" - -Mary's badly mastered nervousness melted somewhat. "Oh, Camelia--_may_ -I?" her face lighted to an almost charming eagerness--a charm that our -æsthetic heroine was quick to recognize. "_May_ I?" - -"May you? No, you little goose," Camelia said good-humoredly. "Upon my -word, Mary, you should have had your portrait painted at that moment; -you never looked so--significant. Are you so anxious to get rid of me -then?" The charming look had crumbled into inextricable confusion. - -"Oh, Camelia, how can you?--how could you think----?" - -"Now, Mary, imaginative efforts are bad for you; don't indulge them." - -"I hoped--I only wanted----" - -"Yes, of course, you want me to be happy; and very nice it is of you -too. Be patient, Mary; you shall congratulate me some day. I haven't -decided _when_ that shall be. I haven't really quite decided _how_ I -shall be happy--there are so many ways--the choice of a superlative is -perplexing. When I choose you need not come to me, I promise you." -Camelia rose, stretching her arms above her head, and smiling very -kindly at her cousin. - -Her own words made her feel comfortable. Still smiling, she put her arm -around Mary's neck and kissed her. "I shall tell you _immediately_. Now -run to bed, dear, for _you_ look pale." When Mary was gone, Camelia -finished undressing, and got into bed in a frame of mind much reassured -as to her own intrinsic merit. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -The little moonlit episode had very thoroughly mended the rift within -the lute. Camelia's seeming frankness of confessional confidence more -than atoned for every doubting qualm. Sir Arthur evidently put doubts -and distresses behind him. He allowed himself to be wholly in love. He -wondered resentfully at himself for the mixed impulses he had known, -since all were now merged in one fixed determination. - -The country influences of green trees and summer sky seemed to have -breathed a heretofore unrealized gentleness into his fair one. Her -playful sallies, her little audacities, delighted him now unreservedly, -for under the tantalizing shifting and shimmering of surface moods, the -translucent depths of a loyal and lovely nature, were at last fully -revealed to him. - -Camelia felt the resultant ardor hovering during all their constant -companionship, but she evaded it. The conquest had been so easy, was so -complete, that fitness seemed to require a compensatory dallying. The -atmosphere of adoration, submissive in its certainty of ultimate -success, felt as flatteringly around her as the warm sweetness of a -summer breeze. Conquest was delightful, so was dallying, so was her own -indecision; that was the most delightful part of all. She felt, too, in -the loving warmth that encompassed her, a consolation, a refuge from -cold and rugged depreciation. - -Perior had not reappeared since the musical _mêlée_, and, while enjoying -the sunny harbor where she rocked so peacefully, Camelia was conscious -that thoughts about that rough, that unsympathetic sea outside -preoccupied her amidst the kinder waters. Her gaiety was therefore a -little forced, absent-minded, in a sense a mask; her gentler mood was -the result of inner cogitations, so involved at times as to give to her -manner a dreamy sweetness. Her moral snubbing, though she rejected it as -undeserved, subdued her. - -Lady Henge's vanity was of no petty or immovable order. Far from -antagonizing, Perior's judgment had aroused in her an anxious -self-doubt, an anxious respect for her candid critic. Despite Camelia's -sympathy--for Camelia stuck to her colors, entrenched herself behind a -staunch fidelity to a false position, listened with absorption to -frequent renderings of the "Thalassa," thoughtfully discussed its -iconoclastic merits, the high value of its full flavored modernity, and -felt a certain ethical elevation from these painful sacrifices to the -only constancy permitted her--despite this steady sympathy, Lady Henge -perversely longed for a further expression of unsympathetic opinion from -the ruthless Perior. And one morning she told Camelia that she had -written to him, had asked him to fulfil his promise, to bring some music -of his choosing that might, with his aid, be useful to her. - -"I had hoped to see him every day," she owned, and Camelia realized the -power of a negative attitude--how flat beside it, how feeble, was her -exaggeratedly affirmative one. All her pretty conciliations were as -nothing to Lady Henge beside the stinging interest of Perior's dislike. - -"I think he may help me about so many things, I so often feel a -helplessness in self-expression; the idea is there--but the form! the -form! ah, my dear, art, after all, is form." (This piece of information -was certainly bitter to our martyrized heroine.) - -"As you said, his severity may, to a certain extent, be conservatism, -academic narrowness, but I have always heard of him as widely -appreciative." - -Camelia could answer for the width of appreciation that her resentment -had falsified on the unlucky night of the first performance; she -remembered now, with a little flush, that her saddling of him with -tastes not his own must have seemed to him the culmination of spiteful -pettiness. And then he had not rejoined--had not defended himself, even -against that intimation of academics opposed to his dearly loved -Schumann. Camelia could soothe herself with an "I don't care! He -deserved it. He was horrid;" but all the same the memory brought a -hotness to her cheeks. She felt very angry, too, with Lady Henge, and, -while smiling pleasantly, found some satisfaction in various cynical -mental comments on the weighty intricacy of her cap, and the vast -stupidity of her self-absorption. - -"Do you know, my dear, that phrase," and Lady Henge struck it out -demonstratively from the piano near which she stood; "that phrase does -sound a little weak." Weak! Camelia could have capped the criticism -very pungently. With a good deal of disgust at a situation which had so -neatly turned the tables upon her, she said, "Mr. Perior may tell you -so; I really can't." Her fate evidently was to support Lady Henge by a -fraternity in inferior taste; and to be branded with inferior taste, -even in Lady Henge's eyes, was certainly rather galling. She had not -bargained for it at all, nor dreamed that Lady Henge's complacency would -go down like a ninepin before Perior's brutal missile. Her little -perjury had not been in the least worth while. - -Perior, having the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, arrived next -morning with an impressive roll of music, and Camelia laughed, with some -acidity it must be confessed, as she heard in the drawing-room the -convincing energy of his demonstrations. Fragments of the poor _poème -symphonique_, panting from their cruel dissection, reached her ears -while she strolled about the lawns with Sir Arthur. - -She foresaw that Lady Henge would prove a humble convert, and that she -herself, if not to be convicted of gross insincerity, must remain -gibbeted in a stubborn unconversion. - -"Your mother is very patient," she said, as, from the distant piano, the -dogged repetition of a phrase emphasized its feeble absurdity. "Mr. -Perior as mentor is in his element." - -Sir Arthur laughed with a good-humored recollection of his own political -rebuff at Perior's hands. - -"He is uncompromisingly honest. If you ask for his advice he'll give it -to you." - -"Give it to you unasked sometimes," said Camelia. - -Sir Arthur had told her all about that lost cause, and all about his -plans for the future. There was a very delightful plan for the very near -future; the next session would decide the fate of the Factory Bill that -went by her lover's name, and Camelia, under her attentive quietness, -felt a heaving sigh of ambition gather. Sir Arthur's grave eagerness -showed that after his winning of herself, his political campaign filled -the chief place in his hopes and thoughts. Her interest delighted him, -and the intelligence of her comments. - -He had himself an almost reverent belief in the bill, and Camelia's -sympathetic affirmatives seemed to chime deliciously with his own deep, -active pity for the dim, toiling masses the bill was to reach and -succor. Such a common object was a sanctification; he could hardly, he -felt, have loved a woman who did not feel his own deep pity. They talked -now of the coming struggle, of the rather dubious success of the second -reading that might yet be enhanced for the third. - -"And do you know," he said, "Perior, positively Perior, approves; he is -buckling on his armor for the final fray. An individuality like that -counts, you know. A few leaders in the _Friday_ would rally many -waverers." - -Camelia flushed suddenly when he said this; it delighted her sense of -proprietorship in Perior to hear his praise--to hear that for others, -too, he counted. And yet a touch of pain came with the delight, -reminding her that under present conditions the delight was very -generous, and proprietorship very unassured. - -How he evaded it! Yes, he certainly was horrid; but her breath came -quickly, and with a deft persistence she kept Sir Arthur still talking -of him, finding in his answers to her questions on his youth glimpses of -Perior's. - -"Always generous, always intolerant, always tripping into ditches while -star-gazing," said Sir Arthur; "he has an exaggerated strain in him; it -must be that Irish ancestress. He feels everything more acutely than -thicker-skinned mortals, sees everything, the good and the bad, -magnified--a trifle grotesquely. But it is a noble nature;" and he went -on, as they walked back and forth over the lawn, Perior's pianoforte -exposition, firmly insistent, coming to their ears at broken intervals: -"Perior is staunch on individualism, as you know; believes in the -hygienic value to the race of the combat--a savage creed, I tell him; -but he has amended it; he is not one jot afraid of seeming inconsistent; -he owns to the scientific logic of our attitude. I was afraid he would -accuse us of socialistic methods, tyrannical kindness, State -intervention," and so from Perior Sir Arthur went back to the -all-absorbing topic of the bill; he could allow the bill to absorb him. -For all Camelia's evasions and smiling warnings to patience, he was -deliciously sure of the ultimate end of all. He could afford to be -patient with the luminous sympathy of her eyes upon him, afford to talk -of the unfortunate women-workers whose long hours the kind tyranny of -the bill would restrict, while this woman listened with such a sweet -chiming of pity. - -"If you could only count on a fair following among the Liberals," -Camelia said, phrasing his keenest anxiety, "horrid egotists! They all -have factories, I suppose. Mr. Rodrigg may wrest your dubious majority -from you; he is the lion in your path, isn't he? and he has a whole town -of factories. What chance has a moral conviction against a town of -factories? And he is such a bull-dog; I did wrong to dignify him by the -leonine simile." - -"Such a clever chap, too," said Sir Arthur; "bull-dog cleverness, I -mean." - -"And bull-dogs are so dear," Camelia said, as a small brindled member of -the race, his head haloed by a ferociously bristling collar, came -bounding to them over the lawn. "Dear, precious beastie," she put her -hand on the dog's head as he stood on his hind-legs to greet her, "we -must indeed find another epithet for Mr. Rodrigg, not that I dislike -him, you know. He shares some of your opinions," she added rather -roguishly. - -"Not one, I fear." - -"Yes, one," she insisted. Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt on her charming look; -it carried him into vagueness as he asked-- - -"What one?" not caring at all for Mr. Rodrigg's community of taste, and -smiling at her loveliness. - -"I think he is rather fond of me," Camelia owned. Sir Arthur could -afford a generous laugh. - -"Poor old Rodrigg! He has then a vulnerable point in his armor?" - -"Yes, indeed, yes. I don't know that it amounts to a weakness. I fear I -couldn't wheedle him. But, you might convince him, and I might -help,--and, he is coming down next week." She laughed out at his look -of surprise. "That is news, isn't it?" - -In her very heart of hearts Camelia was rather complacently convinced -that Mr. Rodrigg's fondness _did_ amount to a weakness. Mr. Rodrigg's -devotion was in our young lady's fastidious opinion his one redeeming -quality. She had kindly, but thoroughly, she thought, nipped in the bud -certain too aspiring attempts; but the man was all the more her friend. - -His devotion was built upon a fine hopelessness that really dignified -him. - -She was an Egeria who hovered above him, gently smiling at his -earthiness. Yes, she was kind; for Mr. Rodrigg was a most important -person--emphatically, personally important just now, it seemed; and -though Camelia's thoughts of him were merely humorously tolerant, she -felt quite sure of a wealth of unreturned friendship, ready to transmute -itself into golden action at her bidding. She could but pride herself a -little upon her intellectual influence over her unpresumptuous Numa, and -thought that she could, through that dignified influence alone, by all -means wheedle him, if wheedling became necessary. Sir Arthur would -hardly approve of these personal methods, and therefore he need not know -of the little game that might win his cause; a perfectly innocent game, -she assured herself, since it hurt no one and helped Sir Arthur; and if -Mr. Rodrigg were to be convinced, Sir Arthur must fancy himself sole -winner. - -He did not seem to recognize the possibility, for after his pause of -surprise he laughed again, saying, "Is he coming on _my_ account?" - -"Not on _his_, I am sure!" - -"You know, it won't do any good," he smiled fondly at her, as one smiles -at the folly of a loved woman; "Rodrigg is too deeply pledged, has his -whole party behind him. I could no more convince him, even in these -enchanted premises, than in the dry precincts of the House. Political -conversions are very rare." - -"But you _may_ convert him," Camelia urged. "I will give you every -opportunity." - -"And it is rather unfair, you know." Sir Arthur paused in their -strolling to look at her face, half shadowed in the sunlight by the brim -of her white hat. "He perhaps imagines that he is coming for purposes -far removed from the political." - -"Oh no, no, no. I tell you, dear Sir Arthur, that--well--since you must -have it--I refused him. He hasn't a hope; I pinched the last pangs out -of him a long time ago. In fact, I let him see that I found his audacity -rather funny than piteous. I have laughed him into most submissive -platonics. He will come, because he really is my friend, and really -likes me; and I want him to come, because he must like you." - -"Camelia!" Sir Arthur had used her name more than once of late, and she -let it pass with a half-merry, half-menacing little glance. - -"You dear little schemer," he added. Though spoken in tenderest teasing, -Camelia was just enough conscious of a certain applicability to say with -some quickness-- - -"Not _really_. You know I'm not. I only want to help you--legitimately, -I would not lift my little finger to win your cause if you did not want -me to." - -"Really, I know you're not!" Sir Arthur's voice retained the teasing -quality, but the tenderness had deepened; Camelia was listening all the -while to those dogged passages from the piano. They ceased now, and a -certain gravity and determination of look that had succeeded Sir -Arthur's last words quite justified a sudden retreat. - -"I must go and make Mr. Perior stop to lunch. One only gets him out of -his lair by force and wheedling! I wheedle _him_!" She left Sir Arthur -rather disconsolately cut short, and ran off to the house, her own words -ringing reassuringly in her ears. Yes, she could wheedle him. Despite -unreason, stupid unreason, despite rebellious crossness and pretended -indifference, she had the mastery. He cared so much; that was the -fundamental fact that upheld Camelia's assurance; he cared enough to be -very angry. He would try to hide his anger of course. Her heart had -beaten rather quickly when Sir Arthur's face took on that look of -resolve--she was not ready, not quite sure, not yet, but flight from his -purpose had been only a secondary impulse. She must see Perior. She ran -through the morning-room and met him coming down the stairs, and panting -a little, laughing a little, she leaned against the banisters and -opposed his passage. - -"Well, have you taught her how bad it is?" - -"I think I have," said Perior, looking over Camelia's head at the open -doorway. She stood aside to let him join her. - -"What have you to teach me this morning--_caballero de la triste -figura_?" she said as he came down the stairs and stood beside her. - -"I don't propose to teach you anything. I am not responsible for you." - -Camelia had not analyzed his probable mood incorrectly; he was angry, -and he was trying to hide his anger, fearing for his self-control. But -more than that--though this the acute Camelia had never quite -divined--he was feeling very unhappy. That he was angry she saw, -however, with a little thrill of triumph running through her veins. -Smiling an even smile she said, slipping her hand through his arm-- - -"Ah! but you _are_ responsible. Come into the morning-room." - -"Is Lady Paton there?" Perior asked gloomily. - -"Yes." Camelia had seen her mother and Mary walking safely away into the -garden with Gwendolen Holt and Lady Tramley. She threw open the door and -ushered him in. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -Perior surveyed the emptiness; it hardly surprised him, and well -understanding her determination to wheedle him, he felt an added -strength of determination not to be wheedled. - -"What have you got to say, now that you've got me here?" he asked, -putting down his music and looking at her. - -"You bandersnatch!" Camelia still held his arm. "I am sure you look like -a bandersnatch; a biting, snarling creature. You have a truly -_snatching_ way of speaking." - -"What have you got to say, Camelia?" Perior repeated, withdrawing his -arm from the circling clasp upon it. - -"I have got to say that you must stay to lunch." - -"Well, I can't do that." - -"Then you may sit down and talk to me a little--scold me if you like; do -you feel like scolding me?" - -"I have never scolded you, Camelia," said Perior, knowing that before -her lightness his solemnity showed to disadvantage; but he would be -nothing but solemn, ludicrously solemn if necessary. - -"You were never sure I deserved it, then," said Camelia, stooping to -gather up her dog for a swift kiss, and laughing over his round head at -Perior's stiffness; "else you would have done your duty, I am sure--you -never forget your duty." - -"Thanks; your recognition is flattering." - -"There, my pet, go--poor Sir Arthur is lonely, go to him," said Camelia, -opening the window for Siegfried's exit, "you know your sarcasm doesn't -impress me one bit--not one bit," she added. - -"I don't fancy that anything I could say would impress you," Perior -replied, eyeing her little manoeuvres, "and since I have seen -Siegfried receive his kiss, I really must go," and at this Perior took -up his music with decision; to see him assuming indifference so badly -was delightful to Camelia. - -"_Why_ were you so rude to poor Lady Henge the other evening?" she -demanded, couching her lance and preparing for the shock of encounter; -"you were hideously rude, you know." - -"Yes, I know." Perior still eyed her, his departure effectually checked. - -"Then, why were you?" - -"Because you lied." - -"Oh, what an ugly word!" cried Camelia lightly, though with a little -chill, for the unpleasant sincerity of Perior's look she felt to be more -than she had bargained for. "What a big, ungainly word to fling at poor -little me! You should eschew such gross elementary forms of speech, -Alceste; really, they are not becoming." - -"I hate lies," said Perior tersely, thinking, as he spoke, that by the -logic of the words he should hate Camelia too--for what was she but -unmitigated falseness personified? He had lost his nervousness, now that -the moment for plain speaking had arrived. - -"And you call _that_ a lie?" - -"I call it a lie." She considered him gravely. - -"I tried to give pleasure, you tried to give pain." - -"I tried to restore the balance." - -"I cannot think it wrong to slight the truth a little--from mere -kindness." - -"And I think it wrong to lie. And," Perior added, his voice taking on an -added depth of indignant scorn, "you lied to Arthur; I saw you." - -"You saw!" Camelia could not repress a little gasp. - -"I saw that he caught your humorous and hospitable comments on his -mother's performance, and I saw your cajolery afterwards. I am sure I -can't imagine how you hoodwinked him. It was neatly done, Camelia." - -Camelia felt herself growing pale, losing the victor's smiling calm. -Here he was brutally voicing the very scruples she had laid to rest -after moments of most generous self-doubt--atoning moments, as she felt. -The playful game in which she would tease him into comprehension--absolution, -had been turned into an ugly punishment. The wrinkled rose leaves of -self-accusation that had disturbed her serenity had actually--in his -hands--grown into thorny branches, and he was whipping her with them. -She had never felt so at a loss, for she could not laugh. - -"You would have had me pain him too!" she cried, her anger vindictively -seeking a retaliatory lash. "Well, you are a prig!--an insufferable -prig! I did nothing wrong!--except mistake your sense of humor." - -This was certainly on her side a less dignified colloquy than the one -with the looking-glass; she fancied that Perior looked with some -curiosity at her anger. - -"Was it wrong to smile at you, then?" she said. - -"Yes, it was wrong." Perior had all the advantage of calm, and she was -helplessly aware that her excitement fortified his self-control. - -"I thought the piece funny. Was I to tell her so?" - -"You should have kept still about it. You mocked your guest behind her -back and flattered her to her face. That is mean, despicable," said -Perior, planting his slashes very effectively. - -"To laugh with you was like laughing to myself," said Camelia, steadying -her lips, and wondering vaguely if victory might not yet be wrested from -this humiliation; his inflexible cruelty forced from her that half -appeal. "It was merely thinking aloud, and to tell a few kindly little -fibs--as every woman does, a hundred times a day--is not flattery." - -"To gain a person's liking on false pretences is base; and I don't care -how many women do it--nor how often they do it. I shan't argue with you, -Camelia. We don't see things alike. Follow your own path, by all means; -it will lead you to success no doubt, and for a nature like yours there -will be no bitterness in such success." - -He looked away from her now, as if, despite her immunity from it, he -felt that bitterness. He felt it, though she did not. He looked away in -the depth of his disgust and pain, conscious, though, of the golden -blur of her hair, the indistinct oval of her face, the cool vague gray -of her linen dress, as she stood still, not far from him. Camelia felt -herself trembling. She beat off his cruel injustice--but it was hurting -her--it was making her helpless. - -"For what success do you imply that I am scheming?" she asked, and even -while she spoke angry tears rushed to her eyes. To be misjudged was a -new sensation; a hot self-pity smarted within her. - -Perior did not see the tears, for he still looked away, saying in a -voice that showed how clearly cut, how definitely perceived was the -conviction, "The success of marrying a man you love little enough to lie -to. Henge could not forgive you if he knew that you had lied to him and -to his mother, yet he adores you--you have that on false pretences too. -There is the truth for you, Camelia; and, upon my soul, I am sorry for -Arthur. I pity him from the bottom of my heart." - -"How dare you! how dare you!" cried Camelia, bursting into tears. "It is -false--false--false!" - -Taken aback, Perior stared blankly at her. It was the first time that he -had reduced her to weeping. "Oh, Camelia!" he stood still--he would not -approach her; he felt that since she could cry her helplessness was -fully armed, and he quite helpless; his supremacy robbed of all value. - -"Every word you say is false!" she said, returning his stare defiantly, -while the tears rolled down her cheeks. "I am _not_ scheming to marry -him! I have not let him propose to me yet! I am not sure that I shall; -I am not sure that I shall accept him, and if I do, it will be because I -love him!" - -Perior hardly believed her, and yet he was much confused, especially as -with a fresh access of sobs her face quivered in the pathetic grimace of -loveliness distorted; before that the real issue of the situation seemed -slipping away; her repudiation of the greater dishonesty effaced, for -the moment, the smaller; he had nothing to say--she probably believed in -herself; and those helpless sobs were so touching to him that, -notwithstanding his unappeased anger against her, he could have gone to -her and taken her in his arms to comfort her, at any cost--even at the -cost of seeming to ask pardon. He did not do this, however, but said, -"Don't cry, don't cry, Camelia; you mustn't cry. I'm glad you feel it in -that way; I am glad you can cry over it." He did not go to her, but his -very attitude of nervous hesitation told Camelia that he was worsted--at -least worsted enough for the practical purposes of the moment. - -She got out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, still feeling very -sore-hearted, very much injured; but when the tears were gone she came -up to him saying, while she looked at him with all the victorious pathos -of wet lashes and trembling lips, "You are not kind to me, Alceste." - -He moved away from her a little, but took her hands. "Because you are -naughty, Célimène." - -"I will be good. I won't tell fibs." - -"A very commendable resolution." - -"You mock me. You won't believe a liar." - -"Don't, please don't speak of it again, Camelia." - -"Say you are sorry for having said it." - -"Oh, you little rogue!" Taking her face between his hands he studied it -with a sad curiosity. "I am sorry for having _had_ to say it." - -"Oh, prig, prig, prig." She smiled at him now from the narrow frame, her -own delicious smile. - -"And bandersnatch if you will," said Perior, shaking her gently by the -shoulders, and putting her away with a certain resignation. - -"My good old bandersnatch! _Dear_ old bandersnatch! After all, I need a -bandersnatch, don't I, to keep me straight? Yes, I forgive you. I must -put up with you, and you must put up with me, fibs and all--fibs, do you -hear, not lies. Oh, ugly word!" She clasped her hands on his arm, poor -Perior! "And you will stay to lunch?" - -"No, I won't stay to lunch," said Perior, smiling despite himself. - -"Why?" - -"I am busy." - -"You are a prig, you know," said Camelia, as if that summed up the -situation conclusively. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Whether Camelia were decided on accepting Sir Arthur or not, every one -else, under a waiting silence, considered the engagement an accomplished -fact. Poor Mr. Merriman departed disconsolately when the reality of his -utter ruin forced itself upon his unwilling understanding. Sir Harry -contemplated the hopeless situation more compliantly, oscillated for a -few days between feeble despair and jocular resignation, and then -finding it impossible to utterly tear himself away from his charmer's -magnetic presence, he settled down to a melancholy flirtation with Mrs. -Fox-Darriel that masked his inability to retreat. Lord and Lady Tramley -went on to another visit, and the poet who wrote the virile poems and -believed in the joy of life, finding Miss Paton less sympathetic than -usual, penned a laconic, psychological verselet for her benefit, and -departed. - -Camelia seemed rather vague in the furtherance of hospitable projects, -and the merest trickle of visitors went through the house, affecting -very slightly the really placid routine. - -Lady Paton's whole personality expanded in prettiest contentment; the -calm so far surpassed her expectations, and Camelia seemed very happy. -Lady Paton could but take for granted her happiness. - -Camelia was living the most poetical moment of life; she made no -confidences; but Lady Paton's trust walked in a sadly sweet dream where -her daughter's courtship mingled with tearful memories of her own. -Charles Paton's smile; the first fluttering consciousness that the smile -came oftenest for her; she still blushed as she remembered the moment -when he had murmured to her as they danced that she had the prettiest -throat in England; it had seemed so daring to little Miss Fairleigh, who -had read her first novel only six months before; the very memory still -had the glamour of daring. And Camelia was feeling all those tremulous -delights, with their deep undercurrent of sacred solemnity. - -Camelia was not demonstrative, Lady Paton had sighed over the accepted -fact, but she could trace all such natural emotions on Sir Arthur's face -when he watched or spoke to her daughter. She already felt a maternal -tenderness for him, and his exquisite courtesy, that already implied -rights, was nothing less than filial. - -Lady Henge's dignified intellectuality she found indeed rather awesome, -but she hoped by careful listening to expand her powers of -comprehension, and Lady Henge delivered her expositions of social ethics -with a pleasant faith in their tonic effect upon the suppressed mind of -her hostess-- - -"Suppressed, repressed, Arthur, not shallow," she said to her son, "and -you could not ask a daintier, truer gentlewoman for your wife's mother, -dear." Lady Henge sighed just a little--though quite resigned to the -future--for the Duchess of Amshire's mind was neither suppressed nor -shallow, but as expansive and capable an organ as her own, and -infinitely sympathetic. Lady Elizabeth, too!--Lady Elizabeth, who had -worked at shirt-making in the slums for two weeks, and had caught -typhoid fever at it--even Camelia's sunny charm could not efface the -thought of Lady Elizabeth's almost providential fitness. But in spite of -inevitable regrets Lady Henge was resigned, and the two mothers got on -together very pleasantly, since moulding capability can hardly carp at a -gentle, clay-like receptivity. - -Mr. Rodrigg seemed the only new guest intended for any permanence of -stay. He duly arrived at the given date and hour, a punctual man, very -much aware of his own importance, and of the importance to him, and to -others, of every moment. - -And Mr. Rodrigg was really a very important personage and his moments -weighty with significance. And this iron-gray, middle-aged man had not -at all foolishly fallen in love with the brilliant Miss Paton. A wife so -beautiful, so capable, so charming, would be the finishing touch to his -influence; matter-of-fact motives may well have underlain Mr. Rodrigg's -amorous determination, which Camelia thought so effectually snuffed out. -But indeed Mr. Rodrigg's determination was far too strong to credit -hers. His self-confidence smiled kindly upon a pretty coquetry. The -exquisite grace of Camelia's rebuff--she had almost thought it worthy of -publicity, so felicitous had been its delicate sweep round a corner -dangerous to friendship--had merely impressed Mr. Rodrigg's -unappreciative bluntness with a reassuring conviction of trifling and -postponement. - -The lightness of touch, the deft cleverness upon which our poor Titania -so prided herself, were surveyed in this instance by an ass's head; the -effect she thought so prettily made was quite missed, and she herself -its only spectator. - -The portentousness of Arthur Henge's presence at Enthorpe did not in the -least weigh with Mr. Rodrigg against the final choice he considered as -expressed in Lady Paton's invitation. Miss Paton had put him off--but -she had not let him go; so Mr. Rodrigg interpreted the Egeria attitude; -she demanded patience--and she should have it. She was too clever a girl -to tolerate whining commonplaces; she would appreciate his whimsical -calm; he would not whine--he would wait and humor her. - -She liked to have important people about her, and Mr. Rodrigg explained -Sir Arthur very much as Camelia had explained Mr. Rodrigg. It was -platonic friendliness--quite hopeless. He realized that Camelia might -dally with his own hopes, that skill might be necessary to win her -finally, and he intended to be very skilful, to show no jealousy or -carping that might indispose her towards his future marital authority. -And Mr. Rodrigg hardly felt the fitness of jealousy. He was, he thought, -a cleverer man than Henge, a man of more intrinsic weight. Henge had a -light and pretty talent, spoke with conviction, but was not the man to -sway the world with socialism rewarmed in Tory saucepans; whereas Europe -trembled at Mr. Rodrigg's nod, at least so Mr. Rodrigg, not -unreasonably, was convinced. The "good match" theory in explanation of -Camelia's motives only fortified his own quiet consciousness of -supremacy. He quite gave Camelia credit for an undazzled directness of -vision that would surely apprise her of the side on which her bread was -most thickly buttered. So Mr. Rodrigg arrived in an atmosphere of -blue-books and business unavoidable, though with a minor effect of a -great mind unbending to lighter mundanities. His face was typically -British; ruddy, with broad features clearly hewn; keen eyes, a tight -mouth, and an expression of sagacious toleration of things in general. - -Camelia met him with her prettiest air of mutual understanding that -would warrant the neatest epigrams. Her penetration of Mr. Rodrigg's -character had never quite realized his tenacious conceit. - -He had been anxious, he had been hurt; but he had never imagined that -Camelia thought him hopeless. Her complacent conviction of intellectual -conquest was far indeed from his suppositions; the results of her -Italian reading had been adroitly thrown into his speech as a piece of -pretty flattery, that a great man might harmlessly permit himself -towards a wilful, easily flattered woman. So the two stupidities met -quite unconscious one of the other. - -Mr. Rodrigg was to stop for a fortnight at least, and as Sir Arthur had -to absent himself at intervals during the period, Camelia was all the -more content. She feared that Sir Arthur's attitude of independence and -non-expectancy might antagonize Mr. Rodrigg. She relied upon her own -arguments, her own flattering influence. She sat up late at night -cramming the pamphlets, reports, and books with which Sir Arthur -supplied her. The resultant pallor at breakfast deepened the effect of -an intellectual atmosphere in which she wrapped herself serenely. Mr. -Rodrigg smiled, paternally almost, and with his most tolerant calm, upon -these efforts. He cut her a large slice of cold beef at the side-board -and advised her to take a glass of port; "You mustn't tire yourself, you -know, my dear young lady." - -He rather resented Henge's evident influence when he saw how deeply -Camelia was determined on the bill, but not really troubled by it. -Camelia's fervor of sympathy seemed really personal; girlish -emotionalism, a futile but pretty pity quite interpreted her tenacity. -He was rather pleased that she should be on the side of the factory -women, though anxious to explain to her that the logic of his own -position need not exclude that partiality. - -He thought it safer, however, to argue as little as possible, and -listened attentively and pleasantly, quite willing to go this far in -humoring. Meanwhile Camelia's delay in announcing an engagement imposed -a general silence; no one spoke of Sir Arthur as an accepted lover, and -Mr. Rodrigg might perhaps be pardoned if no such instinctive intimation -penetrated his thick self-confidence. Sir Arthur coming down for a -Saturday and Sunday in Mr. Rodrigg's visit, and going off again on a -Monday, rather avoided an encounter. - -Mr. Rodrigg himself good-humoredly introduced the subject of the bill -one evening in the smoking-room, and they talked of it amicably and -impersonally for a little while. But after this talk Sir Arthur said to -Camelia-- - -"I see very plainly where he stands. He will be firmly against me; his -reticence doesn't conceal that." - -"Are you sure?" asked Camelia. She herself was not at all sure. In a -walk with Mr. Rodrigg that morning she had certainly observed promising -leaf-blades break the stiff soil of his non-committal attitude. Camelia -did not imagine that her own beaming smile might well allure those -vernal symptoms. - -"Quite sure," said Sir Arthur, who was really getting rather tired of -Mr. Rodrigg and his utility, "and--now that I won't see you again until -next Thursday--won't you talk of something as far removed from the bill -as possible." - -"That would be a very uninteresting something," said Camelia. "No, I can -think of nothing but politics just now. Whose fault is that, pray? Did -you see the report Mr. Dobson sent me this morning? You don't want to -see it! Fie, you lukewarm reformer. Now pray be patient--we will talk of -something else on Thursday, perhaps." So she warded him off, conscious -always of that trembling retreat when the momentous question approached -her. She was almost glad when Sir Arthur was gone again. At all events, -she would make a good fight for his cause whether or no she accepted -him. - -"And you are on our side too, are you not?" she said to Perior, for -Perior, more silent than ever, and revolving inner cogitations on his -own laxity, still made an almost daily visit. - -He owned that he was on "their side." - -"And you will support us in the _Friday_." - -"I am going to do my best." - -"But not because I ask you!" laughed Camelia, who still felt a little -soreness since that uncomfortable interview where she had so much -surprised herself. She was still rather resentful, and sorry that her -tears might have implied confession. She was conscious now of a touch of -defiance behind the light smiling of her eyes as he owned that her -asking formed no compulsory element in his decision. - -"Don't you think that Mr. Rodrigg may be malleable?" Camelia pursued, -"Sir Arthur is to convert him, you know." - -"You or Sir Arthur?" She laughed at this. "Would it be terribly wicked -if I tried my hand at it?" - -"It would be terribly useless," Perior remarked; but Camelia looked -placidly unconvinced. - -"I am justified in trying, am I not?" - -"That depends;" Perior was decidedly cautious. - -"Since I believe thoroughly in the bill; since only intellectual forces -will be brought to bear on our stodgy friend,--there is nothing of the -lobbyist in it." - -"I am sure that Henge wouldn't like it," said Perior, with the certain -coolness he always evinced in speaking to her of Sir Arthur. - -"Why not?" - -"It would put him in a false position towards Rodrigg. Rodrigg will -imagine that you are bribing him." - -"_Bribing_ him!" Camelia straightened herself. - -"Yes; that the price paid for his apostasy will be your hand," and this -indeed was exactly what Mr. Rodrigg, with some alarm, was beginning to -think. - -"Apostasy! If the creature won't be sincerely convinced we don't want -him!" cried Camelia. - -"Very well, you have my opinion of the matter." Perior's whole manner -had of late been particularly irksome to Camelia. - -Lady Henge meanwhile, seeing her son's foe within the gates, most -seriously and conscientiously, and openly, made good her opportunity. -She took her mental mastery far more gravely than Camelia took hers, and -poor Mr. Rodrigg began to think that he was asked to pay a heavy price -for his hymeneal visit when Lady Henge cornered him in the drawing-room -and stupefyingly admonished him. Lady Henge's arguments were all based -on superbly moral grounds, and levelled with severity at the iniquity of -individualistic theories, which she demonstrated to be scientifically -and ethically unsound. He at times found it very difficult to keep his -temper. But under the exquisite warmth of Camelia's urgency his hopes -were high. He could regard with humoring half compliances this pretty -whim of his pretty Camelia. Camelia would have raged could she have -known Mr. Rodrigg's real impressions--impressions accompanied by the -fatherly tolerance of that "pretty Camelia." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -Sir Arthur was back again on Thursday, alertly conscious of a half -promise, and he intended to put it to the test while he and Camelia rode -together in the afternoon. The party was made up: Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -Gwendolen Holt, Sir Harry, and another young man--but Camelia did not -go. The horses were already before the door, and she, fully equipped in -riding costume, engaged before her mirror on the final details of veil -and gloves, when Perior rode up; Camelia saw him through the window, and -heard him decline to join their party, as he had come for Mary. Mary was -not a good rider, nor could she be urged beyond the dullest trot, and -Perior's refusal was no doubt on her account. Poor Alceste! Condemned to -Mary for a whole afternoon! In a rapid change of project Camelia dashed -out of her habit and into her prettiest white dress, sent down a note to -Sir Arthur pleading sudden headache, and commanding him to go without -her, saw the five depart obediently, and placidly descended to capture -Perior. Mary was getting ready; Camelia, as she passed her room, saw her -sewing a button on a glove, her habit laid in readiness on the bed. -Camelia would have liked her ride; it was only from the impulsive wish -for ten or fifteen minutes with Perior that she had sacrificed it, and -she saw with satisfaction that Mary would take quite that time. - -"Well, how do you do?" she said, finding him as usual in the -morning-room, "I _think_ we have got him," she added, picking up the -threads of their last conversation. - -"That is Rodrigg, of course," said Perior, looking with a pleasure he -could not conceal at her charming appearance. He felt for a moment like -telling her that in that dress she was bewitchingly pretty, but checked -the impulse with some surprise at it. - -"Yes, I argued out the whole third clause with him yesterday," said -Camelia, smiling her happiest smile, for she was quite conscious of -those unspoken words. - -"Dear me!" - -"He seemed impressed--though you are not. Sit down." - -"He seemed what he was not, no doubt--I haven't the faculty." Perior -spoke quite good-temperedly. Indeed, Camelia's political manoeuvres -did not displease him--consoled him in a sense. There was a pretty folly -about them quite touching, and her earnestness seemed to vouch for some -real feeling. - -"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, taking the place -beside him on the sofa and leaning forward, her arms on her knees. - -"The man wants to please you," said Perior, looking at her white hands -hanging idly together. He wondered again whether egotism or a real -fondness for Arthur moved her. - -The long delay of the engagement excited and made him nervous. It had -usually been so easy to see through Camelia, and he did not like the -perplexity. Still, the thought that she hesitated pleased him; she would -accept Arthur, doubtlessly, but at least she would imagine that she -cared for him. Camelia had gained some moral value in his eyes from that -pause. - -"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, feeling -delightedly that the atmosphere was much less chilling than usual. - -"The man wants to please you." - -"Well, and what then?" - -"He expects to marry you." - -"Nonsense!" she said with a laugh of truest sincerity. - -"Tell him that you are engaged to Arthur, and see." Perior's curiosity -made that little probe, and the eyes of both showed a mutual -self-consciousness; both thought of the last scene in the morning-room. - -"I can't make the experiment yet, even to please you," said Camelia, -satisfied that her cheeks showed no rising color. "Mr. Rodrigg is really -attached to me. He would do a great deal for me." - -"Your smile for all reward." - -"Exactly." - -"You are a goose, Camelia." - -But she was pleasing him; her conceit amused him almost tenderly, and he -laughed. - -"You think me fatuous, no doubt," said Camelia, laughing too. - -"Yes, rather fatuous. Not as clear-sighted as usual." - -"Mr. Rodrigg knows that I could never marry him," said Camelia more -gravely; "he can only hope for my smile, and, if he helps me through, I -shall always smile." - -"I don't credit Mr. Rodrigg with the faintest flavor of such humility." - -Camelia's smile, confidently unconvinced, now shifted to a humorous -little grimace. "He never really hoped. As though I _could_ have married -a man with a nose like that!" - -"I maintain that he does so hope--despite his nose; an excellently -honest nose it is too." - -"So broad at the tip! as though he had flattened it against adverse -forces all his life. It is a plebeian trait, an inheritance from -money-getting ancestors who held theirs conscientiously to the -grindstone." - -"Mine should show the peculiarity," and Perior rubbed it, "it has been -ground persistently." - -"Ah--a merely acquired tendency; besides, you are not going to ask me to -marry you--so you may carry your nose fearlessly." Camelia's eye, -despite the light audacity of her tone, fixed him with a certain alert -hardness. - -Perior bowed, his hand on his heart. "Thanks for the intimation. I shall -carry it quite fearlessly, I assure you." - -Camelia laughed. "But I like your nose," said she, leaning towards him; -and, very much as a kitten gives a roguish paw-tap, she drew a finger -briskly down the feature in question. - -Perior grew a little red, and drew back rather sharply. - -"What a staid person you are," said Camelia, quite unabashed; "you don't -take a compliment gracefully, Alceste; not that it was a compliment, -exactly, since your nose is not at all handsome; a poor thing but to my -taste. I like its dominant ruggedness, and that nice lift in the -bridge." - -"Well, Camelia, I came to take Mary out riding, you know," said Perior, -who still showed signs of uneasiness under her scrutiny. - -"Yes, I know; you are so good to Mary. She is getting ready." - -Camelia contemplated Perior's paternal relation towards Mary most -unsuspectingly, yet she really did not like it. She could not like -anything that withdrew a very important tributary from the river-like -receptivity of her existence. Mary's narrow channel was quite unmeet for -such a complimentary contribution, and Camelia was sincerely convinced -of the mere charitableness of Perior's attitude. Then, above all, Perior -was her own especial property; Mary might profit by him when she did not -feel the want of him, and this afternoon she wanted him--very much, as -it now struck her. To have sacrificed her ride for this bare ten minutes -had been hardly worth while. She had not looked beyond the impulse of -the moment, and the lonely hours stretched in long inconsistency before -her. She thought of them now with some surprised dismay, and her eyes, -still contemplating Perior's nose, grew vague with conjecture. Perior -certainly, despite his latter severity, would rather spend his afternoon -with her than with Mary. He could not own to it, of course, nor would -she force him to such an issue; but it might be managed--pleasantly for -every one, for all three. Camelia's life, so wide in its all embracing -objectivity, had little time for self-analysis, little time therefore -for putting herself in other people's places. Her lack of sympathy was -grounded on a lack of all self-knowledge. Therefore her mind turned the -matter quickly in the direction that best suited the desire of the -moment, good and bad being to Camelia external facts that either pleased -or displeased herself, and she said without one inner compunction, -"Shall I hurry her up? And I must see that she puts her hat on properly. -Mary has an unerring instinct for the unbecoming." - -"Has she?" said Perior, in the tone that Camelia well understood as -being altogether unencouraging and perhaps disgusted. "Don't hurry her. -I can wait." - -"See how unkindly I dress my best impulses," said Camelia, smiling. "I -really want to help her, and to make her smart and tidy. A few touches -of my fingers about Mary's unfurnished forehead, and her face assumes a -certain grace and prettiness. Alceste, you must not take my flippancy -_au grand sérieux_--you are in danger of becoming ridiculous, Alceste, I -warn you of it." She had certainly succeeded in making "Alceste" smile, -and with a reassured and reassuring wave of the hand she left him, -delighted with her own ability for forcing him to swallow her -naughtinesses--for swallow them he must; she would feign nothing for -him; she would exaggerate even the defects he saw so solemnly. She was -quite sure now that she must not be left alone, and that Perior must -spend the afternoon with her. She ran upstairs quickly, conscious of -how prettily she sprang from stair to stair, of how charmingly with its -silk and muslin rustle her white dress swayed about her, conscious even -of the distinguished elegance of her white hand gliding up the hand -rail; for Camelia had always time for these æsthetic notes, and her -grace, her dress, and her hand were so many reasons for keeping Perior -to admire them. Mary was quite ready, and looking really nice; a pretty -color, and the dull fairness of her hair smoothed neatly beneath her -hat. - -Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed -aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the -barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that -Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of -appreciation. - -Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the -threshold. - -"Were you going with them? They are gone, dear!" - -Mary turned from the mirror, her habit skirt falling from her arm; on -her face a dismal astonishment, that Camelia, absorbed in the mental -completion of her arrangement, hardly noticed. - -"Sir Arthur, Gwendolen, the others--you were going out with them." She -scarcely knew why she hedged her position with this pretence of -ignorance. But Mary's face brightened happily. - -"Oh no, Mr. Perior is going with me. You haven't seen him, then. He came -for me." - -Camelia had the barrel-organ all in readiness, and prepared to roll it -forward without delay. - -"Oh! did he? Well, Mary, I have another plan for you this afternoon, -you will like it just as well, I know. I promised Mrs. Grier to make -that charitable round of visits to her poor people with her this -afternoon. We were to go to the almshouses, and I have a basket of -sweets for the children in Copley, and now I must give up going because -of this dreadful headache, and knowing that nothing would please you -more----." - -It was quite true that Camelia had made the appointment with Mrs. Grier, -but on agreeing to go out riding with Sir Arthur, she had intended to -ride to Mrs. Grier's house and make charming apologies--of which Sir -Arthur's tyrannous monopoly would bear the brunt. By her present plan -both Mary and Mrs. Grier would be pleased. She congratulated herself on -her thoughtful dexterity. Mary liked Mrs. Grier so much, liked -almshouses and poor children, and especially liked the distributing of -goodies among them; Mary gained everything by the little shuffle, and -she was not at all prepared for a certain stiffening and hardening in -her cousin's expression. "It is a lovely basket, and tea and curates -galore," she added, turning on the final roulade of the barrel-organ, -rather wondering, for the coldness of Mary's look was apparent, though -Camelia did not divine the underlying confusion. - -Mary was well trained in self-abnegation, but she turned her eyes away -without replying for a moment: "Could you not send word to Mrs. Grier?" -she asked. - -Camelia felt quite a shock of surprise at the tone, and a sense of -injury that hardened her in advance against possible opposition. - -"Oh, it is too late, my dear--she would be terribly disappointed--and -the children--and the tea prepared for me--the people invited. Why, -Mary, don't you want to go?" - -"I wanted the ride," said Mary in a low voice; and growing very red she -added, "I am afraid Mr. Perior will think me rude." - -"Oh, I will make your excuses!" Camelia, in all the impetus of her -desire, was much vexed by this ungrateful doggedness. - -"Mr. Perior and I could ride over and explain," Mary added. - -Camelia had never met in her cousin such opposition, and a certain -dryness mingled with the real grievance in her voice as she said-- - -"Is your heart so set on this ride, Mary? Mr. Perior will take you out -again, and you know that the pleasure is always rather one-sided, since -he particularly likes a good gallop across country. It isn't quite like -you, I think, to disappoint a friend like Mrs. Grier--you are so fond of -Mrs. Grier, I thought." - -During this speech Mary's face grew crimson. Setting her lips, she began -quickly to draw off her gloves; Camelia felt suddenly a sense of -discomfort. - -"You will enjoy it, I am sure, Mary." - -Mary made no reply, and silently unbuttoned her coat. - -"I beg of you, Mary, not to go if you are going to feel aggrieved about -it. I do not see what I am to do. I thought it would be quite a treat -for you." - -"Thanks, Camelia." - -"You will go, then?" - -"Oh yes, Camelia." - -Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she -could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the -unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She -lingered, however. - -"You are right to keep on that straw hat--it is very becoming to you. -Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make -conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table. -Shall I order the dog-cart for you?" - -"Thanks very much, Camelia." - -"Mary, you make me feel--horridly!" - -Camelia could not check that impulse. "Do you _mind_? You see that I -can't get out of it; you see that it wouldn't do--don't you? I hope you -don't really _mind_." - -"Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless--very -ungrateful." The conventional humility rasped Camelia's discontent. "And -you will tell Mr. Perior?--you will explain?" - -"Yes, yes, dear." - -Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left -her with the assurance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly. -But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the -stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had -been decidedly spoiled by the candle's unmanageable smoking and -guttering. Mary's decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for -feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of petty -falsities for which Perior would have scorned her. - -Remembering that to account comfortably for Mary's absence she must lie -to him, she came to a sudden standstill outside the door of the -morning-room. How badly she had managed everything! She did not want to -lie to him. Why had not Mary been delighted to go--as she should have -been? Only the thought of Mary's general disagreeableness fortified her -a little. - -Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor, -as she entered. - -"Oh, Camelia," he said disappointedly. - -"Only Camelia." She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing -red. - -"Where is Mary?" - -"I have come to make Mary's excuses. She can't go--is so sorry." With an -effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that -to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the -matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her -credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching. - -"Can't go?" he repeated staring. "Why she sent me word that she would be -ready in twenty minutes." - -"She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone--" -(it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), "but couldn't -because of my headache--I have a horrible headache. I would have put her -off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round -of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children, and afterwards -tea and curates galore--" Camelia realized that with a confused -uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. "Mary likes tea -and likes curates," she went on, pushed even further by that sense of -confusion--she had never told her old friend so many lies, "and the -curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a -choice among them." Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny -for suspicion, yet Perior still stared. - -"What a vacuous look!" laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been -forced to cross quite so many Rubicons. - -"I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself--as usual," he said -slowly. - -"Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against -half-a-dozen curates--reinforced by tea and sandwiches?" - -"Mary likes our rides immensely--and I never saw any signs of a fondness -for curates." - -"No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the -Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined." - -Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, "I don't -think she is looking over well--you know her father died of -consumption." - -"Don't; he was my uncle!" Camelia exclaimed. "Still, my chest is as -sound as a drum." She gave it a reassuring thump. - -"That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary's?" - -She looked at him candidly. - -"You foolish, fussy old person! Mary is solidly, stolidly well; who -could associate the lilies and languors of illness with Mary? You are -trying to poetize Mary's prose to worry me, but you can't rhyme it, I -assure you." - -"I don't know about that!" Perior was again, for a moment, silent. "I -don't think Mary has a very gay time of it," he said, speaking with a -half nervous resolution, as though he had often wished to speak and kept -back the words. "She doesn't go out much with you in London, does she?" - -Camelia did not like his tone, but she replied with lightness, "Not -much, Mary is a home-keeping body. She is not exactly fitted for worldly -gaieties, and she understands it perfectly." - -"How trying for Mary"--the nervousness was quite gone now--once he had -broached a delicate subject Perior could handle it with little -compunction. - -"Mary is very happy, if you please. She adores me, and is devoted to -Mamma. Mamma is certainly nicer to her than I am--that is an affair of -temperament, for Mary does bore me tremendously--I think she knows that -she does, but she adores me, since I don't deserve it--the way of the -world--a horrid place--I don't deny it." - -"Happy Mary! allowed to adore your effulgence--but at a distance--since -she bores you, and knows she does!" And over his collar Camelia could -observe that Perior's neck had grown red. She joined him at the window, -and said, looking up at his face-- - -"Why do you force me to such speeches? I am not responsible for the -inequalities of nature--though I recognize them so cold-bloodedly. The -contrast does not hurt her, for she is a good, contented little soul, -and then--for nature does give compensations--she has no keen -susceptibilities;" she locked her hands on his shoulder, and smiling at -him, "Come, you know that I am fond of Mary. You should have seen how -prettily I arranged her hair to-day--it would have softened your heart -towards me. Come, we are not going to quarrel again." - -Perior's eye turned on her, certainly softened in expression, "By no -means, I hope," and he smiled a little, "especially as I must be -off--since I have missed my ride." - -Camelia's face at this unlooked-for consummation took on an expression -of sincerest dismay. - -"Going! you will leave me all alone! They have all gone!" - -Perior laughed, looking at her now with the same touch of irrepressible -pleasure she could usually count on arousing. - -"Poor little baby! and it has a headache, too?" - -"Yes, it has; please stay with it." - -She was quite sure that he wanted to stay; indeed, Camelia's certainty -of Perior's fundamental fondness for her was an article of faith -untouched by doubt. - -"Very well, you want to show off your dress, I see." Perior's smile in -its humoring coyness was charming; Camelia felt that she quite adored -him when he so smiled at her. "A very pretty dress it is; I have been -taking it in." - -"And we will have tea in the garden," said Camelia, in tones of happy -satisfaction, "and you will see how good I am--when you are good to me. -And I'll tell you all about the people who are coming--for I must have -more of them--droves of them; in batches, artistic batches, 'smart' -batches, intellectual batches, political batches. You and I will look at -them." - -"Thanks; you don't limit me to a batch then?" - -They were still standing near the window, and she kept a hand on his -shoulder, and looked at him now with the gravity that made her face so -strange. - -"No, dear Alceste, you know I don't." - -He returned her look, smiling with a little constraint. - -"We must be more together," Camelia went on, "we must take up our -studying. No, Mr. Rodrigg, I can't walk with you this morning, I am -reading the Agamemnon with Mr. Perior." Camelia's eyes, mouth, the -delicately long lines of her cheek, quivered with the half malicious, -half tender smile that tilted every curve and every shadow from calm to -roguery. - -"How Mr. Rodrigg will hate me, to be sure," said Perior, who at that -moment felt that he would like to kiss his bunch of primroses--an -illusion of dewiness possessed him. - -"And now for tea under the copper beech. And I will read to you. What -shall I read? It will be quite like old days!" - -"When we were young together," said Perior, smiling at her so fondly -that she felt deliciously reassured as to everything. - -The gods always helped a young lady who helped herself. Such had been -Camelia's experience in life, even when she helped herself to other -people's belongings. - -At all events, with hardly a qualm of conscience, Camelia enjoyed the -afternoon she had wrested from poor Mary. - -The tea-table was duly installed under the wide shade of the -copper-beech. Perior carried out an armful of books and reviews from -which to choose. They drank their tea and ate their bread and butter, -and Camelia read aloud from the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. And it cannot -be denied that Perior, sitting in the cool green shadow, listening to -the perfect French accent, looking at the white figure sprinkled with -the pale shifting gold that filtered through the leaves above them, -enjoyed himself a great deal more than he would have done with Mary. -Truly at times the way of transgressors is very easy. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -But retribution followed Camelia's manoeuvre. On the advent of Mr. -Rodrigg, very red and hot after a long country walk with Lord Haversham -(who also had axes to grind), Perior said good-bye, remounted his horse, -and rode off. It was six o'clock, a warmly rosy evening. The hot gold -was gone, but in the sunset influences there was a certain oppression. -Perior yawned and rode slowly along the strip of turf that bordered the -dusty road. But though he felt physically very indolent, his mind was -delightfully alert, weaving busily, with a sense of freedom and -joyousness, a web of hopeful imaginings, swinging the illusive, -intangible filaments from point to point of the afternoon's experience. -Nothing, in his estimation, could raise Camelia much above the level to -which that cluster of frivolous lies had sunk her; his very heart ached -when he thought of them--especially of the lie to Arthur; but the tears -of last week, though his reason denied their influence, had in reality -touched, surprised, and softened him, and made him hopeful. And now came -the smiles, the sincerity, the sweetness of this afternoon; he could not -distrust them. The idealist impulse--the master mood of his nature, -though reined in so often by bitter experience, began to evolve an ell -from the supposititious inch of excellence. The possibility of moral -worth; the implication of some real rectitude of soul, that her truth to -him seemed to justify; the formative power of a real affection for -Arthur: so Perior wove his spider web, working as the spider does, from -the merest foothold, and bridging chasms with a shining thread of trust. - -Yet alas! for Camelia--that afternoon had certainly been a bungling -piece of mismanagement, a covetous snatching at the present, a foolhardy -forgetting of the future. - -Perior met Mary returning in the dog-cart. He had not forgotten Mary, -nor his suspicions of self-sacrifice. He turned his horse's head again -and proposed to ride back with her. Yes, he had plenty of time; and in -assuring her of it he smiled his kindest smile, and the pony and the -horse fell into a walk. The hours under the copper-beech, with Camelia's -white dress, and Camelia's shining head to look at, had seemed -delightfully cool and pleasant, yet the autumn afternoon had been a hot -one, and Mary's face was flushed, tired, and to her own knowledge, even -a little tremulous. - -"Did you have a nice afternoon?" he asked her. - -"Oh, very, thanks," the habit of submissive gratitude was too strong to -be mastered at the first moment, though she added, "Camelia told you how -_sorry_ I was?" - -"Yes, but I am still wounded. I did not think you would have deserted me -for the babies of Copley." - -It was rather useless to attempt humor with Mary, for even he could -interpret as alarmed and distressed the look of her face as it turned -to him. - -"Oh! but I did not want to go!" she exclaimed; "you know that! Camelia -wished it--she had a headache, and said Mrs. Grier expected her, so, -though I was quite ready for our ride, looking forward to it so much, I -had to go; but I didn't want to--indeed I was dreadfully disappointed--" -And then suddenly the sense of injury, of resentment, of dismay at -herself that she should wish to display that resentment--should wish to -retaliate for humiliations too deep for display, getting altogether the -better of her, two large tears--and Mary had been swallowing tears all -the afternoon--rolled suddenly down her cheeks and splashed upon her -dusty gloves. - -"Why, Mary! _Mary!_" said Perior, aghast. - -She searched for her handkerchief in hasty confusion. "How silly I am! I -can't help it; it has been so hot, I am so tired." - -"My poor child!" But Perior was more stricken than the sympathy of his -tone made manifest. His pity sprang comprehendingly to Mary, but a -deeper emotion underlay it. It was as if Mary had thrust that dusty -dog-skin glove right through his beautiful, fragile spider web, and as -he was dashed from his illusion his thoughts gathered themselves in -quick bitter avengefulness. - -"You were ready? dressed, you say?" he was already sure of Camelia's -falseness, but he wished to define it, to see just how much she had -lied, to see just how far went her heartlessness. - -"Yes," Mary could not restrain the plaintive note, though she was -drying her eyes in a sort of terror over her weakness. - -"And Camelia forced you to go?" - -"Oh, don't think that!" Mary had thought it, but the words spoken by him -shocked her. "She did not know how much I had set my heart on the ride, -and it would have been a pity had Mrs. Grier been disappointed. That is -what Camelia thought of--" and Mary quite believed Camelia as far as -that went; but the cruel manner of discharging her duty! the deep injury -of the forces brought to bear! The memory of them rose irrepressibly, -poignantly. - -"How considerate of Camelia!" Perior's anger made any careful analysis -of Camelia's motives impossible. She had shirked an irksome duty, and -kept him to entertain her laziness. The latter fact did not in the least -mollify him; it was of a piece with her grasping selfishness, Mary's -pleasure not weighing a feather's weight against the momentary wish. She -had gone to "hurry" Mary, and on her return from the cousinly little -errand, had given him the impression of Mary's uninfluenced change of -plan--even implying curates as its cause! Liar! The word almost choked -him as he kept it down, for he did not want Mary to know her a liar. - -"She went to your room to ask you to go?" he pursued, choosing a safe -question. - -But his persistence aroused in Mary a certain dim suspicion. - -"Yes," she said; "she was surprised to see me dressed. She did not know -I was going with you." The very force of her inner resentment--a hating -resentment, as she felt with terror--made her grasp at an at least -outward loyalty. But hardly had she spoken the words when the suspicion, -definite, tingling with probability, leaped upon her. She looked quickly -at Perior. He was white to the lips. This revelation fairly silenced -him. He put his horse to the trot, and the dog-cart, hastening its pace, -kept beside him. - -Mary could hardly have spoken. Her mind was in a whirl of broken, -distracted thoughts, that only grew to coherence when the wave-like -conviction of Camelia's mean robbery broke over her. - -Perior's scorning rage meanwhile hurried forward to wreak itself on -Camelia; he was conscious only of its scorching. - -They reached the park gates in silence; then Mary was able to say, "Are -you coming in?" - -"Yes, I will come in for a moment." - -"You--you won't say anything about--my silliness?" - -"My dear Mary, I must speak to Camelia; but you have accused her of -nothing, nor shall she think you have. I will come for you to-morrow," -he added as he helped her down from the dog-cart at the door; "we will -have our ride. Don't be persuaded out of it either. Let other people do -their own charities. It won't harm them." - -Lady Paton was in the hall, a cool, gentle embodiment of the evening. -"Mary brought you back?--You are going to dine, Michael?" she asked. - -"No; I only want to see Camelia for a moment." - -"I have just come from her. She is with Mr. Rodrigg, talking politics," -and Lady Paton's smile implied the softest pride in Camelia's prowess in -that pursuit. "She says you have had an old-time afternoon, reading -together. You must take up your reading again, Michael--for the time -that she is left to us." - -Mary, going slowly up the stairs, bent her head as she heard, "Yes: he -had stayed with Camelia all the afternoon." He did not care to ride with -her--no, for all his kindness, the pleasure of the rides was poisoned -forever. That was the thought that, at the sight of him, had cut her to -the quick, bringing the tears to her eyes. More than Camelia's lie, -Camelia's cruelty in dealing her that humiliation, burned. When she -thought of it the blackness of her own heart terrified her. She felt -that she hated Camelia, and when she reached her room, she bolted the -door and fell on her bed in an agony of weeping. - -Camelia perhaps counted a little too confidently upon Mary's "adoration" -for her. To Mary, Camelia had always seemed the bright personification -of beauty, cleverness, joy. She had wondered at her, rather than admired -her. Her attitude of mind had been as that of a child staring at the -unattainable moon, shining silvery-gold, and sailing far above in a wide -clear sky. - -She had seldom been conscious in the past of any slight or injury. Her -most constant feeling was one of quiet duty. Camelia's little kindnesses -surprised her; her unkindnesses she took as a matter of course. But now, -in this dreadful clash of ill-matched interests, her life against -Camelia's game, all the sense of duty, of gratitude, of admiration, -went down in black shipwreck. She found that they had been flimsy -things, after all, that under their peaceful surface there had been for -many weeks a lava-like heaving of resentment. And the worst terror was -to see her life bereft of all supports--to see it unblessed, all hatred -and despair. For even at the moment she could judge herself, measure how -much she had lost in losing her blind humility--that at least gave calm -and a certain self-respect--could accuse herself of injustice. Camelia -had lied; but then Camelia could never have divined the rash folly of -Mary's secret--must never divine it; and the cruel humiliation of that -one blighting intimation of Perior's charity hurt more than the lie; and -Camelia's ignorance of the hurt she had inflicted only made it ache the -more. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -Meanwhile Perior marched off to the garden. He passed through the -morning-room where Mrs. Fox-Darriel was writing. - -"So you didn't get your ride either?" said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, who had her -own reasons--and not at all complex ones--for disliking Mr. Perior. "It -_was_ rather hot." - -Perior in his indifference did not even divine the suspicion that saw in -his arrival, and Camelia's defection and amusing headache, a -portentousness threatening to the object she had set her heart upon. - -Perior replied shortly, and it was with very little love that she -watched him walk over the lawn. Camelia really was a fool, and who knew -how far her folly might not go. - -Camelia was still under the copper-beech, and still talking to Mr. -Rodrigg. Perior perforce acknowledged her innocence of flirtatious -methods. Her earnest pose--elbows on the arm of her chair, hands -clasped, head gravely intent--denoted the seriousness with which she -took her rôle. - -Mr. Rodrigg's smile might have warned her. He balanced a teaspoon neatly -on his cup, and looked from it to her, vastly unimpressed as to the real -purport of the conversation. - -Perior's mood was too miserable, too savage, to allow him more than a -mere dart of cynical amusement at her folly. Camelia turned her head, -surprised at seeing him. Smiling a complacent little smile she patted -the chair beside her. - -"So you came back after all." - -"Yes." The nipped monosyllable, like a sudden _douche_ of icy water, -told her that since he had left her their relations had changed, and -changed very much for the worse. Her conjectures sprang immediately to -Mary. Bother Mary! what had she said? But at the thought of what she -might have said Camelia knew that her heart was shaking. Her look, on a -first impulse, would have been entreating, but in the presence of a -third person it grew cold in answer to his, and she turned again to Mr. -Rodrigg. - -"Go, on, please; I want your answer. I have still that one fallacy to -demolish, you know." - -Mr. Rodrigg observed Perior affably; he was a really important opponent. -"Miss Paton wishes, I believe, to institute a sort of eighteenth century -rôle for women in politics," he said, "the rôle that obtained in France -during that ominous century. She expects to rule England through her -_causeries_." - -"Indeed, I fancy that England would be very prettily ruled!" said -Camelia, laughing. - -Perior switched the dust on his boots and made no reply. - -"You have been reading, I hear," Mr. Rodrigg continued, seizing -gratefully the chance of escaping from the bill, "a very interesting -number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. I looked at it a day or two -since: the serial romance is quite a new departure in style. There is -certainly new leaven working in French literature. The revolt from -naturalism is very significant, very interesting, though some of the -extremes of opposition, such as symbolism, tend to become as unhealthy." - -"Symbolism, mysticism, in the modern naturalistic French writer, is -merely the final form of decadence," Camelia observed with some -sententiousness, feeling Perior's silent presence as an impulsion -towards artificiality in tone and manner, "the irridescent stage of -decay--pardon me for being nasty--but they are so nasty! I have had -quite enough of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_--so to business, Mr. -Rodrigg." But though Camelia was quite willing to ignore the new-comer, -Mr. Rodrigg insisted on dragging him into the running, until at last, -perceiving a most unencouraging unwillingness, he rose and left him to -the _tête-à-tête_ for which he had evidently returned, going off to the -house very good-humoredly. Perior's position was altogether unique, and -not one of Camelia's lovers gave his intimacy a thought. - -As Mr. Rodrigg's wide back disappeared through the morning-room windows -Camelia turned her head to Perior. - -"Well," she said, leaning back in her chair and putting her finger-tips -together with a pleasantly judicial air, "what have you to say? You look -very glum." - -"I met Mary, Camelia." - -"Ah! Did she have a good afternoon?" - -"No; I fancy it was as dull to her as it would have been to you." - -"Impossible. Mary loves such things; besides, I do not find them dull." - -Perior looked at her. - -"What a liar you are," he said. If hate and scorn could wither, Camelia -felt they would then have withered her; she quite recognized them in his -tone. - -But she was able to say with apparent calm--not crediting the endurance -of those unkind sentiments towards her, "indeed; you have called me that -before." - -"Will you deny," said Perior, looking at her with his most icy -steadiness--Camelia keeping her eyes on his, and feeling that for the -moment the best thing she could do was to hold firmly to their calm and -luminous directness of expression--"will you deny that you went up to -ask Mary to take your place? that you found her ready to go with me? -that you pretended not to know that I had come for her?--she let that -out in excusing you from my disgust!--didn't suspect you!--that to me -you pretended she had gone to Mrs. Grier's of her own accord?" - -The withering had begun to operate. Camelia felt his outward and her -inner press of feeling vanquishing the mild inquiry of her look. She -dropped her eyes. "Will you tell me why you take the trouble to debase -yourself--for such a trifle?" - -Camelia gazed at the grass. She had cried when he accused her unjustly; -but now that her own hurrying, searching thoughts could find no -loop-hole for denial she felt no wish to cry. She was not touched, but -silenced, quelled. The enormity of her misdeeds made her thoughtful, now -that they were put so plainly before her. She felt herself contemplating -the sum of lies with an almost impersonal curiosity. - -"Camelia!" The odd pitch of his voice, sharp with a sudden, -uncontrollable emotion, made her look up. - -He rose, paused, looking back at her. "You are breaking my heart," he -said. He had not intended to say it, nor known the truth that now came -imperatively to his lips. How she had hurt him, after all! He felt that -he was almost appealing to her, that indignation, scorn, hatred of her -baseness, were as nothing compared with that appeal--not to hurt him; -and he grew very white. An answering pang shot through Camelia's -heart--whether pain, pity, or triumph she could not have told; but she -said quickly, her eyes rounded in unfamiliar solemnity, still on his-- - -"Breaking your heart?" - -"I care for you," said Perior; "I only ask for a mere cranny, where a -friendly tenderness might find foothold--one ray of sincerity, of -honor--to make me feel that my fondness for you is not a--a -contemptible, a weakening folly. It's as if you dashed me down on the -rocks--just as I fancy I've found something to hold on by!" he spoke -brokenly, clutching and unclutching his hands on his riding cane. "And I -have to watch you dragging yourself through the dustiest meannesses; -would I care if it was another woman!--no--let her be contemptible, -ugly, puny, I could give it a laugh--one can only laugh; but you! to be -fond of you! to watch you growing more and more greedy, soulless; a -liar, a flatterer! Oh, it makes me sick!" - -Camelia had again lowered her eyelids, but her eyes stared, startled at -the grass. A creeping coldness went through the roots of her hair; she -knew that her face was pale. For quite a long time there was perfect -silence. - -"To rob that poor child of her little pleasure," Perior said at last, -"to lie to her--to me; and for what? What use had you for me? Were you -so anxious to read me the _Revue des Deux Mondes_? _Why_ did you lie?" - -"I don't know," said Camelia feebly. - -"_You don't know?_" he repeated. - -"No--I thought Mary would not mind. I thought she would like to go." - -"And you left me intending to ask her?" - -"Yes." - -"Telling me you were going to hurry her?" - -"Yes." - -"Pretending to her that you did not know I had come for her?" - -"Yes." There was an impulse struggling in Camelia's heart--frightening -her--but worse than fright, the thought of not freeing it. "One ray of -sincerity." Mary had been noble enough not to tell him--she must be -noble enough to tell. - -"More than that--" she added, feeling her very breath leave her. - -"More!" - -"Yes; I let Mary think you would rather stay with me;--that you didn't -care to ride with her----" - -"_Camelia!_" They were in full view of the house, but his hand fell -heavily upon her shoulder; and so he stood for a long moment, too much -stupefied by the confession to find another word. - -But Camelia took a long breath of recovery; sighed with it, and felt the -blood come back gratefully to her heart. - -"But why?--why?--why?" Perior said at last, in a voice from which anger -seemed to have ebbed despairingly away, leaving only an immense and -wondering sadness, "_Why_, Camelia?" - -A faint, appealing little sparkle lit her face as she glanced up at him; -that weight gone, all the buoyancy of her nature rose, ready to win -smiles and rewarding looks of caressing encouragement. - -"I wanted to read you the _Revue des Deux Mondes_." - -He stared at her, baffled and miserable. - -"And though I was a viper--it was true, wasn't it? You _would_ rather -stay with me." - -"Yes, no doubt I would," said Perior with a gloom half dazed. - -"And you see I did want you so much! Mary could not have wanted you -nearly so much! Why, I gave up my ride to stay with you! I had no -headache!" she announced the fact quite joyously; "I simply thought -suddenly how nice it would be to spend the afternoon with you--like old -days--when we were young together! I really thought Mary would prefer -Mrs. Grier--really I did! And once embarked on a fib--for I did not want -her to think that I cared so much to have you--I had to go on--they all -came one after the other," said Camelia, dismally now, "and even when I -saw how disappointed she was I hardened my heart in its selfishness--a -perfect devil, of course; yes, I see quite well that I was a devil. So -there is the truth for you. Really the truth. More than _one ray of -sincerity_, is it not? And I need not have told you, since good old Mary -was such a trump. There! I have lain down under your feet--and you may -scrub your boots on me if you want to!" - -"Alas, Camelia!" said Perior. He sat down again. Her confession had -indeed forced upon him a certain resignation. For some moments he did -not speak. "I believe I am the only person in the world to whom you -would humble yourself like this," he said at last. "I am a convenient -father-confessor for you. You find yourself more comfortable after -dumping your load of sins on me. It's a corner in your psychology I've -never quite understood--another little twist of egotism my mind is too -blunt to penetrate. I am not worth while deceiving--is that it?" and as -her eyes rested on his in mute, but unmistakable pain, he added, the -note of resignation deepened, "You do not repent, that is evident. You -confess; but it is very much as if I particularly hated dirty -finger-nails, and to please my fastidiousness you washed yours." - -"I might have hidden them," Camelia murmured, glancing down at the -translucent pink and white of those _objets d'art_. - -"Yes, you might; that is your advantage. The speck of dirt worried you, -knowing my taste. The matter to you is just about on that level of -seriousness. You are not sorry for Mary; you are merely preening -yourself for me. It is that; your heartlessness, your selfishness, your -hard indifference to other people's feelings that makes me despair of -you. For I do despair of you." - -"Am I so heartless, so selfish, so hard?" - -"I am afraid you are." - -"And it breaks your heart?" - -Perior laughed shortly. - -"Ah; you find compensation in that! I shall survive, Camelia. I have -managed to survive a great many disagreeable experiences." - -"And I am one. Don't you feel a little more kindly towards me? Are you -not a little flattered by the realization that my misdeeds arose -entirely from my affection for you?" Camelia smiled sadly, adding, "It's -quite true." - -"You want to monopolize me, as you monopolize everything, Camelia. If -there was a cat that did not devote itself exclusively to you, you would -woo the cat. In this case I am the cat." - -"Dear cat!" she stretched out her hand and put it on his arm. "May I -stroke you, cat?" - -"No, thanks. You shall not enthral me." He rose as he spoke. "Good-bye." - -"Good-bye? Will you not stay to dine?" - -"No; I am in no dining humor." - -"Haven't you forgiven me--absolved me--one little bit?" - -"Not one little bit, Camelia." - -His farewell look she felt to be steeled against her in its -resoluteness, though weak in its long dwelling. She knew that when he -was gone the resoluteness would remain with him; the weakness would -leave him with his departure from her presence. She enthralled him by -the mere fact of being before him, baffling and exquisite; therefore he -was leaving her. There was an air of finality in his very way of turning -from her in silence. She watched him walk away over the lawn, and sat on -in the dusk. She was a little dazed, and an evening dreaminess veiled -from her the poignancy of her own fear. She evaded it, too, by the -thought: he cares so much, so much. Then, too, what difference did it -make? She could always wrap herself, in case of a shivering emergency, -in that cloak of carelessness; but the fact of his caring so very much -kept her now from shivering. When she went into the house at last she -found Mrs. Fox-Darriel still alone in the morning-room. - -"My dear Camelia," she said, looking round at her young friend, "when -next you submit to being shaken by Mr. Perior, I really would choose a -more secluded spot. The whole house might have been staring at you; and -I can assure you that the spectacle you offered was highly ludicrous. A -rabbit in an eagle's claws." - -"And, really, if I choose to be whipped up and down the drive by Mr. -Perior, I shall do it, Frances, notwithstanding your disapproval." -Camelia was in no temper for smarting advice. - -"The man is insufferable," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, "_il porte sa tête -comme un saint sacrement_; provincial apostolics. Your flattering wish -to please him is not at all in character." - -"Your knowledge of my character, Frances, is very restricted," Camelia -replied, walking away to her room. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Camelia during the next few days was conscious of an expectant pause. -There was a page to be turned. She kept her own hand from it; for a day -or two, at least, she would not stir a finger; and if Perior chose to -turn it, the turning bound her to nothing--would probably reveal mere -blankness, whereon he might inscribe an affectionate dedication for her -new life. In that case the new chapter would be hymeneal; indeed, it -seemed inevitable that she should marry Arthur Henge; the waiting volume -seemed inevitably that of her married life. - -But her thoughts were not with Arthur. They fixed themselves -persistently on Perior. Let him come--write the friendly dedication, -certify, by his blessing, to the sincerity and wisdom of her choice; or -else, was it not possible that he might dash the volume out of her -hands? No doubt she would pick it up again. Still, to see him dash it -down would be eventful. Therefore, she waited, more breathlessly than -she quite realized. - -The last act of the drama had left her with no spite at all against -Mary--its chief but insignificant factor. She was not resentful on the -score of Mary's revelations; on the other hand, Mary's charitable -reticence did not move her to gratitude. After all, it was a very -explicable reticence; her own confession to Perior had lent it the -kindest glamour. For Mary to have told Perior all would have been a -humiliating plea for his negative; and the negative he could not have -given with sincerity. Mary had felt that. No; Camelia's analysis -disowned any obligation; but neither was she conscious of the least -anger. A mean revengefulness was not in her nature, she was as easy -towards Mary as towards herself; she quite saw that to Mary she must -have seemed horrid, and that perfectly atoned for the whines in which -poor Mary had probably indulged. She was sure the whines had not been -spiteful. She could imagine Mary injured, but not at all spiteful; and -on their first meeting after the portentous dressing-room scene, her -eyes rested in blankest serenity upon her cousin's flushed and miserable -face. - -She felt serenity and blankness to be tactful kindnesses, and they were -very easy. The thought of Mary hardly stirred her deep, still absorption -in the purely dual problem, for, after Mary's ride--and Camelia missed -him then--Perior did not come again. - -The trial of strength in silence, they the two opponents facing one -another for the test, filled her days with an excited sense of contest. -It was not made more complex by outer jars. Mr. Rodrigg was unavoidably -called away for a fortnight, and Sir Arthur might still be evaded, -though Lady Henge's brow had grown gloomy. Camelia rather enjoyed the -grave inquiry in the looks bent upon her by her future mamma (oh yes, -almost without doubt, future mamma); but she did not intend to brighten -them by the announcement of that fact until her own good time. Lady -Henge's gloom and Arthur's patience touched only the outer rings of her -consciousness. For Perior did not come. At the end of the first week her -patience was out-worn; the detachment of mere contemplation became -impossible. She essayed a flag of truce. Let it be peace, or, at all -events, more close, more keenly realized warfare. - -"Are you never coming to see me again?" she wrote. "Please do; I will be -good." - -Perior laughed over the document. It was merely the case of the cat -again dignified by its persistent absence. His reply was even more -laconic. "Can't come. Try to be good without me." The priggishness of -this pleased him, and would probably amuse her. He did not want to hurt -her. Neither did he intend that she should hurt him. She probably -guessed that. - -The note gave her a mingled thrill, anger and pleasure. That he should -not come showed more than the priggish intent to punish; that pedagogic -mask did not hide his fear; and that he should fear meant much. He -wanted to punish her, yes; and that he could succeed was very -intolerable; but that was his only strength, held to amidst a weakness -he would give her no chance to exploit. His cowardice was complimentary, -but since she was helpless against it Camelia was angry with her cat. -Strength, after all, is largely a matter of situation, and to stand in -the street vainly cajoling one's pet on the house-top gives one all the -emotions of acknowledged inferiority. To turn her back and walk away -was the natural impulse of Camelia's exasperated helplessness; she hoped -that the cat would watch her, and feel badly as she turned the corner, -for she determined to delay no longer decisions of far more importance, -as she assured herself, than the ridiculous dwelling on such a trifling -matter as a recalcitrant cat. The acceptance of Arthur Henge could be no -longer evaded after this fortnight of evasions, each turn and twist -leading her more inevitably to the centre of the labyrinth. Sir Arthur -could hardly have a doubt of the final answer, though its postponement -and her son's attitude of smiling patience might bring the gloom to Lady -Henge's forehead. - -"I do not like to see you played with, Arthur," she confessed; and her -look said as much to Camelia, who, in her absolute security, only -frolicked the more in her leafy circles. - -"I enjoy it, mother," Sir Arthur assured her, "it's a pretty game; she -enjoys it and so do I. She is cutting up a surprise cake, and I am sure -of her giving me the slice with the ring in it." - -"A rather undignified game, Arthur," said Lady Henge in a deep tone of -aggrievement, and Sir Arthur was sorry that Camelia, for the moment, had -effaced that first good impression; but he would not see that he was -aggrieved. He knew that he sat in the heart of the dear labyrinth, and -Camelia's peeps at him through the hedges, her slow advances and swift -retreats, were all charming, and not too bewildering when one was -trained to them. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel, however, was both aggrieved and impatient. Her long -visit bored her badly, and Camelia's smiling impenetrability irritated -her. Her impatience almost descended to grossness. - -"What a hostess you will make, Camelia, at Laversley Castle. I see you -on that background of Grinling Gibbons and Titian. To be almost the -richest, probably the cleverest, certainly the prettiest woman in -England. What a future! An unending golden vista--widening. And for a -base of operations, Laversley. Such tapestries, my dear, such -porcelains, such a library and park. All in the hollow of your hand." - -Camelia stretched it out. "Yes," she said, surveying its capabilities, -"I have only to close it." - -"You will close it, of course." - -"No doubt," said Camelia blandly, a blandness that snubbed and did not -satisfy her friend's grossness. - -But under the blandness something struggled. Must she close the hand? -Would no power outside her hold open and unstained by greed that pretty -palm? The absurdity of the accusation gave her the melancholy comfort of -an only half reassuring smile. Sir Arthur's excellence, not his -millions, had turned the scale; yet the accusation, for all its folly, -cut. And Perior did not come. He too joined forces with fate, made the -closing of the hand inevitable. She defied him with the sustaining -thought, "Sir Arthur is best, best in all. I close my hand on his heart -because no better heart could be offered me." - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -A week had passed since Perior had received the first pleading note from -Enthorpe, and one afternoon, when he was busy in his laboratory, another -arrived, more a command than a supplication. - -"Come at once. I must see you. I am very unhappy." - -Camelia indeed was very unhappy. She could hardly recognize or define -the unusualness of the unfamiliar sensation, and her ignorance helped to -hurt her, make her more bewildered under it. She had accepted Sir Arthur -that morning, hurried by no impulse, but conscious as she walked with -him in the garden of an ill-tempered recklessness, of a fate more easily -accepted than evaded uselessly. If he would have it--if every one would -have it, including herself, of course, let it be so. She said yes with -almost a sigh of exhausted energy, smiled with lifted brows over Sir -Arthur's ensuing rapture, and then wondered that under the lightness -with which she braved the decisive moment a sudden sickness of fear, of -sorrow, should seize her. Reality this, then. No more choice. No more -playing. The game ended. She was not being led into the Garden of Eden, -but out of it, and a new world, a world bleak, leaden, a sunless -immensity of dreariness stretched before her. She was frightened, and -the lesser feelings of the next hour were dazed by her effort to dismiss -this fear. She knew that her mother's tearful, speechless joy, Lady -Henge's elevated approbation, Mary's gasping efforts after fitting -phrases, Frances' cool, close-lipped little smile of satisfaction, and -the background of congratulatory faces were all very irritating, and -that she herself was unreasonably angry with them all. - -She was glad to find herself alone in the library with Sir Arthur, even -though strangely helpless before his joyous possessorship. His arm was -about her, and she could hear Lady Henge thundering on the piano in the -drawing-room. - -"The dear mater is improvising an epithalamium," said Arthur, with a -laugh. To Camelia it seemed cynically in keeping with her jarred and -jangled mood that her marriage should be interpreted by this pretentious -music. It symbolized so much. Her own flimsiness and falseness, the -immense distance from anything like perfect union. She turned her -thought to the attainable pleasures of the future, tried to shut her -soul on the lamenting ideal that Lady Henge's music mocked, and her mind -rested for a moment on the reassuring certainty of her own appreciation -of Sir Arthur's excellence. Strangely enough, though his possessorship -frightened, his arm about her waist consoled her; a warm sense of his -kindness and stability held her from inner terrors; she was glad to have -him there; she foresaw in solitude an on-coming and chilly stupor. She -felt it well to sit beside him, protected from her own fear by his -devoted nearness. "There now, you are smiling," said Sir Arthur; "you -seemed sad, as though you were conscious of responsibility--and didn't -like it." When he spoke of responsibility Camelia felt more keenly that -she had received an injury from fate. The "Yes" that had been spoken -only a few hours before had belonged to the game, was it quite fair that -this solemnity should result? Yet why not take it gaily? Force it into a -dancing ring of happy lightness? - -"Responsibility? Oh no, you can't saddle me with that!" she said, -returning his look, and smiling still more easily as she felt how much -his handsome face pleased her; its very expression, an unaccented, -humorous gaiety, worn for her sake, was a homage, a warrant of most -chivalrous comprehension. "You alone are responsible"--and following her -mental picture of the game of hide-and-seek in a Watteau landscape--"You -caught me--that was all!" - -"That was all!" he repeated; "and you were difficult to catch. Now that -you are caught I shall keep you." - -"No, I am not sad," Camelia pursued, "I only feel as if I had grown up -suddenly." - -"No, don't grow up. I must keep you always my laughing child." - -"Lady Henge wouldn't approve of that!" said Camelia, yielding to a -closer enfolding, but facilitating it by no gracious droopings. - -"Ah, mother loves you," said Sir Arthur, with a touch of added pride in -his capture. - -"Does she?" Camelia's brows lifted a little; the enfolding continuing -she was conscious enough of a dart of irritation to wish to add, "I -don't love her!" but after a kiss he released her and she checked the -naughty impulse, merely adding, with some perversity, keeping him now at -arm's length though she abandoned her hand for the purpose, "Would you -have dared to love me had she not?" - -"Camelia, you know that I did." The perversity had grieved him a little. -His clear brown eyes, that always reminded her of a dog's in their -widely opened sincerity, dwelt on her, questioning her intention. "She -did not know you, that was all." - -"Nor did you, quite." Camelia laughed at him gently, and put her hand on -his shoulder, half as a reward for the pang, half to still keep him -away. - -"No, not quite," Sir Arthur confessed, "though even my ignorance loved -you. But you let me know you at last." - -"But what _do_ you know?" Camelia persisted. - -"I know my laughing child." - -"Her faults the faults of a child?" - -"Has she faults?" - -"Oh, blinded man!" - -"The faults of a child, then," he assented. - -When he had left her, for he was to spend the day in London, there was a -lull after the stress of change. Camelia found herself in a solitude -wherein she might sit and meditate. Every one seemed to fall away from -her, and when she was left alone she was sorry for it, though it was she -who had withdrawn, not they. Lady Henge had talked to her for -half-an-hour, her arm affectionately, but heavily lying about her -shoulders, seeming in the massive embrace to claim her with a kindness -that knew itself as wiser than mere maternal emotionalism. The low -tones of her voice were impressive, and Camelia would have submitted to -the newly assumed manner of guardianship, of confidential admonition, -with a very ill grace, had not Lady Henge been now so truly indifferent -to her. - -Mary had been very tiresome, following her at a distance, wanting to -kiss her and cry. Mrs. Fox-Darriel's silent complacency was unendurable. -Camelia knew that in the new epoch her friend saw only a tightly-closed -fist, and this symbol affected her own imagination until she could have -shaken Mrs. Fox-Darriel for having suggested it. - -Then her mother had fallen upon her breast and wept. Camelia was ashamed -of herself for seeing in the great lovingness a Scriptural exaggeration; -and being ashamed of herself she was only the more anxious to get rid of -the maternal clinging. She ended by locking herself in her own room, -only to find that she had locked herself in with a melancholy that had -been stepping silently beside her since the morning. She would not look -this companion in the face, however. She was alone with it at last; but -she feverishly avoided its fixed eyes, and eagerly busied herself with -trivialities, a dramatic sense of courage animating all her actions. She -emptied and rearranged her wardrobes and boxes, folded ribbons with -intensest exactitude, introduced a new plan in the bestowal of her -gloves and handkerchiefs, and even found herself unpicking a summer hat -with a fictitious eagerness that implied an imperative want of that -particular hat in a new trimming. When the hat was quite demolished she -put it away, and polished her finger-nails, and, lastly, spent a -fatiguing half-hour before the looking-glass in essays at new ways of -hair-dressing. None were satisfactory, and with arms aching from their -long uplifting, she at last swept the shining tresses into their -accustomed lines, unlocked the door, and emerged deliberately, but with -a sense of flight. - -Every one had gone. The guests to golf at the Havershams; Mary, Lady -Paton, and Lady Henge for a long drive. They had all respected the -sensitive requirements of her new position. She was to be left alone, -and as Camelia walked from room to room, the big house was desolate. - -She nourished a sense of resentment, of injury, for it seemed to thrust -away the chilly stupor of fear, fear of that new presence walking with -her, waiting for her recognition. The loneliness, the melancholy, to -which she could only feign blindness, were almost unendurable. The tears -rose to her eyes more than once, and her thoughts circled nearer and -nearer to Perior's great unkindness. It was when the melancholy seemed -suddenly to lay an imperative hand upon her that she flew to the -writing-table and wrote the note. She looked at the clock as she heard -the groom departing on horseback. Perior might easily arrive at six, and -at the thought her spirits rose with a great soaring bound, and laughed -down at the cold enemy. When he arrived she would see what would happen. -She reined back her imagination from any plan. - -According to his manner, she would tell immediately, or delay telling -until a favorable moment. Perhaps when he knew he would say that his -heart was completely broken, but the thought of his unhappiness only -seemed to send her spirits into a higher ecstasy of joyousness. She felt -them bubble-like, floating in illusion, but the relief of the unthinking -hour--she seemed to live in it only, to breathe only its -expectancy--buoyed her above the clouds. In the long drawing-room, where -the firelight made the autumnal landscape outside, its distant hills -purpling with chilly evening, a mere picture, framed for the contrast in -her rosy mood, she danced, trying over new steps. She had always loved -her dancing, loved to feel herself so lovely, her loveliness set to such -musical motion, the words of the song. She hummed the sad, dead beauty -of a pavane, pacing it with stately pleasure; the gracious pathos of an -old gavotte; and, feeling herself a brook, her steps slid into the -flowing ripple of the courante. Perior had always loved these exquisite -old dances. She would dance for him, of course. That thought had been -growing, and the gavotte, the courante, the pavane becoming rehearsals. -Yes, she would dance for him--at first. Flushed, panting a little from -the long preparation, she ran upstairs to put on a white dress, a new -one made for dancing, with sleeves looped over bare arms, flowing sash, -and skirt like a flower-bell. She lingered on each detail. She must be -beautiful for Alceste; dear Alceste, poor, poor Alceste; how unhappy he -would be--when he knew. And suppose he should not come. The thought went -through her like a dagger as she held a row of pearls against her -throat. Over them she looked with terror-stricken eyes at the whiteness -of her beauty--useless beauty? Ah, she could not believe it, and she -clasped the pearls on a breast that heaved with the great sigh of her -negation. She could not believe it. He must come. And when she reentered -the drawing-room the sound of a horse's hoofs outside set the time to -the full throb of an ecstasied affirmation. - -A delicious flood of contentment went through her. She stood smiling in -the dark yet luminous room, where only the firelight shone along the -polished oak of floor and wainscoting, half unconsciously emphasizing -her sense of the moment's drama by pressing her hands on her heart. Of -course he had come. How could he not come if she really wanted him? Dear -Alceste. In a moment he had entered. The firelight, as she stood before -him, seemed to shine through her pearly glimmering. She looked -sprite-like, a transparent fairy. Her dress, her attitude, her eyes, the -hovering expectancy. Perior, too, was immediately conscious of drama, -and felt as immediately an impulse to flight; but he came forward, a -quick look of calm arming his sturdy opposition to the atmosphere of -exaggerated meanings. - -"Well, here I am," he said, in a manner intended by its commonplace to -rebuff the significance, whatever it might be, of eyes, dress, and -attitude. Camelia took his hand, joyously entering once more into the -dear, enchanted fairy-land--the old sense of a game, only a more -delightful, a more exciting game than ever. She could almost have -whirled him into the circle--a mad dancing whirl round and round the -room. How astonished he would have been! Solemn, staid old Alceste! - -"Yes, here you are. At last," she said. "How shamefully you have -punished me this time!" - -She laughed, but Perior sighed. - -"I haven't been punishing you," he said, walking away to the fireplace. -Camelia followed him and watched him hold out his hand to the warmth. - -"Is it so cold?" she asked. - -"Very chilly; the wind catches one on that mile along the common. My -hands are half-numbed." Prettily, as she leaned in her illumined -whiteness beside him, she took his hands between her own and rubbed them -briskly. - -"You wrote that you were unhappy," said Perior, looking down at the -daintily imprisoned hands; "what is the matter?" - -"The telling will keep. I am happier now." - -"Did you get me here on false pretences?" He smiled as he now looked at -her, and the smile forgave her in advance. - -"No, no. I needed you very much; really I did. I am growing melancholy; -and I was all alone. I hate being alone." - -"There, that will do. They are quite warm now; thanks very much. Where -are the others?" - -"The others? They are away," said Camelia vaguely. - -"Rodrigg?" - -"He comes back to-night, I think." - -"And Henge?" Perior asked it with a little hesitation. Of late he had -wondered much about Arthur and Camelia. There was an effort in the -unconscious aloofness of his voice. - -"In London too." Camelia looked clearly at him. No, she would not tell -him now. The happy half-hour she must guard for them both. Her oblivion, -his ignorance, would make a fairy-land. Let him think even that she had -sent Arthur away finally. Arthur had no place in fairy-land. - -"All the others are out," she repeated, "golfing, calling, driving. But -are you not glad to see me, even if I seem happier than strict -consistency requires?" - -"Yes, I am glad to see you." Perior's eyes showed the half-yielding, -half-defiance of his perplexity. "But tell me, what is the matter? Don't -be so mysterious." - -"But tell me," she returned, stepping backward, her skirt held out for -displayal, "is not my dress pretty?" - -"Very pretty." Perior leaned back against the mantelpiece with an air of -resignation. "Very exquisite." - -"Shall I dance for you?" - -"By all means; since the dress was put on for that, I summoned for that. -Isn't it so?" - -She made no reply, her smile lingering as she turned from him, and -showing in its fixedness a certain gravity. He was satisfied that -conjecture as to her meaning, her plan in all this, only wearied him, -yet sorry that he had come. Under the weariness he was resentfully aware -of excitement. And what of Arthur? Camelia's whole manner subtly -suggested that Arthur no longer counted. The note might be explained as -an after-throb of doubt, or at least of dreariness, in a world -momentarily without big issues. If she had refused Arthur definitely? -The thought, as his eyes followed Camelia's exquisite steps and slides, -shook some careful balancing of self-control. He felt stripped of a -shield, unpleasantly exposed to a dangerous moment. Camelia was dancing -quite silently, yet the air, to Perior's musical brain, seemed full of -melody, and she the soundless embodiment of music made visible--so -lovely, so dear to him; so dear in spite of everything. She was like a -white flower, tilting, bending in the wind. She skimmed like a swallow, -ran with rippled steps like a brook, flitted with light, languid -balancings, a butterfly hovering on extended wings. Her slender body, -like a fountain, rose and fell in a continuity of changing loveliness. -Her golden head shone in the dusk. - -Perior watched her, half-dreaming, half-dazzled. The long moments of -acute, delicious contemplation drifted by as peacefully, as stilly as -falling rose-petals, muffling all outer jars and murmurs, blurring the -past, the future, making the present enchanted. - -When she was far off his heart beat for her return, and when the -swaying, hovering whiteness came near he shrank from the nearness. The -unexpected sweeping turn that caught her away suddenly into the -half-visionary distance stabbed him through with a pang of relief and -disappointment. - -He was entranced, half-mesmerized, conscious only of his delight in her, -when her circling at last grew slower, the musical beat of the -recovering tilt faltered. She came on a sliding, wavering step, and sank -like the softest sigh before him, folded together in her wing-like -whiteness. - -"You enchanting creature," Perior murmured. He bent over her--he would -have lifted her--taking her hands, but Camelia herself rose between his -arms, and inevitably they closed about her. It was so natural, so -fitting in all its strangeness, that to Camelia the slow circling of the -dance seemed still to carry her round and round, unbroken by the crash -of a great revelation. She closed her eyes, hardly wondering at her -perfect happiness, and from the last revolving mists the reality dawned -sweetly upon her--the only reality. She had danced out of the game; it -lay far behind her. Through it she had blundered on a mistake, but her -mind put that swiftly aside. The mistake mattered nothing, the last act -merely of the game--a reckless, angered act. She thought now that the -game would hardly have been begun if only Perior had put his arms around -her, claimed and reclaimed her foolishness, long ago. Of course she -loved him. It needed but that to let her know. - -But to Perior the moment, after its irresistible impulse, was merely one -of shame and self-disgust. He held her, for she was enchanting, and she -had enchanted him. Disloyalty to his friend did not forbid that -satisfaction. That she meant to marry Arthur was now impossible. She had -tossed him aside, dissatisfied; he could not pity Arthur for his escape, -nor credit Camelia with disinterestedness. She was bored, disappointed, -reckless in a wish for excitement. He analyzed her present mood -brutally--the mood of a vain child, made audacious by childhood -intimacy, her appetite for conquest whetted by his apparent -indifference; he had not known that she would pay such a price for -conquest. It was an ugly revelation of Camelia, but the revelation of -himself was uglier. He at least pretended to self-respect. The folly of -her coquetry hardly surprised him; his own yielding to it did; yet in -the very midst of his self-disgust he fulfilled it to the uttermost by -stooping his head to her upturned face, blind to its intrinsic -innocence, and kissing her lips. As he kissed her he knew that for angry -weeks and months he had longed to kiss her, the unrecognized longing -wrestling with his pride, with his finer fondness for her--the firm, -grave fondness of years, with even his loyalty to Henge. That barrier -gone, the longing rushed over the others. Among the wrecks his -humiliation overwhelmed him:--a girl he loved, but a girl he would not -woo, had wooing been of avail!--in it he was able to be generous. - -The moment had not been long. He released her. Feeling most ungentle, he -yet put her away gently by the whole thrust of his arm. Leaning on the -mantel-shelf, his face averted from hers, he said: "Too enchanting, -Camelia. I have forgotten myself," and he added, "Forgive me." - -"But _I_ did it!" Camelia's tone was one of most dauntless joyousness. -She was necessarily as sure of his love as of her own, surer of its -long-enduring priority. But his love feared--that was natural: dared not -hope for hers--too natural. She could not bear to have him put her away -in even a momentary doubt of her sincerity. Clasping both arms about his -neck she said quite childishly, in her great unconsciousness of his -thoughts about her-- - -"Why would you never say you were fond of me? Why would you never say -you loved me? Say it now--say that you love me." - -His bewilderment at her audacity stung him to anger, and in -self-defence, for her sake too as well as for his own, almost to -brutality. "Ah, I love you enough to kiss you, Camelia," he said; "you -are only fit for that. There," he unlocked the clasping arms, "go away." -The unmistakable sternness of his face struck her with pained -perplexity. He would not meet her eyes; he turned from her, looking -wretched. A flashing thought revealed the possibility of tempted -loyalty. Did he think her bound? Divine the engagement? He could not -have heard of it already. She saw, her heart throbbing at the -half-truth, half-falseness of the unbecoming vision, how she must appear -to him in that distorting illumination. Free in her own eyes, she -hesitated on a lie that would release him from his doubts. But as she -stood looking at him, smiling, a little sternly too, at the test, the -door burst open with unpleasant suddenness, and Mr. Rodrigg, bull-like -in his vehemence, charged into the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -Camelia felt, in the glaring pause Mr. Rodrigg made before Perior's -baffling presence, that she herself was the red scarf he sought. Her -mind, alert in self-defence, even in this stress of joy and terror, -divined some unknown danger. Mr. Rodrigg had faded into complete -insignificance, put away with the other toys; she looked coldly at him, -as at a dusty jack-in-the-box, protruding its fatuousness in a grown-up -world. Yet she felt the necessity for self-command and quick -intelligence. Something ominous shone in Mr. Rodrigg's eye. The lid must -be pressed down firmly, fastened securely; she was sure of her complete -control over the silly plaything, but an extinguishing dexterity might -be requisite. - -"Well, Mr. Rodrigg," she said; and her tone fully implied the -undesirability of his presence. - -"Can I see you alone, Miss Paton?" - -Mr. Rodrigg's voice was offensively strident. Camelia looked at Perior, -who, from under lowering brows, bent ungracious eyes on Mr. Rodrigg's -flushed insistency. - -"No, I don't think you can--at present." She did not want to vex Mr. -Rodrigg--she spoke not unkindly; but Mr. Rodrigg was dense, coarsely -dense, or else coarsely angry. Angry with her; Camelia had time by now -to wonder at that, and to feel less amicable with the greater need for -feigning amiability. - -He closed the door with decision. "Then I will speak before Mr. Perior. -As a family friend, Mr. Perior will not be amiss between us. He is a -witness of the whole affair. I appeal to Mr. Perior. Miss Paton, I have -just met Lady Henge. She tells me that you accepted her son this -morning." - -Camelia grew white. Though Perior spoke no word, his stillness equalling -hers, she felt a fixed stare turned upon her. Unforeseen catastrophe! -She had hoped to glide noiselessly from the cardboard stage, to pack up -and send away the useless, even though misused puppets; and now the -whole scenery, heavy too, fell crushingly upon her, pinning her in the -very centre of the stage. There she was held--the mimic properties were -stone-like--there she was held in the full glare of the footlights; and -he was staring at her. - -She drew herself together and clasped her hands behind her back. Her -little head, with the intent resoluteness of its look, had never been -more beautiful. Even Perior, in the frozen fury of his stupefaction, was -aware of that. The mute, white cameo on the dim, rosy background gazing -with not a tremor at its own perfidy, stamped itself ineffaceably on his -memory as a Medusa type of splendid, pernicious courage. For one brief -moment she wondered swiftly--and her thoughts flew like sharp flames--if -a round, clear lie would save her, save her in Perior's eyes, for she -saw herself as he saw her, was conscious only of him, and cared not a -button for Mr. Rodrigg, the ugly raven merely who had croaked out the -truth. The uselessness, the hopelessness of a lie, and too--in justice -to her struggling better self be it added--shame for its smirch between -her and him on the very threshold of true life--this hopelessness, this -shame nerved her to the perilous truth-telling. Better his scorn for the -moment, than a scorn delayed, but sure to find her out. Could she not -explain--confess--on his breast, with tears? She did not look at Perior. -Keeping fixed eyes on Mr. Rodrigg, an unpleasant but necessary medium -for the communication, "Yes, Mr. Rodrigg, I did," she said. - -Perior at her side gave a short laugh, a cruel laugh. The moment was -horrid; let it be hurried on, and Mr. Rodrigg, tool of the avenging -gods, hurried out. - -"Have you anything to say, Mr. Rodrigg?" she asked, conscious of hating -Mr. Rodrigg, and, even at that moment, of a shoot of emphasized -irritation with his nose, which caught the firelight bluntly. - -"May I ask you, Miss Paton, if during these past weeks, you have always -had that intention?" he inquired, speaking with some thickness of -utterance. - -"No, Mr. Rodrigg, you may not ask me that," she returned. - -The revelation of the man's hopes was no longer to be evaded; she drank -down the bitter draught perforce, her eyes on that squarely luminous -nose-tip. - -During the pause that followed Mr. Rodrigg's eyes travelled up and down -her with mingled scorn, wrath, and humiliation. - -"Allow me to congratulate you," he said at last, most venomously, "and -to take my leave of you, Miss Paton. I have not understood, I perceive, -the part I was supposed to play here." - -And Camelia was left alone with Perior. With an impression as of strong -boxings on the ears she could only cry out "Odious vulgarian!" She -tingled all over with a sense of insult. - -"I, too, will bid you good-evening, Camelia," said Perior. He could have -taken her by the throat, but in the necessary restraint of that desire -his glance, only, seized her as if it would throttle her. - -"No! no!" she caught his arm, all thought of Mr. Rodrigg and his slaps -burnt from her. "Listen to me--you don't understand! Wait! I can explain -everything! everything--so that you must forgive me!" - -"I do understand," said Perior, who stood still, scorning, as she felt, -to touch and cast her off. "You are engaged to Arthur. You are -disgraced--and I am disgraced." - -"Through me, then! You were ignorant! But wait--only listen--I am -engaged to him; but I love you--don't be too angry--for really I love -you--only you--Oh! you must believe me!" - -He retreated before her clasped imploring hands, she almost crying, -following, indifferent to the indignity of her protesting supplication. -"Indeed, I love you!" she reiterated, her chin quivering a little as the -cruelty of his withdrawal brought the tears to her eyes. - -Perior took the clasped hands by the wrists and held her off. "You love -me?--and you love him too?"--she shook her head helplessly. "No; you -have accepted him, not loving him, and you dared,"--the cruelty was now -physical, as his clench tightened on her wrists--"you _dared_ turn to -me, to debase me with yourself, you false, you miserable creature!" - -Under the double hurt she closed her eyes. "But why--but why did I -turn?" she almost sobbed. - -"You ask me why? Can I tell what folly, what vanity prompted you? Those -are mild words." - -"Oh!--how you hurt me!" she breathed; the feminine sensitiveness was a -refuge--a reproach. He released her wrists. "Because I love you," she -said, and standing still before him she looked at him through tears. -"You may be angry, despise me, but I only want to tell you everything. -You are so brutal. It was a mistake--I did not know--not till this evening. -I accepted him because you would not prevent me--because you didn't -come--nor seem to care, and--yes, because I was bad--ambitious--vain--like -other women--and I did like him--respect him. But now!"--the appealing -monotone, broken by little gasps, wailed up at the inflexibility of his -face--"it isn't folly, it isn't vanity--or why should I sacrifice -everything for you, as I do--Oh! as I do!" - -"Sacrifice everything for me? Go away!" - -"Oh!--how can you!" She broke into sobs--"how can you be so cruel to -me--when you love me!" - -"Love you!" - -"You cannot deny it! You know that you love me--dearest Alceste!"--her -arms encircled his neck. - -Perior plucked them off. "Love you?" he repeated, looking her in the -face. "By Heaven I don't!" - -And with the negative he cast her away and left her. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -But he did love her. That was the worst of it, as he told himself -through the night that followed. His love and his disgrace pursued him. -Disgraced, though cruel enough to clearly see her as the temptress, -disgraced by the weakness of his yielding to a moment of enchantment, -disgraced by having given her the right to reproach him--the woman he -loved, but the woman only fit to kiss. He was innocent of real -disloyalty, and her perfidy might well exonerate his ignorance; but even -Camelia's perfidy could not excuse that kiss. He met the morning jaded, -from torturing hours. When the first passion of his rage against her had -died away the thought of her astounding declaration, her reiterated -devotion, chilled him with the new fear of final yielding. Camelia, -imagining herself in love with him, became an ominously alluring figure. -She could claim him only through his weakness, but his dishonor gave her -power. He accepted the morbid accusation, scourged himself with it, and -the thought of her power urged him to escape. She was only fit to kiss, -that was the final verdict. To marry such a woman meant a permanent -disablement of all that was best in life. The kiss could not bind him to -that atonement. It was she, rather, who owed him an infinity of -reparation. He determined to treat himself to a trip through Italy, and, -alone with the beauty of the past, to shake his soul free from the -choking entanglement of the present. He felt sick, battered, bereft of -all security; and through everything throbbed the worst hurt of -all--that Camelia should have proved herself worthless so utterly. - -Early in the afternoon of a day spent in hurried preparations for -departure, he heard a horse's hoofs outside, and looking from the -library window he saw Arthur Henge dismounting. - -Perior felt the blood rush to his head. The first impulse of his thought -was to see in Arthur the righteously angered friend come to heap upon -him the shame of his discovered betrayal. He would of course bear the -responsibility as the chiefly false and traitorous. The woman would -shield herself; it was the right of her weakness, and his deep, -unreasonable loyalty to Camelia, a loyalty paternal in its force and -helplessness, accepted the vicarious position, rushed over and confused -every self-asserting instinct. It was with almost the illusion of guilt -that he stood upright, waiting. Then, this last straw he snatched at, -despising it, as he heard Arthur's step in the hall; was it possible -that he had discovered nothing?--possible that he had come to announce -his engagement?--possible that Camelia, in the bewilderment of her -rejection, had returned to a doubly false, a dastardly allegiance? The -irony of such a supposition did not make it by any means impossible. But -one look at Arthur's face dismissed the tragic-comic surmise. - -It was a face of stiffened gloom, a face difficult for the moment to -interpret. Camelia had told the truth, then. Told more than the truth? -Buttressed her falseness with his act of folly? - -Perior expected nothing less than this craven insincerity. To shield her -he must bare his breast for Arthur's shafts. Arthur might as well know -that he loved her, but Camelia should never know it, so Perior grimly -promised himself as he met his friend's look with some of the sternness -necessitated by his pitch of unpleasant resolution. - -But Henge's first words proved that Camelia, at all events, had not been -cowardly. - -"Perior--she has broken our engagement! She accepted me yesterday--and -to-day she has broken our engagement!" and the quick change of -expression on Perior's face moving him too much, he dropped into a -chair, and leaning his arms on the table, bowed his head upon his hands. - -Perior's first feeling was a crumbling sense of baseness. The lie -between him and his unfortunate friend scorched him, and his recognition -of Camelia's courage was swept away by the realization of her cruelty, -by the avenging consciousness that owing to her he feared to meet his -friend's eyes. - -He kept silent, studying the surrendered reticence of the bent head. - -"She accepted me yesterday, Perior." Henge repeated it helplessly. - -Perior put his hand on his shoulder. "My dear Henge," he said. - -Arthur looked up. "I don't know why I should come to you with it. I am -broken. I could cry like a baby. I love that child, Perior! You saw her -yesterday; yes, that is why I came. She accepted me yesterday, you know. -Did she say anything to you about it?--when you saw her? You see"--he -smiled miserably--"I want you to turn the knife in my wound." - -"I heard it," said Perior, feeling that a rigid adherence to perhaps -deceptive truth was all that was left to him. - -"But she gave you no reason to think that she had changed her mind?" - -"What has Camelia said to you, Arthur? One may interpret it -differently," said Perior, detesting himself. - -Sir Arthur's face resumed the blankness of its helpless wonder. - -"I got back this morning and she sent for me. I found her white, woeful, -resolute. She said, 'I made a mistake. I can't marry you. I am unworthy -of you.' That to me, Perior! to me! and only yesterday! Oh!--I could -have sworn she cared for me! I don't blame her; don't think it. It was -all pity--a fancied tenderness; the shock of realization showed her the -difference. She can't love me. She unworthy! The courage--the cruelty -even, were worthy; but she repeated that again and again." - -"Was that all she said?" Perior asked presently. - -"All? Oh no, that was only the beginning. I tortured her for an hour -with pleadings and protestations. With her it was mere repetition. She -did not love me; she felt it as soon as she had accepted me. She told me -that she sent for you--not for counsel, but to see if her misery was -not mere morbid fancy; she said that Rodrigg--the brute!--rushed in upon -her with implied accusations; to me she confessed--dearest -creature--that she had been foolishly hopeful, foolishly confident in -her eagerness for my cause. She heaped blame upon herself. She called -herself mean, and weak, and shallow--Ah! as if I did not understand the -added nobility! I have not one hard thought of her, not a touch of the -jilted lover's bitterness. It is my misfortune to see too well the -worthiness of the woman I have lost." - -"It is the best thing that could happen to you, Arthur." Perior, -standing silently beside his friend, absorbed in the contemplation of -this pitifully noble idealization, could now defy his own pain, shake -from himself the clogging sense of shame, and speak from the fulness of -his deep conviction. - -"You mean better than marrying an unloving woman," said Sir Arthur; but -he had flushed with the effort to misunderstand. Some lack in Perior's -feeling for Camelia he had always felt. He shrank now from confronting -it. - -"Yes, I mean that and more," Perior went on, feeling it good to -speak--good for him and good for Arthur--good to shape the hard truth in -hard words, yet with an inconsistency in his resolution, since he wished -Arthur to recognize her unworthiness, yet would have given his life to -keep from him the one supremely blasting instance which he and Camelia -alone knew. - -"She is not worthy of you. I hope that in saying it she felt its truth, -for truth it is." - -"Don't, Perior--" Sir Arthur had risen. "You pain me." - -"But you must listen, my dear boy--and it has pained me. I have been -fond of Camelia--I am fond of her, but I am never with her that she does -not pain me. She pains every one who is unlucky enough to care about -her; that is her destiny--and theirs." - -Sir Arthur's face through a dawning bewilderment now caught a flashing -supposition that whitened it, and kept him silent. - -"From the first, Arthur, I regretted your depth of feeling for her," -said Perior, after the slight involuntary pause with which he recognized -in his friend's face his own unconscious revelation. They now stood on -as truthful a ground as he could ever hope for. Arthur had guessed what -Camelia should never know. He could speak from a certain equality of -misfortune--for had not Camelia hurt them both? "In accepting you she -did you one wrong, she would have done you a greater had she married -you. She is not fit to be your wife. You wouldn't have held her up. Most -men don't mind ethical shortcomings in their wives--lying, and -meannesses, and the exploiting of other people--they forgive very ugly -faults in a pretty woman; but you would mind. It isn't as a pretty woman -that you love Camelia, nor even as a clever one, so you would -mind--badly. Don't look white; there is nothing gross, vulgar, in -Camelia's wrongness. As your wife she would have been faithful, useful, -kind, no doubt; there would be no stupidities to complain of. She is a -charming creature--don't I know it! But, Arthur, she is false, -voraciously selfish, hard as a stone." - -Sir Arthur had the look of a man who sees a nightmare, long forgotten as -darkest delusion, assuming before his eyes the shape and hue of reality; -he retreated before the obsession. "Don't, Perior--I cannot listen. I -love her. You are embittered--harsh. Your rigorous conscience is -distorting. You misjudge her." - -"No, no, Arthur. I judge her." - -"Ah!--not before me, then! I love her," Sir Arthur repeated. "Good-bye, -Perior. I came to say good-bye. We are going, you know." - -"Yes--So am I." - -Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt upon him for a compassionate, a magnanimous -moment. "You are? Ah! I understand." - -"More or less?" said Perior, with a spiritless smile. - -"Oh, more--more than you can say." - -Perior let him go on that supposition. Arthur understood that Camelia -had hurt him. That, after all, was sufficient; left his friend's mind -without rancor for his galling truth-telling. And, as Perior walked back -into the library, he heaved a long sigh of relief. The Rubicon was -crossed. In so speaking to Arthur he had fortified himself. The truth, -so spoken, was an eternal barrier between him and Camelia. The barrier -was a plain necessity; for Perior was conscious that a possible thrill -lurked for him in the contemplation of Camelia's last move. Its reckless -disregard of consequences proclaimed a sincerity to which he had done -injustice yesterday. She believed she loved him; she gave up all for his -subjection. Yes, the thrill required suppression. He must abide in the -firm reality of the words spoken to Arthur--"hard, false, voraciously -selfish;" yes, she might love him, but her love could be no more than a -perplexing combination of these ineradicable qualities. - -The short autumn day drew to a close. From the library window the -evening grayness dimmed the nearest group of larches, golden through all -their erect delicacy. The sad sunset made a mere whiteness in the west. -Perior had been at his writing-table for over an hour, diligently -strangling harassing thoughts, a pipe between his teeth, a consolatory -cat at his elbow, when, in a tone of commonplace that rang oddly in his -ears, "Miss Paton, sir," was announced by the solemn old retainer. - -Perior wheeled round, and stumbled to his feet; the papers he held fell -in a sprawling heap upon the floor, and the dozing cat jumped down and -took nervous refuge under a chair. - -Camelia, following old Lane with dexterous determination, saw the -astonished commotion and found it encouraging. She was determined but -not desperate. Even without encouragement she fancied that she could -have held her own, sustained as she was by her inner conviction, and -while Lane went out and closed the door, she was even able to cast a -reassuring smile at the cat, whose widened eyes shone at her from under -the chair edge. - -The door safely shut, she turned a steady look upon Perior's rough head, -silhouetted in monotone on the pale landscape outside. She herself faced -the light. She had walked, and her face showed an exquisite freshness, -an imperative youth and energy. In the austere room the sudden rose and -white of cheeks and lips and brow, the lustre of her eyes, the pale gold -of her hair, dazzled. - -Fixing Perior with this steady look, she said: "He has been here." - -"Henge? yes," said Perior. Even in the shock of his dismayed confusion -he felt with thankfulness a strong throb of an unswerving energy quite -fit to match hers. He could look at her, dazzled, but not wavering, and, -stooping from the successful encounter of eyes, he picked up the fallen -papers, pushed them into shape, and laid them on the table coolly -enough. - -"You have heard what has happened, then?" Camelia was in nowise -disconcerted by these superficialities. - -"Yes." - -"Did you tell him why I broke my engagement?" - -Perior looked again, and very firmly, at the rose and white and gold. - -"He gave me the reason you had given him. That was sufficient, wasn't -it?" - -"Sufficient for him, yes. I gave him only half the truth--I should not -have minded, you know, had you given him the whole." - -"I should have minded." - -"You? Why should you mind? It was my fault--the whole truth could tell -him nothing less than that," said Camelia quickly. - -"I appreciate your generosity"--Perior laughed a little--"that really is -generous." It really was. He put another mark against himself; but a -perception of his own past injustice did not weaken him. - -"You know why," she said, and her eyes were now solemn; "you know that I -don't care about myself any longer--so long as you care. That is all -that makes any difference--now. So you might have told him had you -wished." - -"I didn't want to;" Perior leaned back against the writing-table, -feeling a certain shrinking. Camelia's power took on new attributes. He -could but recognize a baleful nobility in her self-immolation. After -all, the falseness of yesterday had held a great sincerity--though the -sincerity might only be a morbid folly. He had hardly the excuse of -blindness. With a renewed pang of self-disgust he saw that his more -subtle falseness to her was a weapon in her hand. She had not turned it -against him. Perhaps she did not realize her need. He was glad, by -lowering himself, to lift her. - -She had come forward into the fuller light, and her face, more clearly -revealed, showed the stress that Arthur had seen as a resolute woe. In a -pause at a little distance from him, in the very tension of her face, -Perior saw that she stooped to no weak appeal; it was an intelligent -demand, rather, that he should recognize and do her justice. - -"I know how angry you are with me," she said, after the slight pause in -which they studied one another. "You believe that I have acted badly; -and so I have. I see it too. I entrapped you, made you feel false to -him, made you feel that you betrayed him. But if you _understood_. You -have never really understood. You have taken the shell of me--the -merely external silliness--so seriously." - -Perior could wonder at his own firmness before her. He was filled with -compunction for the pitiful certainty of success--once his stubborn -disbelief were convinced--that spoke through her gravity. He loved her, -and knew that he loved her, against his reason, against his will, -against his heart even, yet heard himself saying, sure of the kindness -of his cruelty--for any prolongation of her security was cruel-- - -"I hope never to take a merely external silliness seriously, Camelia. -Let me think of this as one. You should not have come, it can only hurt -you, and me. We had best not see each other again until you have -outgrown, shall we say, your present shell?" Yes, he could rely on the -decisive clear-sightedness that had made him speak the truth, once for -all, to Arthur and to himself. He felt secure in his moral antagonism; -the ascetic admonishment of his voice gratified even a sense of humor, -quite at his own expense, which he perceived in the rigor of his -righteousness. But Camelia made no retreat before that rigor, though the -color left her face, as if he had struck her; her eyes betrayed no -confusion, but a keenness, a steadiness, almost scornful. - -"You think it _that_?" Perior was not sorry to tell her and himself what -he did think. - -"I think it just that. A phase of your varied existence; a curious -experience to sound. You have set your heart on being in love with -me--since that was an experience most amusingly improbable. I am -another toy to grasp since the last disappointed." - -"You are dull," said Camelia. She looked down, clasping her hands behind -her. "You are not sincere. It pleases you to blind yourself with your -preconceived idea of me. Your self-righteousness would not like to own -itself mistaken in believing anything but the worst of me." - -"Ah! hasn't it for years been struggling to see only the best of you!" -cried Perior; "I don't deserve that, Camelia." - -"You see the best now; why won't you believe in it?" - -"I don't say I see the worst--by no means; even there is something that -surprises me, that makes me confess, gladly, that I have misjudged you; -but I can only believe that yesterday, in the impulsive reaction against -your false position--you did not love Arthur--the fact frightened you; I -am glad of that, too; but in the melting illusion you thought of me as -something solid to cling to, and now you are determined to keep on -clinging, deceiving yourself with an impossible mirage of fidelity, -devotion, and self-forgetting, which you'll never reach, Camelia ---never, never." Camelia contemplated him. - -"Yes, you believed that, or something even less pathetic; that accounts -for your cruelty--the cruelty of your last words yesterday--so false as -I knew them; but I understood them, saw all you thought, though your -wrath, your injury, your impatience to punish--how fond you are of -punishing!--wouldn't let me explain. You did not believe that I loved -you--_loved_ you. You do not believe it now. You can't believe that I, -who could have anybody, should choose you. It looks to you like an -aberration. You are afraid of being hurt by believing, afraid I'll treat -you as I treated him, afraid that you will be another toy--that was what -cut yesterday. You were being played with--I saw you thought it. But I -do love you; you will have to believe it. I do--choose you." Her head -raised, she was looking at him with the clear command of this inflexible -choice. The sublimity of confidence was touching. Perior, grimly -conscious of its illusory foothold over chasms, could afford a certain -chivalry, could at least restrain the brutality of a push into the void. -He didn't like the idea of Camelia, his smiling Camelia, really scared, -tumbling from her pinnacles into the abyss where rocky facts awaited -her. - -"I am sensible to the compliment"--the mild irony of his tone was a -warning of insecurity--"though you will own that it is, in some senses, -a dubious one; but it's very kind in you, who could have anybody, to -stoop to a nobody. My obscurity is gilded by the preference; it will -console, illuminate my solitude." She flushed, interrupting him with a -quick, sharp-- - -"I didn't intend that! You know it! You are cruel, yes, and mean; for -only my sincerity gives you the power to wound me. You _are_ a somebody; -though the whole world were blind, I can see; that is why I love you. Do -you believe me when I tell you that I love you?" Camelia did not come -closer as she asked it, but her poised expectancy of look seemed to -claim him. Perior folded his arms and stared at her. "I would rather -not," he said. - -"Why?"--her voice at last showed a tremor. "You debase me by your -incredulity. If I do not love you--what did yesterday mean?--what does -_this_ mean? It is my only excuse." - -"Excuse?"--in this nearing antagonism his voice flamed up at the sudden -outlet--"Excuse? There was no excuse--for yesterday." Saved from the -direct brutality of refusing her love, the memory of Arthur's betrayed -trust rose hot within him. Arthur's sincerity shone in its noble -unconsciousness of the falseness of friend and sweetheart, one falseness -forced, one willing and frivolous; his grief was mocked by her -indifference. - -"Nothing can excuse that," he said. "What right had you to accept him? -What right had you to keep me in ignorance? Why did you not break with -him before turning to me? By Heaven, Camelia! even knowing you as I do I -cannot understand how you did it! I could hardly look him in the face -when he was here, the thought of it sickened me so." - -"Yes, that was horrible," said Camelia. - -"Horrible?" Perior repeated. Her judicial tone exasperated him. He -walked away to the window repeating, "Horrible!" as though exclaiming at -inadequacy. - -"But have I not atoned?" Camelia asked. - -"Atoned?" he stared round at her. - -"I have set him free. I have owned myself unworthy. I did not know you -cared for me when I accepted him, or, at least, I did not know I cared -for you--so much." - -Perior continued to look at her for a silent moment, contemplating the -monstrousness, yet strangely intuitive truth of her amendment. He let it -pass, feeling rather helpless before it. - -"So that is the way you pave the way to penitence? You atone to the -broken toys by walking over them? No, Camelia, no, nothing atones, -either to him or to me, for that unspoken lie." He came back to her, -feeling the need to face her for the solemn moment of the contest. - -Camelia was speaking hurriedly at last, losing a little her sustaining -calm--"And had I told you?--Had I said at once that I was engaged to -him?--Would that have helped us?--Could you have said, then, that you -loved me? You would have been too angry--for his sake--to say it, when I -had told you that in one day I had accepted and meant to reject -him"--the questions came eagerly. - -He looked at her face, strong with its still unshaken certainty, white, -delicate, insistent. Loving it and her, his eyes held hers intently, and -he asked, "Did I say I loved you?" - -A serene dignity rose to meet his look. "You did not _say_ it, perhaps. -You said you did _not_ love me," she added, with a little smile. - -"I was base--and I spoke basely. I said that I loved you enough to kiss -you. You may scorn me for it." - -"Ah!" she said quickly, "that was because you did not believe that I -loved you! You are exonerated." - -"Not even then. But if you do love me--choose me, as you say; if I do -love you--which I have not said--and will not say, will not say even to -exculpate my folly of last night--even then, Camelia! I would not marry -a woman whom I despise." - -"Despise?" she repeated. Her voice was a toneless echo of his. She -weighed the word, and found it heavy, as he saw. Her eyes dwelt on his -mutely, and there dawned slowly in them the terror of the eternal -negative that rose between her and him. - -"You are not good enough for me, Camelia," said Perior. - -"Because of yesterday!" she gasped. "You can't forgive that!" - -"Not only that, Camelia--I do not love you." - -She stood silent, gazing. His heart bled for her. To tell the saving -lie, he had faced a jibing self-scorn; yet he continued to face it -inflexibly. - -"I could not live with you. I think you would kill me. I said to poor -Arthur this afternoon what I believe of you--that you are selfish, and -false, and hard as a stone. I could not love a woman of whom I could -think--of whom I had been forced to say--that." - -Compunctions rained upon him--sharp arrows. Her mute, white face -appealed--if only to the long devotion, the long tenderness of years. - -The crucial moment was past, and the upwelling tenderness, devotion, -called to him to hurry her away from it, and support her under his own -most necessary cruelty. - -His voice broke in a stammer as he said, taking her hands--"How can I -tell you how I hate myself for saying this?--it is hideous--it is mean -to say." - -And Camelia said nothing, seemed merely to await, in a frozen stupor, -another blow. He could not see in her now the lying jilt of yesterday. - -"Don't think of me again as I've been this afternoon. Forget it, won't -you?" he urged; "I am going away to-morrow--and--you will get over it, -be able to see me again--some day, as the good old friend who never -wanted to be cruel--no, I swear it, Camelia. You must go now; you will -let me order the trap? You will let me drive you home?" - -She had drawn her hands away; in the dim room her eyes met his--bereft, -astonished. - -"You will let me drive you?" Perior repeated with some confusion. - -"No, I will walk," she said, hardly audibly. - -"The five miles back? It is too far--too late." He looked away from her, -too much touched by those astonished eyes. - -"No--I will walk." Then, as he stood still, rather at a loss-- - -"You are going to-morrow?" - -"Yes." - -"Because of me?" - -"Ah--that pleases you!" he said, with a smile a little forced. - -"Pleases me!" The sharpness of her voice cut him, made him feel gross in -his unkindness. - -"It does not please me, but it is the best thing under the -circumstances. Now, Camelia, you must go. I will walk with you. We won't -speak of this at all--will pretend it never happened. You must forgive -my folly of last night, and get over this touching folly of yours. Come, -we won't talk of it any more," he repeated, drawing her hand through -his arm, holding it with a clasp consolatory and entreating. - -She did not follow him. "No! no!" she said, half-choked, drawing away -the hand. Then, suddenly, with a great sob, turning to him, she flung -herself upon his breast, clung to him, her hands clutching his -shoulders-- - -"Oh! don't leave me! Don't leave me! I can't bear it!" she cried, -shuddering. "I will be good! Oh, I _will_ be good! Give me time, just -wait--and see--" The words were half lost, as with hidden face she wept. -"You are so cruel, so unjust--give me time and see how I will please -you--how you will love me. You must love me--you must--you must." - -"Camelia! Camelia!" Perior was shocked, shaken as well. The deep note of -his own voice warned him in its pity, and amazement, and distress, of -the dangerous emotion that seized him. To yield again to an emotion, -even though a higher one than last night's--to yield with those thoughts -of hers--those spoken thoughts--never, never. - -He tried to hold her off; her sobs made her helpless, but with arms -outstretched--blindly, as he remembered to have seen a crying, stumbling -child, she turned to him--it was too pitiful--as she might have turned -to her mother. How repulse the broken creature? He could but take the -outstretched hands, let her come to him again; she did not put her arms -around him; there was no claim; only a clinging, her face hidden, as she -sobbed, "Don't leave me! Don't! I love you! I adore you!" - -"My poor child!" - -"Yes, yes, your poor child! Be sorry for me, be kind--only a child. I -did not mean to deserve that--torture, you--despising! I never _meant_ -anything--so wrong. Only a silly, a selfish, a frivolous child--won't -you see it?--never caring for the toys I played with--never caring for -anything but you, _really_. Can't you see it now, as I do? I have grown -up, I have put away those things. Can't you forgive me?" - -"Yes, yes. Great heavens! I am not such a prig, such a fool! I have -always hoped----" - -"That you could allow yourself to love me! Ah, say it! say it!" She -looked up, lifting her face to his. - -"To be fond of you, Camelia," said Perior. "I can't say more than that!" - -"Because you won't believe in me! Can't believe in me! And I can't live -without you to help me! Haven't you seen, all along, that you were the -only one I cared about? Half my little naughtinesses were only to -provoke you, to make you angry, to see that you cared enough to be -angry. All the rest--the worldliness--the using of people--yes, yes, I -own to it!--but no one was better than I! Why should I have been good -when no one else is? When all are playing the same game, and most people -only fit to play with? Why should I have been better than they?" - -"I don't know, Camelia, but--my wife would have to be." - -"She _will_ be." - -"Don't make me hurt you--don't be so cruel to yourself." - -"She will be," Camelia repeated. - -"I beg of you--I implore you, Camelia." He hardened his face to meet her -look, searching, eager, pitiful. - -"How could I say this unless I believed you loved me--had always loved -me? Don't speak; don't say no; don't send me away. You are angry. You -have the right to be; but, ah! if you only knew what I feel for you." - -"Don't tell me, Camelia." - -"But I must. I love everything about you--I always have. When you were -near me I saw every gesture you made, heard every word you spoke, knew -every thought you had about me. I love your little ways--I know them -all; that wag of your foot when you are angry, the look of your teeth -when you smile, your hands, your face, your dear rough hair----" - -Perior had turned from red to white, and still looking at him, shaking -her head a little, she finished very simply on a long sigh-- - -"I can't live without you. I _can't_." - -"Camelia, I can't marry you," he said; and then, taking breath in the -ensuing silence, "You are mistaken. I don't love you. I have your -welfare at my heart; I wish you all happiness, all good. I am sorry, -terribly sorry for you; but I do not love you. You must believe me. I do -not love you. I will not marry you.--God forgive me for the lie," he -said to himself; "but no, no, no, I can_not_ marry her, poor impulsive, -wilful, half noble, half pitiful child, a thousand times no." The strong -rebellion of his very soul steadied him. He could yield without a -tremor to his pity, could take her hands and hold them in a clasp -convincingly paternal and pitying. - -Camelia closed her eyes, drawing in a long breath, too sharp in its -accepted bitterness for the break of a sob. Her face, with this tragedy -of still woe upon it, was almost unrecognizable. Until now it had been a -face of triumph. Defeat--and that at last she recognized defeat he -saw--changed its very lines; the iron entered her soul, and something -left her face for ever. For a long time she did not speak, and her voice -seemed dimmed, as though spoken from a great distance, when she said, -her eyes still closed, "Then you never loved me!" - -"Never," said Perior, who, encompassed by the saving lie, could freely -breathe in the tonic atmosphere of his resolute pain. - -"But--you are fond of me?" said Camelia; and as she spoke, from under -the solemn pressure of her eyelids, pressed down as on a dead hope, -great tears came slowly. - -"Great Heaven! Fond of you? _Fond_ of you? Yes--yes, my dear Camelia." -He leaned forward and kissed her forehead above the closed eyes. - -"Ah!" she murmured, "I was so sure you loved me!" More than its rigid -misery, the humble bewilderment on her face, as of a creature stricken -helpless, and not comprehending its pain, hurt him, warned him that -every moment made it more difficult to keep down the fluttering of a -longing he would not, must never satisfy. He seemed to crush a harsh -hand on its delicate wings as he said-- - -"And now you will go. You will let me walk home with you?" - -She shook her head. "No, no." - -She went towards the door, her hand still in his. - -"You should not go alone. I beg of you, dear, to let me come." - -"I would rather go alone." - -They were in the hall, and she had not looked at him again. She put her -hand out to the door and then she paused. Perior had also paused. - -"Will you kiss me good-bye?" she said. - -"Will I? O Camelia!" At that moment he felt himself to be more false -than he had been during all the scene with her, for as he kissed her the -fluttering wings beat upward with the exultant throb of a released -desire. And she did not know. She believed him. All her hope was -stricken in the dust. And yet they clung together--lovers; he ashamed of -his knowledge; she pathetic, tragic, in her chastened, her humiliated, -trust and ignorance. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel was walking across the hall on her way to the staircase -when Camelia entered. She had not seen Camelia since the morning's -catastrophe, a catastrophe as yet unannounced, but plainly discernible -in the departure of the Henges, in Lady Paton's retirement, Camelia's -disappearance, and Mary's heavy silence. Mary herself hardly knew as -yet, could only suspect, with a sickening droop of disappointment -following a hope, unreasonable perhaps, but delicious while it so -briefly lasted. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel plied her with profitless questions during tea-time; -she only knew that Sir Arthur had ridden away, that Lady Henge had -followed with the boxes, that Aunt Angelica was in her room, and that -Camelia had gone out. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was not disposed to let Camelia -off easily; and now, undeterred by the almost vacant stare her young -hostess bent upon her, she rushed at her imperatively. - -"You look quite half mad, Camelia! What is the matter? The Henges are -gone, she as gloomy as a hearse. I have not seen your mother since -breakfast. Has a thunderbolt struck the house? You accepted Arthur Henge -yesterday, and to-day you give him his _congé_. Is it possible?" - -Camelia's hand waved her aside. What did this chattering, rattling -creature want of her? She belonged to a dim primeval age, the age of -yesterday, before the cataclysm had changed everything. - -"No; you are not going to get rid of me like that!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel -followed her swiftly up the stairs. "That would be a little too bad, to -leave me, all curiosity, frying in my own ignorance. Now, Camelia, let -me have the whole truth of it. What has happened?" She confronted her in -her room. - -"Yes, I have broken my engagement." - -"Why? great heavens, why?" - -"I don't love him. Please go, Frances." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel crossed her arms and surveyed her friend in an -exasperated silence. - -"Was that so necessary?" she asked presently, while Camelia, sitting in -a low chair half turned from her, unbuttoned her muddy boots and -gaiters. - -"Yes, it was. I wish you would go away." - -"You know what every one will think--you know what _I_ think!--that you -accepted him to prove you could throw him over. You try him on to show -that you can fit him, and then kick him away, precisely as you kick away -that muddy boot. It is an unheard-of thing. It is distinctly nasty." - -Camelia leaned back with closed eyes, hardly hearing, certainly not -caring for the words, though their sound was an importunate jangling at -her ears, wearisome, irritating. - -"As for the egregious folly of it! well, my dear, you may have plans -into which I am not initiated, but the day will come, I think, in which -you will own that you have behaved like a horrid little fool." Mrs. -Fox-Darriel moved towards the door, not caring to outstay her climax, -yet urged to an addenda by the exasperating, almost slumbering -indifference of Camelia's face. "I will go. You want to finish your cry. -Have you been walking about the lanes crying? I am off to the Dormers -to-morrow; I only stayed on here because of you; my occupation now is -decidedly gone." - -"Good-bye," said Camelia. - -When she was alone she rose and bolted the door. Her ten miles had tired -her physically, and she sank back into her chair, her stockinged feet -stretched out, her muddy skirts clinging damply about her ankles. - -Yes, let the whole truth surge over her, and find her unresisting. - -He did not love her; had never loved her. He despised her. The -remembrance of his scorn crept over her like a gnawing flame. The shame -of last night's dancing, of his reluctant embrace, that she had courted, -came upon her in an awful revelation; and the wilful, desperate passion -of to-day, sure of the hidden treasure he withheld from her in -punishment only--a child pounding at a locked door. And the room was -empty; there had been no treasure. She had forced him to open to her the -dreadful vacancy. His sad friendship, smarting still from its momentary -debasement, had sheltered her from the keenest pang; it was as if he had -held her hand as, together, they went into that vacant room; now, alone, -the realization of her own abasement stunned her. But she loved him. It -had not been for her love that he had scorned her, though -misinterpreting it so cruelly. She had made it impossible that she -should ever retrieve herself, or that he should ever see the truth; her -falseness had blinded him to her only worth, yet even now the -consciousness of that worth held her from utter loss of self-respect, -the consciousness of the intrinsic nobility of her devotion, rejected -alas! seen with darkest disfigurements, but standing upright and -unashamed at the centre of her life. This great love was like an -over-soul, a nobler self looking with sad eyes at the prostrate, the -utterly confounded Camelia. - -Then came throbs of loneliness and terror. He was going away! She sprang -up under the knife-like thrust of the thought. Oh! if at least he had -believed her! If at least he had seen tragedy, not a poor, silly farce, -the only noble thing in her life distorted to a wretched folly. Only -outwardly had she been a child screaming for an unattainable toy. She -walked up and down the room, her hands wrung together, until a quivering -weakness of fatigue came over her, and she flung herself face downwards -on the bed. - -Sobs came with the despairing posture. Her whole body shook with them. - -A tiny, timid knock at the door broke in on the miserable satisfaction -of woe expressed. - -Camelia held back her weeping and listened silently. - -"Camelia," said her mother's voice, a voice tremulous with tears, "may I -not see you, my darling?" - -In her agonizing self-absorption Camelia heard the words with a -resentment made fierce by sympathy crushed down. - -"No," she said, steadying her voice, for her mother must not think her -weeping in regret over her act of repudiation, "you can't." - -"Please, my child "--Lady Paton evidently began to sob, and Camelia, -wrapping herself in a sense of necessary and therefore justified -brutality, again buried her head in the pillow. Yes, she was a brute, of -course, but--how silly of her mother to stand there crying! How -tactless, at least; for Camelia at once hated herself for the other -word. What did she expect? She seemed nearly as remote as Frances--not -quite, for she could see Frances and repulse her with complete -indifference, and she could not meet her mother indifferently. There -would be the pain, the irritation of feigning. - -"Don't be cruel, dear." The words reached her dimly through the pillow. -Cruel! Camelia smiled bitterly. _She_ did not know. The apparent cause -for grief was slight indeed; the real one was locked forever in her -heart, so let them think her cruel. - -The hopeless little click of the door-knob showed that her mother's hand -had been appealingly laid upon it. Her slow footstep passed along the -hall. Camelia lay in her damp, hot pillow, her eyes closed. "Yes I am a -brute," she said to herself; and then, thinking of Perior, her tears -flowed again. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -Mrs. JEDSLEY'S visit of curiosity and condolence was of a surprisingly -consolatory nature. As an old friend, Mrs. Jedsley permitted herself the -curiosity; but even from an old friend Lady Paton had not expected a -true-ringing generosity of judgment. - -"I came, my dear--yes, because I wanted to know. My ears are buzzing -with the talk of it--true or false, who can tell? Not even you, I fancy; -but I have my own opinion," said Mrs. Jedsley. "I understand Camelia -pretty well; but vulgarly, schemingly cruel--rubbish! rubbish!--so I -say!" - -That the saying had been at all necessary made poor Lady Paton more -white, yet Mrs. Jedsley's denunciation was so sincere that she took her -hands, saying, "How can they! It was a mistake. She found she did not -love him. _He_ understands." Sir Arthur's parting words had haloed her -daughter for her during these difficult days. - -"Yes, yes, he is a very fine fellow, and idealizes her tremendously," -said Mrs. Jedsley, with strict justice. "It was, of course, a great -shame for her not to have made up her mind long ago--a great shame to -have accepted him"--Mrs. Jedsley shore off Camelia's beams -relentlessly--"and a great pity, my dear, that the engagement should -have been announced, since a few hours of silence might have shifted -the matter, and no one the wiser. But of course we were all as ready as -dry kindling for the match--it spread like wildfire--a fine crackling! -and then, in a day, a fine cackling! Lady Haversham came running down to -me post-haste to say it was off--to wonder, to exult. Of course she is -an adherent of the Duchess's, and Lady Elizabeth has her chance again. -But yes, yes, I know the child--a vain child, a selfish child; ah! it -pains you; one must face that truth to see beyond it--to others; but not -vulgarly cruel. She would not play with the man for months to give -herself the feline fun of crunching him at the end of it all. She was -playing with herself rather, only half in earnest. The engagement -brought her to her senses--held her still; she couldn't dance, so she -thought. Indeed, it's the first time I've respected Camelia. I do -respect a person who has the courage to retrieve a false step. It is -quite a good enough match to turn a girl into a schemer. At least she -has proved she's not that." - -"No! no! My daughter!" - -"Quite true; your daughter; that does count, after all. No, she can't be -accused of husband-hunting." Mrs. Jedsley laughed dryly. "Now, the -question of course remains, who _is_ she in love with?" and she fixed on -her friend a gaze so keenly interrogative that it certainly suggested -tinder ready to flash alight of itself. "Not our Parliamentary big-wig, -Mr. Rodrigg? Oh no!" - -"No, indeed." Lady Paton's head-shake might have damped the most arduous -conjecture. "He went away, you know--very angrily, it seems, and most -discourteously, for I did not even see him. He behaved very badly, -Michael told me. Michael himself is gone; you knew that too? He just -stopped to see me on his way to the station." - -"Mr. Perior--yes." Mrs. Jedsley looked ruminative; even to her quickly -jumping mind that long leap of inference did not suggest itself except -in one connection. - -Poor Mr. Perior! Had Camelia been giving the mitten right and left? -Buffeting back into hopelessness each suitor who advanced, encouraged by -another's failure? Had Mr. Perior really been foolish enough to run his -head into that trap? - -"Now that the comedy is over, the chief confidant packs up--he quite -filled that rôle, didn't he?" she said. "And our fine jingling lady, -Mrs. Fox-Darriel? Has she, too, folded her tents and stolen away?--not -silently, I'll be bound. She had staked something on the match." - -"She is gone. She spoke unkindly to me of Camelia. I do not like her. I -could say nothing, it was so----" - -"So neatly done. She implied, merely; you would have accepted inferences -by recognizing them. I can hear her!" - -"She felt for me. Camelia had gone too far--it didn't look well; a girl -must not overstep certain limits; one could make too much of a -reputation for audacity; Camelia's charm had been to be audacious, -without seeming so. And the sad affair of Mr. Rodrigg--Camelia should -not have stooped, and to no purpose; people turned on one so horridly. -Poor Sir Arthur would lose his bill as well as his sweetheart, now that -Camelia had meddled so disastrously. Oh! she was most unkind." Lady -Paton evidently remembered the unkindness--her voice was a curious echo. - -Mrs. Jedsley ruminated energetically all the way back to the village, -as, her skirts raised in either hand, she marched with heavy-booted -splashes through the mud. Near the village she overtook Mary, bending as -she walked, an umbrella uncomfortably wedged under one arm, several -parcels encumbering her. - -"My dear, why walk in this weather?" Mrs. Jedsley herself walked in all -weathers, but for Mary, with a pleasant equine background, the necessity -was not obvious; she joined her with the ejaculation. - -"Oh! I like walking, Mrs. Jedsley," said Mary. "Aunt Angelica always -tells me to have the pony-cart, but it seems hardly worth while for this -little distance." - -"A good mile. Where are you bound for?" - -"I want to see Mrs. Brown; Kitty was rather troublesome in Sunday-school -last Sunday." - -"And how nicely you manage that class. It is a credit to you. Camelia -now laughs at it." Mary said nothing to this, and Mrs. Jedsley added, -"Not that she has much heart for laughing at anything just now from what -I hear. That is the very encouraging feature of the whole case. It is -ridiculous to speak of her as setting feathers in her cap with a light -heart. She really feels this sad affair." - -"Yes," said Mary, looking ahead with a rather rigid settling of her -features. - -"One might perhaps say affairs," Mrs. Jedsley added, for she could not -keep those restless conjectures to herself; out they galloped. "It has -been a general _débâcle_. Mr. Rodrigg gone in a fury--breathing flame; -Sir Arthur flung from his triumph--and, poor Mr. Perior. Now I really -did not expect it of Mr. Perior; I thought he knew her so well--yet, for -eyes that can see it's very evident, isn't it?" - -Mary looked down, making no reply. - -"Evidently she has a charm the most metallic male heart can't withstand; -a case of molten iron with Mr. Perior--in that condition I can imagine -him irresistible to some women. But such a reasonable man; -well-seasoned, and her friend for years. Oh! it's a great pity that he -let her melt him; no one knows now what shape his despair will cool to?" - -Mary, her head bent persistently downward, stared at the muddy road. - -"That she was very fond of him there is no denying," Mrs. Jedsley -pursued, "but I should have seen that as the most hopeless part of the -matter. A girl like Camelia doesn't marry the middle-aged mentor of her -youth. But fond of him she is. I have watched her. Her eyes were always -sliding round to him. He made a standard to her; she might jibe at it, -but she liked to see it standing there--and to hang a wreath on it now -and then. Upon my word, Mary!" and Mrs. Jedsley, stopping short in a -mud-puddle, turned triumphant eyes on Mary's impassive face, "I -shouldn't be surprised if _that_ were the real matter with her. She is -really fond of him; his tumble hurts her more than the other's. She -misses her sign-post pointing steadily at friendship. She is sorry to -lose her friend." - -Mary after a little pause said, "Yes." - -"Yes! You think so too!" cried Mrs. Jedsley delightedly. "You have -opportunities, of course----" - -"Oh no! No, indeed, Mrs. Jedsley--I only think, only imagine----" - -"You have thought and imagined what I have. And that we are right I -don't doubt. The double catastrophe accounts very fully for her low -spirits--and I really respect her for them, though that the catastrophe -should have occurred makes it only just that she should suffer. But Mr. -Perior was foolish. Ah yes! in her defence I must say that!" - -Mary was saying nothing, standing mutely at the parting of the roads -until her companion should have done. She was well prepared for Mrs. -Jedsley's unconscious darts. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's parting look and parting words still rankled in her -heavy heart; the look, one of pity; the words: "She has refused the -other too! And him she would have liked to keep dangling! She enjoys an -interminable sense of drama when he is by; her life is bereft without -it. But the man was mad to think that she would take him," and the look -had added that the man was a fool not to see and be contented with the -minor fact Mary would have been so willing to supply. Mary had felt -withered; her nerves scorched to apathy, since that look. - -"You must come in and have tea with me, my dear," said Mrs. Jedsley, "it -will put strength into you for your talk with Mrs. Brown. Come and have -a cup with me--and you know my hot scones; we will talk this over. Your -aunt doesn't suspect it, poor dear!" - -"No, Mrs. Jedsley, thanks--I can't come, and no, aunt does not -know--must not know; it would make her feel very unhappy! she is so fond -of Mr. Perior; she doesn't suspect it," Mary spoke with sudden -insistence--"and then, it may be pure imagination on my part," she -added, flushing before Mrs. Jedsley's smiling and complacent head-shake. -"It would be unfair to _them_--would it not?--to Camelia I -mean--and----" - -"And Mr. Perior; quite true, my dear. We must be as quiet as mice about -it. Unfair, as you say. We must not hang out his heart for the daws to -peck at. Poor man! You won't come in to tea?" - -"Thanks, no. I must be home early." Mary hurried away. She bit her lips -hard, staring before her at the wet browns and grays of the lane, dingy, -drab, like her life; narrow, dull, chill with on-coming winter, and -leading--the lane led to the churchyard. Mary's thoughts followed it to -that destination, and suddenly the hot tears rolled down her cheeks, and -hard sobs shook her as she walked. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -These days were very lonely for Lady Paton. The house was empty, and one -could not call companionship Camelia's mute, white presence. - -Camelia read all day in the library, where only Siegfried was made -welcome, or rode for hours about the wintry country. To all timid -questions, as to future plans, she only answered by a coldly decisive, -"I don't know." When her mother put her arms around her, Camelia stood -impassive in their circling love, locked in her own frozen mood of -despairing humiliation. - -One day when in her room she had broken down her outward endurance by an -impulsive cry of woe, and stood sobbing, her face in her hands, her -mother came in, made courageous by pity. - -"My dearest child, tell me--what is it? You are breaking your heart and -mine. Do you love him? Tell me, darling. Is it some hidden scruple? some -fancy? Let me send for him," poor Lady Paton's thoughts dwelt longingly -on amorous remedies. - -"Love him? Sir Arthur? Are you mad, mother?" Camelia lifted a stern -face. "He doesn't enter my mind. He is nothing to me--simply nothing." - -"But, Camelia--you are miserable----" - -"Ah! I have a right to that dreary liberty." - -"And--Oh don't be angry, dearest--is there no one else?" - -"No one else?" Camelia repeated it angrily indeed;--that her mother -should give this stupid wrench to her heart was intolerable. "Of course -there is no one else! How can you be so tiresome, mother. There--don't -cry. I am simply sick of everything--myself included, that is all that -is the matter with me. Please don't cry!" for sympathetic tears were -coming into her own eyes, and above all things, she dreaded a breaking -down of reserves, a weakened dignity that might bring her to a sobbing, -maudlin confession, that would burn her afterwards, and follow her -everywhere in the larger pity of her mother's eyes. - -Lady Paton, her handkerchief at her lips, pressed back her grief, saying -in a broken entreaty, "But, Camelia--why? How long will it last? You -were always such a happy creature." - -"How can I tell?" Camelia gave a little laugh that carried her over the -vanquished sob to a certain calmness; leaning back against the -mantelpiece she added, smiling drearily, "Don't worry, mother; don't -_you_ be miserable." - -Lady Paton looked at her with eyes in which Camelia felt the unconscious -dignity of an inarticulate reproof. - -"Oh, my child!" she said, "my child! Am I not your mother? Is not your -happiness my only happiness?--your sorrow my last and greatest sorrow? -You forget me, dear, in your own grief. You shut me out--because you -don't love me--as I love you;--it is that that hurts the most." - -Camelia stood looking at her. Her artistic sensibility was decidedly -impressed by this unexpected revelation of character. How well her -mother's white hair and cap looked on the pale greens of the room; the -exquisite face, and the more exquisite soul looking from it. How well -she had spoken; how truly too. Yes, her own worthlessness clung to her; -she, so far inferior in moral worth, made this sweet, fragile creature -unhappy; she was everything to her mother, the light that shone through -and sustained the white petals of her flower-like being; and her mother -was to her only a pretty detail. Camelia analyzed it all very -completely, and resting on an achieved self-disgust she said, gravely -contemplating her, "It is a great shame, mother. That is the way of this -wretched world. The good people are always making beauty for the bad -ones. You shouldn't let that lovely, but most irrational maternal -instinct dominate you; see me as I am, a horrid creature." She paused, -and all thoughts of artistic effects, all poetical and scientific -appreciations, were blotted out in a flame-like leap of memory--"false, -selfish, hard as a stone," she said. - -"Don't say it, dear--you could not say it if it were so." - -"Oh, yes!--one can, if one has a devilish clearness of perception about -everything. I am horrid--and I know that I am horrid. And you are very -lovely. There." And kissing her, Camelia pushed her gently to the door. - -Perhaps, however, more than artistic sensibilities had been touched. -Camelia shrank as quickly as before from any demonstration that seemed -to look too closely at her heart, but she herself would make advances. -She was only gentle, now, towards her mother; she never failed to kiss -or caress her when they met. A cheerful coldness seemed at once her -surest refuge and most becoming medium for an affection that could allow -itself no warmer and more dangerous avowals. It was a colorless, still -affection, held, as it were, from development, only felt by Lady Paton -as a more careful kindness, and by Camelia as a new necessity for -incurring no further self-reproach. - -Poor Lady Paton, devouring her heart in sorrowful conjecture and -helpless sympathy, had no thought but of her child; but by her side, -Mary, the silent witness of her grief and anxiety, might have claimed, -from disengaged eyes, a foreboding attention. Since the day of her -stolen ride Mary had effaced herself in a shadowy taciturnity. She -watched Camelia, and avoided her. Her absorption in every household duty -became minutely forced. She slipped early to bed after a day of -self-imposed labor. Work and its ensuing weariness, were the only -sedatives for intolerable pain; she deadened herself with the drug. The -weather was bad, and Lady Paton too depressed to rouse herself to her -usual benignant activity. Mary took upon herself her Aunt's abandoned -occupations. She went every day to read to the paralyzed girl at the -Manor Farm. She made the weekly round of visits through the wet village -streets; consulted with the well-worked rector; kept an eye upon the -school and almshouses. Mary was not particularly popular in the village. -Her kindness was rather flat and flavorless; Jane Hicks at the farm -complained to her mother that Miss Fairleigh's reading was "so dull -like; one didn't seem to get anything from it." - -Jane never forgot the one visit Miss Paton made her, nor how Camelia had -sat beside her and kept her laughing the whole hour. Camelia, seeing the -effect she made, had promised to return some day, but events had -interfered, she now was in no mood for laughing, and Jane was always -eager to question Mary about Camelia's doings, and to sigh with the -pleasant reminiscence of her "pretty ways." Mary's virtues were all -peculiarly unremunerative, they sought, and obtained, no reward. - -Towards the beginning of December Camelia's despair threw itself into -action. The rankling sense of Perior's scorn at first stupefied, and at -last roused her. Before him she had felt her powerlessness. His rocky -negative had broken her. He would not change--not a thought of his -changing stirred her deep hopelessness; but she herself might -change--merit at least a friendship unflawed--cast off crueller -accusations. - -She must be good, she must struggle from the shell; she must realize, -however feebly, his ideal. He would never love her--that delusion of her -vanity he had killed forever; but he might be fond of her without a -compunction. - -Towards this comparatively humble attainment Camelia strove. How to be -good was the question. Of course she would never tell lies any -more--unless necessary lies of self-defence, in protection of her dear, -her dreadful secret--Camelia could address it by both names; the love -that sustained and must lift her life, even he should never see again. -After all, it was easy enough to tell the truth when one cared no more -for any of the things gained by falseness. That was hardly a step -upward. Some other mode of development must be found; Camelia pondered -this necessity, and one day during a walk past Perior's model cottages -the thought came. She, too, would build cottages, beautiful cottages, -more beautiful than his! She almost laughed at the delicious, teasing, -old friendliness of that addenda. - -The Patons' estate boasted only very commonplace residences for its -laborers, and delightful visions of co-operative farming, of idealized -laboring conditions flashed joyously through Camelia's mind. Vast fields -of study opened alluringly, and, immediately in the foreground, these -idyllic cottages. They bloomed with trellised flowers on the gray -December landscape as she walked. The wall-papers were chosen by the -time she reached home. She burst upon her mother in the firelit -drawing-room at tea-time with an enthusiasm that made Lady Paton's heart -jump. - -"Mother! Such an idea! I am going to build." - -Mary, who was toasting a muffin to hotter crispness before the fire, -turned a thin, flushed face at the announcement. - -"Build what, dear?" asked Lady Paton; while Mary, certain in one moment -of what Camelia was going to build, and why, silently put the -ameliorated muffin on the little plate by her aunt's side. - -"Cottages. Model cottages. Beautiful cottages--really beautiful, you -know--Elizabethan; beams, white plaster, latticed windows, deep -window-seats, and the latest modernity in drains and bath-tubs." - -"Like Michael's, you mean," said Lady Paton, a little bewildered; "his -are not Elizabethan, but the drains and bath-tubs are very good, I -believe." - -Camelia's face changed when her mother spoke of "Michael;" and Mary, -watching as usual, compressed her lips tightly. The cottages were to be -built for him--with him! Ah! he would come back. Camelia would keep -him--for building cottages, for adoring her; while she, Mary, would be -thrust further and further away. - -"Yes, like his, only better than his. My tenants shall be the best -housed of the county." Camelia threw herself into an easy-chair, and -fixed her eyes thoughtfully upon the fire. - -"It will be very expensive, dear." - -"Never mind; we'll economize." - -Camelia had not so looked or spoken for weeks, and Lady Paton smiled a -happy acquiescence. - -Camelia took the cup of tea her cousin offered her without looking away -from the fire, where she saw the cottages charmingly pictured, and she -and Perior looking at them--friends. - -"Your boots are wet, dear, are they not?" asked Lady Paton; "it has been -raining." - -"They are wet, I think. Mary, just ring, will you? Grant must take them -off down here. I am too tired, too comfortable, to go upstairs." - -Camelia sighed as though the fundamental heaviness of her mood rose -through the seeming light-heartedness of tone; sighed, and yet the -relief of getting outside herself was filling her with an exhilarating -energy. - -As she drank her tea, ate a muffin, Mary browning it nicely for -her--"How cosy to have tea by ourselves," said Camelia, "and toast our -own muffins!"--she talked as she had not talked for a long time. Her -mind ran quickly, escaping its miserable thraldom, from point to point -of the project. - -She pushed aside the tea-things to make with spoons and saucers a plan -of the new scheme. - -"That high bit of land, you know, with the beech woods behind it; I'll -have six of the cottages, with big gardens; and what a view from the -front windows. I will furnish them, too. I must see an architect at -once: I'll go up to town for that, and talk it over with Lady Tramley. -Where is her last letter, I wonder? I remember her asking me for some -date; but that doesn't matter. She wanted me to go out, and of course I -won't." Camelia sprang up to rumple over the leaves of the blotter, the -drawers of the writing-desk. "Where is the letter? In the library, I -wonder?" - -"There is a whole pile, dear, in the small cabinet. You did not care to -look at them. I think they had better be gone over." - -"No; here is hers. I don't care about the others. I don't want to hear -anything about any one," Camelia added with some bitterness, as she -dropped into her chair again and held out her foot to Grant, who had -come in with the shoes. "Yes; she asks me for next week." - -"If you won't go out, dear, it may be rather annoying for her." - -"Oh! she can get out of things herself while I am with her," said -Camelia easily, as her eyes skimmed over the letter. - -The new impulse was too strong to be thwarted by the slightest delay. -That evening Camelia sent off a bulky letter to Lady Tramley, much -astonishing that good friend by her absolute ignoring of important facts -in recent history. Sir Arthur was not so much as hinted at. The whole -letter bristled with cottages, and Camelia's earnestness panted on every -page. - -"She is going in for philanthropy, I suppose," Lady Tramley conjectured, -shaking her head with a patient smile over the small, flowing -handwriting--Camelia hated untidy scrawls. "Let us help her. Camelia is -sure to do something interesting in the way of cottages. She'll carry -them through like a London season." - -Lady Tramley, as may be gathered from these remarks, was one of -Camelia's admirers, though not a blind or bigoted one. She shook her -head on many occasions, but Camelia's defects were not serious matters -to her gay philosophy, and Camelia's qualities in this frivolous world, -where nothing should be peered at too closely, were attractively -sparkling. As a successful hostess Lady Tramley prized the charming Miss -Paton. - -"Now mind," Camelia said on arriving at her friend's house, "I am not -going to be shown to any one. I am in a monastic frame of mind, and must -be kept unspotted from the world. No dances or dinners, if you please," -and she fixed her with eyes really grave. - -"Very well." Lady Tramley acquiesced as to a humorous and pretty whim. -"My doors are closed while you are here--as on a retreat. But when will -the season of penance be over? We are all expiating with you, remember." - -"Do I imply penance? Is that the habit my retirement wears?" - -"People give you credit for all sorts of niceties of feeling." Lady -Tramley smiled her significant little smile, a smile not lavished on the -nothings of intercourse, and Camelia, taking her by the shoulders, shook -her softly. - -"No; sly as you are you get nothing out of me, and give me credit for -nothing, please, not even for curiosity as to what people _do_ say of -me." - -"You know, dear, he is to meet, I fear, a second disaster as -unmerited----" - -Camelia had sat down to the tea-tray brought to refresh her after her -journey. She looked up from the filling of her cup to meet in a glance -the delicate directness of Lady Tramley's look. - -"Jack knows the ropes, of course, and I thought you ought to know -too--and be sorry." In her heart Lady Tramley hoped for an expansion of -sorrow that would carry Camelia past her moment of inexplicable folly. - -"I am sorry. The bill, you mean." Camelia folded a slice of bread and -butter, adding "Idiots." - -"Idiots indeed. It won't be carried, I am afraid. There is a split in -the Government, and Mr. Rodrigg has developed a really spiteful -acrimony. I always hated that man." - -"Ah! I loathe him!" said Camelia. She thought with a pang of -self-reproach of an unopened letter among the rejected pile--a letter -for Mr. Rodrigg. She had not cared to read his shuffling excuses. His -vanity, bulwarked by the strangely apt events succeeding his -discomfiture, might well renew hope. He might imagine these events the -result of remorse, and that, brought to a timely realization of her -folly, his fair one would consent to bury the hatchet and allow his firm -hand to tame her finally. All this Camelia had conjectured very rightly -on looking at the fat envelope. She had restrained the direct rebuff of -returning the unopened letter, but she had neither answered nor cared to -read it, and could well imagine that Mr. Rodrigg's cumulative -humiliation would urge him to his only possible vengeance. The "I loathe -him" was spoken with a most feeling intensity of tone. - -"Yes." Lady Tramley's affirmative was meaning, and Camelia looked up -alertly. "Lady Henge told me." - -"You know everything, I believe," cried Camelia. "Well, I am in good -hands." - -"I understand--your idea in it. But how unwise. How you mistook the -man." - -"Rather! Ass that I am!" - -"You looked for superlative chivalry, if you come to think of it." - -"No, for sincerity; common honesty. I thought I could convince him. I -didn't want chivalry without conviction. What did Lady Henge say of me?" -Camelia added bluntly. - -Lady Tramley replied very frankly, "She said you were a shallow jilt. I -quite agreed with her inwardly--though I shamelessly defended you." - -"If I say that I agree with you both it will only savor of ostentatious -humility--so I refrain. But, Lady Tramley, it was not the breaking of -our engagement that was shallow--that I will say. And so the bill is -doomed. Can we do nothing? Shear no Samson in the lobbies? Mr. Rodrigg, -of course, offers no hirsute possibilities." - -"Not a hair. Your Mr. Perior will be disappointed. He came back from the -Continent, you know, and put his shoulder to the wheel." - -Camelia stirred her tea evenly. Her nerves, as she felt with pride, were -very reliable. - -"_Our_ Mr. Perior then, is he not?" she asked, while her thoughts flew -past Sir Arthur to nestle pityingly to Perior. His useless valiancy -embittered her against the world of unconvinced opponents. Idiots -indeed! But she could not see him yet; even her nerves were not yet -tempered to a meeting. She had no comfortable background against which -to present herself; when she did, the background must be so unfamiliar -that for neither of them could there be the confusion of a hinted -memory. - -"Ours, by all means," said Lady Tramley. "I only effaced myself before -the paramount claim.--Not quite doomed. There is still the final fight, -and it is to be heralded by a thunderous article in the _Friday_. Mr. -Perior only goes down sword in hand." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -So he was in London. Camelia, sitting at home in the library, could -think of the nearness with a new calm. She was preparing herself to meet -its closer approach. She was not leaving herself defenceless. She -plunged into her reading--architecture, agriculture, decoration, and -sociology. The books came down from London in heavy boxes, and she sat -encompassed by the encouraging perfume of freshly-cut leaves. - -"Are you happy, dear?" her mother asked her. She would come in with her -usual air of deprecatory gentleness, and bend over the absorbed golden -head that did not turn at her entrance. On this day the absorption wore -a look of eager interest that seemed to justify the question. - -Camelia finished her sentence, smiling, however, as she put her hand on -her mother's without looking up. Her mind, indeed, was soothed, -comparatively comfortable. - -"No rude questions, Mamma!" - -"You understand all these solemn books?" Over her daughter's shoulder, -where she leaned, Lady Paton looked respectfully at the heavy volume. - -"I am beginning to understand that whatever one does in philanthropy is -wrong from the point of view of some authority!" Camelia said, -stretching herself on a long yawn, and then gently pinching her mother's -chin, while the smile dwelt upon her appreciatively, "As usual I find -that the only thing to do in this world is to do just as one likes." - -"If one can," said Lady Paton, with a half sad playfulness. - -"If one can;" the words woke in Camelia a painfully personal -affirmative, and with the wave of self-pity that swept through her -mingled a sense of her mother's unconscious pathos. Still holding her -chin she looked up at her, "It has often been _can't_ with you, hasn't -it?" - -Lady Paton's glance fluttered to a shy alarm and surprise at this -application. - -"With me, dear?" - -"Yes--you have had to give up lots of things, haven't you? to put up -with any amount of disagreeable inevitables." - -"I have had many blessings." - -"Oh! of course! You would say that over your last crust! But it has been -can't with you, decidedly. I wonder if it was because you weren't strong -enough to have your own way!" - -"That would be a bad way, surely." - -"Ah!--not yours!" - -"And perhaps I have no way at all," Lady Paton added, and Camelia was -obliged to laugh at the subtle simplicity. - -"That is being too submissive. Yet--it is comfortable, no doubt. -Absolute non-resistance isn't a bad idea. And yet, why shouldn't one -make one's struggle?--survive if one is fittest? Why is not having -one's own way as good as submitting to somebody else's? Oh dear!" she -cried. - -"What is it?" - -"Nothing, nothing; I am unfittest, that is all!" Camelia stared out of -the window. - -"What do you mean, dear?" - -"I mean that I can't have my own way--I, too, can't. And it wasn't a bad -way either. There is the cruelty of it, the irony, the jeer! All the bad -ways are given to me, and when I turn from them, don't want them, and -try for the _best_--I don't get it! Isn't it intolerable?" - -To Lady Paton this was wild, bewildering, pitiful, yet she grasped -enough to say, "That would be the punishment, would it not, dear, for -the bad ways?" - -"Yes, the punishment. Like damnation. One has made one's self too -ugly--the best can't recognize one at all." - -That evening the last number of the _Friday Review_ lay on the -drawing-room table. Perior had not written in it for some time, but with -the quiver of the heart any association with him now gave her, Camelia -picked up the paper and carried it to the fireside. Mary, sewing in the -lamp's soft circle of light, looked up quickly, and her hand paused with -an outstretched thread as she saw Camelia's literary fare. - -Camelia turned the pages in a half fretful search for what she felt sure -of not finding; then, abruptly, the rustling leaves came to a -standstill. There was the article, at last! a long one, on the Factory -Bill. Impossible to question the concise, laconic style; no one else -wrote with such absolute directness, such exquisite choice, free from -all hint of phrasing. - -Camelia's gray eyes kindled as she read, and her lips parted -involuntarily; she drew quick, shallow little breaths. Oh! through it -all went that fervor, that cold, bracing fervor she knew and loved. - -Perior's strong feeling was at times like a clear, indignant wind, -sweeping before it cowering littlenesses. Her mind half forgot him as -she read, conscious as was her heart. For the first time the intrinsic -right of the bill was borne in upon her. She had glibly dressed its -merits, laughing at her own theatrical dexterity. She had never really -cared for any bill. Now it became the greatest, the only bill in the -world. Her ardor rushed past the unfortunate initiator, to fall at the -propagator's feet. Ah! if she could but help now, and for his sake! Poor -Sir Arthur! - -Mary, who from her seat could just see, beyond the sharply held review, -the lovely line of Camelia's cheek, the little ear, set in its delicate -closeness against the shining hair, Mary, intent on the rising color in -this bit of cheek, had quite stopped sewing. Her pale eyes widened in a -devouring significance, her lips set tightly on repressed pain. Mary, -too, had read the article. - -Coming to the end of it, Camelia slanted the paper downwards, and -vaguely, over the top of it, looked at the fire. Then suddenly her eyes -met Mary's. A violent shock of self-consciousness shook her through and -through. She felt herself snatch back her secret from a precipice edge -of revelation--revelation to dull Mary, of all people. Mary, against -whom, in regard to Perior, she had long felt--not knowing that she felt -it--a strong, reasonless antagonism. She could not shake and slap her -secret, as a frightened mother slaps and shakes her rescued child; but -she could turn the terrified anger on its cause, and, in a strangely -pitched voice, she said, "What are you staring at? You look like a spy!" - -Mary gave a great start. If indeed she had been slapped outright her -guilty amazement could not have been more cruel. - -She stammered at a repetition of "staring"; but no words came. Her face -was scarlet. Camelia was immediately sorry, but not one whit less angry, -more so, perhaps, since pity is often an irritating ingredient; and, -too, she felt that to any one less stupid her very outburst might have -betrayed her. She was angry with herself as well as with Mary. Mary's -very helplessness was repulsive, and she hated to see her light blue -eyes set in that scarlet confusion. - -"Yes, staring;" she helped the stammering. "Is there anything you want -to find out? Do ask, then. Don't let your eyes skulk about in that -sneaking fashion. It makes me quite sick to see you." - -Mary stood up, looking from side to side in a half-dazed way that -Camelia observed with a pitying disgust that indeed sickened her. It -reminded her of the gestures of an ugly animal wounded by a stone flung -by some cruel boy. The simile came in a flash that it did not at the -moment give her time to complete it and see herself as stone-thrower. -She felt relief, as well as an added dismay, when Mary broke suddenly -into sobs, and stumbled out of the room, her sewing, caught in her -skirt, following her with ungainly leaps. Only then Camelia realized -that it was her own cruelty that sickened her; her irrational terror, -breaking in upon a tender, thrilling absorption, had urged her to it, -almost irresistibly; but now, the terror past, its foundationless folly -apparent, she really felt quite sick as she still sat looking at the -fire. - -The _Friday Review_ sliding suddenly from her knees gave her a nervous -pang that tingled to her finger-tips, and when she stooped to pick it up -Perior's personality seemed to confront her. She cowered before it. The -hot blood beat in her head. Only by degrees, as her mind faltered over -extenuations, did she quiet herself. Her hidden unhappiness--her love, -it had been like a blundering hand thrust among her heart-strings; how -could she have helped the sharp anger in which her naked anguish clothed -itself? Lastly, but with a kind of shame, Mary's displeasing personality -made a subtle condonation; her inarticulate stupidity was almost -infuriating. Not for one moment did her secret suspect Mary's. Her own -pain seemed already an expiation, and, in analyzing it, she could put -Mary aside, promising herself that she would atone by a "Forgive me, -Mary, I did not mean it," the next time they met. She would even add, "I -was a devil." Her sigh of decision left her only half comforted. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -She did not see Mary again until the next morning, and then Camelia gave -herself the satisfaction of fulfilling an uncompulsory duty. Mary's -mask-like look of endurance met her apology with a dumb confusion that -Camelia must assume as accepting it, since she could not imagine Mary as -unforgiving. - -Holding Mary's hand she repeated with some insistence, "I was devilish, -indeed I was. I don't know what evil spirit entered me." - -Mary was acute enough to see the apology as a mere poultice on Camelia's -bruised conscience, but she did not divine the stir of real pity that -had prompted it, nor the embarrassment that concealed itself, half -ashamed, under Camelia's bright smile, a smile like the flourishing -finality at the end of a conventional letter. - -Mary only shrank more coweringly from the circling advance of pain. In -her solitude Camelia's whip-like words and Camelia's smile blended to -the same scorching; words, Mary thought, so true, that no apology, no -smile, could efface them. That Camelia had felt them true was a -nightmare suspicion; the instinct for the truth had at least been there, -and, like the wounded animal, Mary quaked in her warren, conscious of -insecurity. Camelia soon forgot both cruelty and apology. - -The news of the defeat of the bill brought her no shock, when it came -late in January. She had regretted keenly her own interference for a -long time, and found herself prepared to meet the blow with the quiet of -exhausted feeling. Camelia was not given in these days to finding -excuses for her faults, but she could see that this one had been venial, -and escape an unjust self-reproach. It was certainly irritating to have -Mrs. Jedsley rub in the undeserved sting. - -Coming from the library one afternoon Camelia found this lady ensconced -before the drawing-room fire, her muddy boots outstretched to the -blaze--Mrs. Jedsley's boots were chronically muddy--a muffin in one -hand, a cup of tea in the other, her expression divided among the triple -pleasure of warmth, tea, and interesting news. - -"Well, my dear, you've all had your brushes cut off, it seems," was her -consolatory greeting. - -Camelia sank into a chair, languidly detesting Mrs. Jedsley's bad taste. - -"You did so much for the cause, too, didn't you?" said Mrs. Jedsley, -deterred by no delicate scruples. "Come, Camelia, confess that it has -been a tumble for you all!" - -"Too evident a tumble I think to require confession." - -"And Mr. Rodrigg here for such a time! You are less clever than I -thought you--don't be offended--I mean it in a complimentary sense. -Then, after all, it isn't a brush you need mind losing. I never thought -much of the bill myself." - -Camelia sat coldly unresponsive, and Lady Paton tried to smile at Mrs. -Jedsley's remarks and to believe them purely humorous. - -"I am sorry for poor Michael," she said, "I fear he has taken it to -heart." This unconscious opening was only too gratefully seized upon by -Mrs. Jedsley, who, after a meaning glance at Mary, fixed, over her -tea-cup, sharp eyes on Camelia. - -"Ah!" she said, "he is a man cut out for misfortunes--they all fit him. -He is bound to fail in everything he undertakes." - -"I can't agree with you there," Camelia spoke acidly. "I think he -succeeds at a great many things." - -"Things he doesn't care about, then, you may be sure of that. Fortune -follows such men like a stray dog they have no use for, while they are -looking for their own lost pet." - -Camelia drank her tea in silence, priding herself somewhat on her -forbearance, pondering, too, on the pathos of Mrs. Jedsley's simile in -which she could only see a purely personal applicability. It was not him -the stray dog followed, but any number followed her--and it was she who -had lost her all. - -But would he not come back? Might she not see him again? To be with -him--brave, self-controlled, and reticent, how well worth the fuller -pain! Pain was so far preferable to these dragging mists where she -waited. She might be--she must be--developing, but she must measure -herself beside him to know just how much she had grown. It pleased her -to see herself smiling sadly upon his unwitting kindness--for since he -had thought it a folly he should think it now a folly outgrown. It -pleased her to think that now exterior things mattered less to her than -to him; he, for all his self-defence of calm, still winced under the -whips of material circumstance; no doubt he was now tearing his heart -out over the defeat of the bill, and trying to persuade himself that he -had always expected it! She saw all material circumstance with -Buddhistic indifference. This thought dwelt pleasantly while she drank -her tea. Looking from the window she saw the winter afternoon not yet -gray, and her contemplative mood impatient of the chiming sharp and mild -which her mother and Mrs. Jedsley made, she left them to go out. First, -though, she bent over her mother and kissed her. It gave her content to -find tender demonstration becoming more and more an unforced habit. - -"Nice, pretty little mamma," she whispered. - -In her long coat, Siegfried trotting in front of her, Camelia breasted -the tonic January wind. There was just a crispness of snow on the -ground; in the lanes thin patches of ice made walking wary. She emerged -from the shelter of the hedges on to the fine billowy stretch of common, -where the wind sang, and the sunset in the west made a wide red bar. -Siegfried's adventurous spirit soon warmed him to an energetic gallop -through the dead fern and heather, and Camelia followed his lead, -intending to cut across to the highroad, and by its long curve return -home. It was in lifting her eyes to this road that she saw suddenly a -distant figure walking along it at a quick pace that would bring them -together at the very point she aimed for. It needed only the very first -brush of a glance to tell her that it was Perior. For a moment joy and -fear, courage and cowardice, pride and shame, struggled within her. Her -step faltered, stopped even, and Siegfried stopping too, looked round at -her, interrogation in the prick of his ears. - -Camelia walked on slowly. Perior had seen and recognized her--that was -evident. Whatever might be his own press of feeling he did not hesitate. -He took off his cap and hailed her gaily, and Camelia felt that her -answering hand-wave helped to prepare the way for a meeting most -creditable to them both. - -He did not fear the meeting, or would not show he did, for he advanced -over the heather at a pace resolutely unembarrassed. In another moment -they were face to face, and then she could see that his repressed a -tremor, and was conscious that her own was, with the same attempt, a -little rigid in its smile. Partly to recover from this shock of seeing -her again, partly to give her time to recover from her own emotion, -Perior raised her outstretched hand to his lips. He was so determined in -his entrenched resistance to the lover he knew himself to be (the lover -whose complaints had brought him rebelliously back again, his coming a -sop angrily thrown at the uncontrollable gentleman on condition, that -satisfied so far, he would keep still), so sure was Perior, the friend, -of the bargain, that the kiss was most successfully friendly. It sealed -delicately the bond he insisted on recognizing between himself and -Camelia. His relief was great, in looking at her again, to see that she, -too, fully recognized it, and that perhaps her courage was helped by -the fact that the mood--the astonishing mood--had passed. It would much -simplify matters if it had. He longed to be with her again, a longing -her tacit acquiescence in the old friendship could alone justify him in -satisfying. That his coming had not been indelicately ill-judged the -directness of her eyes seemed to assure him; but however much the friend -might rejoice in believing that he alone had anything to conceal, the -repressed lover, most inconsistently, felt a pang. Perior only consented -to recognize his own contentment with the safe footing upon which he -found himself. - -Camelia smiled at him, and he smiled at her, smiles that might have been -children kissing and "making up"; frank, and bravely light. - -"I thought you were in London," said Camelia. "No; come back, Siegfried, -we are going no farther; for you were coming to us, I suppose, Alceste?" -She could look at him quite directly. She was not ashamed, no, -mercifully she was not ashamed, that was her jubilant thought. After the -pang of the first moment she felt the strong conviction, borne in upon -her by her own calmness, that her love for him could never shame her, -nor her confession of it. The warm power of his friendship kept her from -petty terrors. She felt, in a moment, that on her courage depended their -future relationship. To ignore the past, to make him ignore it, would be -to regain, to keep her friend. - -"Yes, I was going to you--of course," said Perior, smiling, as they went -towards the road together. - -"I have been to Italy, you know, but I came back some time ago. I -thought I might be of use." - -"Ah! I should have liked to have been of use! but I had been too badly -bitten to dare put out a finger!" - -"I wouldn't put out fingers, if I were you; it isn't safe--when, they -are so pretty." The intimacy was almost caressing; she leaned against it -thankfully. Proud to show him that of the crying child there was not a -trace, she determined on a swift glance at the past that would put him -quite at ease. - -"And you are coming back? Since this dreary business of the worsted -right is over you won't exile yourself any longer--and rob us? All your -friends will be glad to have you again!" - -"Will they indeed?" his eyes sought hers for a moment, seemed to see in -them the past's triumphant mausoleum, presented for inspection quite -magnificently. - -"Thanks, Camelia." The boldness delighted him, delighted all of him -except that grumbling prisoner who, in his dungeon, felt foolishly -aggrieved. "Yes, I am coming back--since I am welcome," he said, adding -while they went along the road, "As for the worsted right, the right -usually is worsted, in the first place. One must try to keep one's faith -in eventual winning." - -"Tell me," said Camelia, feeling foundations quite secure, since each -had helped the other, "Mr. Rodrigg's opposition, that last speech of -his--the satanic eloquence of it!--you don't think--ah! say you don't -think me altogether responsible?" - -"Would it please you--a little--to think you were?" The old rallying -smile pained her. - -"Ah, don't! That has been knocked out of me--really! Don't imply such a -monstrous perversion of vanity." - -"I retract. No, Camelia, I don't think you _altogether_ responsible. The -eloquence would always have been against us, its satanic quality was, I -fear, your doing." - -"Yet, I meant for the best--indeed I did. Say you believe that." - -"Indeed, I do believe it, Camelia." - -They were nearing home when he said, "You were in London--I heard from -Lady Tramley." - -"Yes, I went up on business." - -"Did you? How are Lady Paton and Mary?" - -"Very well. You don't ask about my business,"--Camelia smiled round at -him. - -"Very blunt in me. What was the business, Camelia?" His answering smile -made amends. - -Camelia placed herself against her background. - -"I am building model cottages! You should see how economical we have -become! _Your_ glory is diminished!" - -"With all my heart!" cried Perior, with a laugh of real surprise and -pleasure. "Lady Tramley did not tell me. Good for you, Célimène!" - -It was delightful to bring him into the drawing-room that she had left -only an hour before. Camelia almost fancied herself perfectly happy as -she flung open the door with the announcement-- - -"Here is Alceste, Mamma!" No nervousness was possible before her mother -and Mary; it required no effort to act for them since she had so -successfully performed her part to him. Mrs. Jedsley was gone, but Mary -and Lady Paton sat before the fire, Mary reading aloud. She dropped the -book; Camelia's voice, in her ears, sounded with a brazen clang of -victory, and Perior seemed to her conquered, brought captive in an old -bondage. She could hardly speak, hardly welcome him; his return crushed -every hope of his liberation, the joy of seeing him was a mere -desolation. With a settled dulness she listened to them--all three -talking and exclaiming. - -Perior had taken her hand, had shaken it warmly, looking at her with -kindest eyes; but now he listened to Lady Paton, and Lady Paton, of -course, after the first flood of rejoicing, condolences, and -questionings, was talking of Camelia. - -The resentment that had smouldered in Mary for many months seemed now to -leap, and lick her heart with little flames of hatred. How she hated -Camelia; she turned the black thought quite calmly in her mind--it was -not unfamiliar. - -Lady Paton was telling Perior about the cottages; she was rather proud -of Camelia's beneficent schemes, though gently teasing her about some of -their phases: "And, Michael, she is going to make them into veritable -palaces of art. Specially designed furniture--and Japanese prints on the -walls! Now they won't care about prints, will they?" - -"They ought to, Camelia thinks," laughed Perior, looking at Camelia, -who, hat and coat thrown aside, leaned forward in the lamplight, smiling -and radiant, the pathos that her thinner face had gained emphasizing -its enchanting loveliness. - -Mary looked at her too, at the curves of the figure in the perfect black -dress, at the narrow white hands, one lying on her knee, like a flower, -with the almost exaggerated length and delicacy of the fingers; at the -profile, the frank upraised eyes, the smiling mouth, the flashing white -and gold that rose from the nun-like white and black of the dress, and -the wide cambric collar falling about her shoulders and clasping her -throat. Beautiful! Mary felt the beauty with a sort of sickening. Of -course he looked at her, had no eyes but for her. Of course he had come -back. - -"They must like them," said Camelia, "I don't see why such people should -not grow into good taste; and taste is often such a negative thing--a -mere leaving out of all ugliness. I have a lot of these prints; I picked -them up in Paris--the arcade of the Odion, Alceste--cheap things, but -excellent in their way; then a few good photographs. The rooms are to be -very bare. I should ask for all decoration a vase of flowers on the -table--I think I shall offer prizes to my cottagers for the best -arrangement of flowers." - -"A very civilizing system!" Perior still laughed, for he found the -prints and the flower-arrangements highly amusing, and he still looked -at Camelia. - -So that first meeting was over. It had passed so easily, with an -inevitable ease, based on long years that would not be disowned. Yet -when he had gone, Camelia was conscious of a sinking of the heart. The -exhilarating moment could not last. Her friend had come back, fond, -gently mocking, tender, yet unimpressed, blind to the change in herself -she passionately clung to as consummated. As her love was noble, she -thought that she had grown to match it. Her self-complacency, though on -a higher plane, circled her more completely, and as the days went on, -his blindness gave her a new sense of defeat. The ease remained, a tacit -agreement to shut their eyes on a certain incident; it was done most -successfully; they were quite prepared to meet _tête-à-tête_, and the -inner wonder of each as to the other's unconsciousness betrayed itself -only in a certain gentle formality that grew between them. That he -should come--and so often--fulfilled the only hope left her, and yet her -heart was darkened at moments by the thought that in these visits there -was an effort. She missed something of the old intimacy; it was not -quite the same--how could it be? that, after all, would have been too -big a feat of forgetfulness. He did not laugh at her, nor grow angry and -rage at her, as he had used to do, yet she could not feel that he -approved of her the more. He was fond of her--that was evident, even -though he might find this rebuilding difficult, and undertake it from a -sense of duty; but the fondness was graver than before, at least, it -made no pretence of hiding its gravity. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -Mary came for Camelia one morning while Perior was with her, to tell her -that Jane Hicks was dying and asking for her. Mary saw that Camelia's -promptitude, where compunction blushed, gratified Perior, as did Jane's -devotion; she knew that he supposed the devotion based upon some new -blossoming of thoughtful kindness in Camelia, and the ironic bitterness -of this reflection was in no way made easier to Mary as she heard -Camelia, while they all three walked to the farm, confess dejectedly to -the one visit. - -"I should have gone again!" Camelia repeated with sincerest -self-reproach, and Mary could see that though he assented to the -reproach her contrition lifted her in his estimation. Perior waited -below while Camelia and Mary went up together. Camelia came down -weeping; Mary's face was quite impassive. - -The poor girl had died with her hand in Camelia's, her eyes fixed on the -lovely Madonna head that bent over her with a beautiful piteousness, -like a vision at the gates of heaven. Jane closed her eyes on that -vision. She had not had one look for Mary, though her perfunctory -thanks--the winding up of the trifling duties remaining to her on -earth--had been feebly breathed out to her some hours before. Mary saw -that she had been very unnecessary to Jane, and that the unknown -Camelia, Camelia's one smile, the one golden hour Camelia's beauty had -given her, made the brightness, the poetry, the symbolized radiance of -things unseen and hoped for that had remained with the dying girl during -the last months of her life. Mary was very still in walking back with -the others. Camelia sobbed, and stumbled in the heavy road, so that -Perior gave her his arm and held her, looking pityingly, more than -pityingly, at the bent head and shaking shoulders. Mary felt her own -lack of emotion to be unbecoming, but, indeed, she had none, was -conscious instead of a dislike for poor, dead Jane. - -For Mary was a most unhappy creature. Outside the inner circle, where -Perior and Camelia wondered about, and evaded, one another, the very -closeness of constant intercourse making blindness easy, Mary saw the -truth, that Camelia did not see, very clearly. With her preconceived and -half-mistaken ideas as to that truth, it remained one-sided. Perior -loved Camelia; loved, and had weakly crawled back to her, craving at -least the crumbs of friendship,--and that she was lavish with her crumbs -who could deny?--since all else had been refused to him. Mary spent her -days in a quivering contemplation of this fact. The bitter, sweet -consolation of the whole truth never entered her mind. Camelia loving, -and Camelia repulsed, was an imagining too monstrous for vaguest -embodiment. Camelia's own naïve vanity would not have surpassed in -stupefaction Mary's sensations, had such a possibility been suggested to -her. Camelia, who could have anybody, love Mr. Perior? She would have -voiced her astonishment even more baldly. Not that Mary thought Mr. -Perior nobody. To her he was everybody; but that knowledge was her -painful joy, a perception lifting her above Camelia. Camelia judged by -the world's gross standards, and, by those standards, she must stoop in -loving Perior. - -That Camelia should stoop in the world's eyes, that Camelia should do -anything but soar, were unimaginable things. So her ignorance made her -knowledge more bitter. The man she loved, adored,--her bleached, starved -nature spreading every flower, stretching every tendril, her ideal and -her rapture towards him,--that man did not see her, even. She was no -one; a dusty little moth beating dying wings near the ground, and his -eyes were fixed on the exquisite butterfly tilting its white loveliness -in the sunshine. Under her stolid silence Mary was burning, panting. His -misery, her doom, and Camelia's indifference,--at the thought of all -these a madness of helpless rebellion swam about her; and with a growing -sense of weakness came a growing terror of self-betrayal. For she was -dying, that was Mary's second secret; there was even a savage pleasure -in the thought of absolute and consummated wretchedness hidden so -carefully. Hysterical sobs rose in her throat when she thought of it, -and of their blindness. The sobs were nearly choking her one day as she -sat alone in the morning-room casting up accounts. - -Perior had been with Camelia in the library for two hours, and he had -not come into the morning-room, though over two hours ago poor Mary had -stationed herself there in the sorry hope of seeing him. The little -touch of abandonment stabbed more deeply than ever on this morning, when -her head was so heavy, her chest so hollow, breathing so difficult, all -her sick self so in need of pitying gentleness and sympathy; and though -no tears fell, that rising, strangling sob was in her throat. There was -shame, too; her very rectitude was crumbling in her weakness and -wretchedness; the wretchedness had seemed to exonerate her when, -exasperated by envy and long waiting, she had gone to the library door -and put her ear to the key-hole, like a base thing, to listen. - -Since everything had abandoned her she might as well abandon herself, so -she told herself recklessly; but she had only heard Camelia's clear, -sweet voice; and Camelia was reading Greek! Mary could only feel the -irony as cruel, and on regaining her place at the writing-table she -found herself shaking, and overwhelmed with self-disgust and a sort of -desperation. - -When Perior came in very shortly afterwards she could almost have risen -to meet him with a scream of reproach. The mere imagining of such a -strange revelation made her dizzy as he approached her. - -"I had not seen you. I am just off. How are you, Mary?" he asked. In -spite of the mad imaginings Mary's mask was on in one moment, the white, -stolid mask, as she turned her face to him. - -"Very well, thanks." - -"You don't look very well." - -"Oh, I am, thanks." Mary averted her eyes. - -Perior's brow had an added look of gloom this morning. His eyes followed -hers. The drizzling rain half blotted out the first faint purpling of -the trees. "What a dreary day!" he ejaculated, with a long, involuntary -sigh. He was not thinking of Mary; she saw that very plainly, though her -eyes were fixed on the blurred tree-tops. - -"Very dreary," she echoed. He looked down at her again, this time with a -certain pain and interest that Mary did not see. On his own thoughts, -the perplexing juggling of "If she still loves me as I love her, why -resist?" the ensuing fear of yielding, and yielding for no better reason -than that he could not resist, broke the thought of Mary. It could not -be a very big thought. Mary was a quiet, uneventful little person, -spending a contented existence under her aunt's wings, useful often as a -whip wherewith to lash Camelia, but pitiful mainly from his sense of the -contrast of which he really believed Mary quite unconscious. Something, -now, in her still face, in the lax weariness of her thin hand, lying on -the account book, roused in him a groping instinct. He looked at the -hand with a certain surprise. Its thinness was remarkable. - -"You do look badly, Mary," he said. "Tell me, are you dreary, too? Can I -do anything for you? We must have some rides when it grows finer." His -thoughts, as usual, gave Camelia an accusing blow. - -"You are bored, tired, unhappy like the rest of us, Mary. Is that any -consolation?" He smiled at her. She felt the smile in his voice, but did -not dare to meet it, bending her head over the account books. - -"Don't do those stupid sums!" - -"Oh, I like them!" Indeed, the scrupulous duties were her one frail -barrier against the black sea of engulfing thought. And then, her heart -just rising in the false but delicious joy of his kind presence, came a -call, a call not dreary like the day, but fatally sweet and clear, the -sound of it as if a flower had suddenly flung open rosy petals on the -grayness. - -"Alceste, come here! I want you." - -"Our imperious Camelia," said Perior with a slight laugh. "Well, -good-bye, Mary. Don't do any more sums, and don't look at the rain. Get -a nice, cheerful book and sit down at the fire. Amuse yourself, won't -you?" He clasped her hand and was gone. - -Mary sat quite still, moving her pen in slow curves, waves, meaningless -figures over the paper. The arrested sob seemed frozen, and no tears -came. She looked dully at the black zigzags on the paper while she -listened to the distant sound of voices in the hall, Camelia's laugh, a -lower tone from Perior, Camelia's cheerful good-bye. - -A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and while she shook with it Camelia -came in. Mary's coughing irritated Camelia, but she did not want to hurt -her feelings by departing before it after getting the newspaper she had -come for, so, walking to the table, she said, taking up and opening the -_Times_ with a large rustling-- - -"All alone, Mary?" - -"Yes," Mary replied. The coughing left her, and she clenched her -handkerchief in her hand. The madness rose again, lit by a keener sense -of horror. - -"But Mr. Perior came in, did he not?" Camelia scanned the columns, her -back to the light. - -"Yes," Mary repeated. - -"Well, what did he have to say?" Camelia felt her tone to be -satisfactorily detached. She wanted to know. That sense of something -lacking, something even awkward, had become almost acute this morning; -only her quiet gaiety had bridged it over. Mary was again looking out of -the window. An inner impulsion made her say in a tone as dull as her -look-- - -"He said he was dreary." - -The _Times_ rustled with a somewhat aggressive effect of absorption, and -then Camelia laid it down. Something in Mary's voice angered her; it -implied a sympathy from which she was to be shut out; he had not said to -_her_ that he was dreary. But she still kept her tone very light as she -walked to the fire. - -"Well, he is always that--is he not?" she commented, holding out a foot -to the blaze; "a very glum person indeed is my good Alceste." - -Mary did not reply, and Camelia, with a quick turn of conjecture that -seemed to cut her, wondered if there had been further confidences. She -paused for a moment, swallowed on a rising tremor of apprehension, -before saying, as she turned her back to the fire and faced the figure -at the table--the figure's heavy uncouthness of attitude making her a -little angrier--"What further moans did my melancholy friend pour into -your sympathetic bosom, Mary?" Mary, looking steadily out of the window, -felt the flame rising. - -"He said that he was bored, tired, unhappy." - -After a morning spent with _her!_ Camelia clasped her hands behind her -back, and tried to still her quick breathing. She eyed Mary, but she did -not think much of Mary. - -"Really!" she said. - -"Yes. Really." Suddenly Mary rose from her chair; she clutched the -chair-back. "Oh, you cruel creature! you bad creature!" she cried -hoarsely. - -Camelia stared, open-mouthed. - -"Oh, you bad creature," Mary repeated. Camelia never forgot the look of -her--the ghastly white, stricken out of sharp shadows, the splash of -garish color on either cheek, the pale intensity of her eyes. She -noticed, too, the sharp prominence of Mary's knuckles as she clutched -the chair-back, and in her amazement stirred a certain, quite different -discomfort. She could find no words, and stared speechlessly at the -apparition. - -"You are cruel to every one," said Mary. "You don't care about any one. -You don't care about your mother--or about _him_, though you like to -have him there--loving you; you don't care about me--you never did--nor -thought of me. Well, listen, Camelia. I am dying; in a month I will be -dead; and _I_ love him. There! Now do you see what you have done?" - -A fierce joy filled her as she spoke the words out. To tear the bleeding -tragedy from its hiding-place, and make Camelia shudder, scream at -it--it brought relief, lightness; she breathed deeply, with a sense of -bodily dissolution; and Camelia's look was better than screams or -shudders. Let the truths go like knives to the heart that deserved them. -As she spoke Mary felt her wrongs gather around her like an army. She -had no fear. She straightened herself to send to her cousin a solemn -look of power. - -"You did not know I was dying; of course you would not know it--for you -think of nothing but yourself. There, do you see that handkerchief? I -have been coughing blood for a long time. Nothing can be done for me. -You know how my father died. And when I am dead, Camelia, you may say to -yourself, 'I helped to make the last year of her life black and -terrible--quite hideous and awful.' Yes; say it. Perhaps it will make -you feel a little badly." With the words all the anguish of those -baffled, suffering months came upon her. The sobs rose, panting; the -tears gushed forth. Staggering, she came round the chair and dropped -into it, and her sobs filled the silence. - -Camelia stood rooted in terror. She expected to see the sudden horror -fulfil itself, to see Mary die before her eyes, Mary's curse upon her, -and all her misdeeds one vague, menacing blackness. To clutch at any -doubt was impossible. From the first moment of her uprising Mary's body -had been like a shattered casket from which streamed a relentless light. -Camelia's eyes were unsealed; she saw that the casket was shattered--the -light convicted her. - -"What have I done?" she gasped. "Tell me, Mary, what is it?" - -She found a difficulty in speaking. She did not dare approach her -cousin. - -"I will tell you what you have done," said Mary, raising her head, and -again Camelia felt the hoarse intentness of her voice, like a steady -aiming of daggers. "You have taken from me the one thing--the only -thing--I had. I love him! He is nothing to you; and you took him from -me." - -"Oh, Mary! Took him from you!" - -"Yes, yes; you did not know. He did not know. _I_ saw it all. He might -have loved me had you not come back. He must have loved me, when I loved -him so much! oh, so much!" and, sobbing again, she pressed to her eyes -the blood-stained handkerchief, careless now of its revelations. - -"Oh, Mary!" cried Camelia, shuddering. - -"I was so happy last winter. He would come and read, and ride. He was so -kind. Auntie, and he, and I--it was the happiest time of my life. But -you came, and he never looked at me again! Oh, how horrible! how unjust! -Why should you have everything?--I nothing! nothing! I suppose you -thought me contented, since I was ugly, and poor, and stupid. And you, -because you are beautiful, and rich, and clever, you have everything! -That is all that counts! I am not selfish and cruel; at least, I used -not to be. I have thought about other people always! I have tried to do -right, and what have I got for it? My life has been a cheat! and I hate -it! And I am glad to die, because I see that you, who are bad, get all -the love, and that I will never have anything! And I see that I am -bad--that I have been made bad through having had nothing!" - -"Oh, Mary! forgive me! oh, forgive me!" Camelia found her knees failing -beneath her. She stretched her clasped hands towards her cousin. - -"I did not know; indeed, I did not! Indeed, I love you, Mary!--oh, I do -love you! We all love you!" She felt herself struggling, with weak, -desperate hands, against Mary's awful fate and her own guilt. "How can -you say that, when we all love you? know how good you are!--how sweet -and good--love you for it!" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. -Mary, who herself no longer sobbed, observed her. - -"Oh, you are a little sorry now," she said, in a voice of cold -impassiveness that froze Camelia's sobs to instant silence. "I make you -uncomfortable--a little more uncomfortable than when I cough. It is -strange that when I never did you any harm--always tried to please -you--you should have found pleasure in hurting me. Do you remember all -the little jeers at me before him? You mocked my dulness, my ugliness. -He did not laugh. It made him sad, because he did not like to see you -unbeautiful in anything; but he must have seen me more stupid, more ugly -than before. And when he was with me for one moment you would take him -away. And you lied to keep him to yourself, like that day we were to -have ridden together; and if you had known that I loved him you would -have been all the more anxious to have him--to hurt me." - -"No, no, Mary!" Camelia's helpless sobs burst out again. - -"Yes; why can I speak to you like this? because I am dying, you see that -I am dying--that gives me my only advantage; I can tell you what I think -of you, and you don't dare reply. You would not dare say to me now that -I am a spy--that I have sneaking eyes. I hate you, Camelia! I hate you! -Oh! oh!" She rose to her feet suddenly, and at the change of tone--the -wail--Camelia uncovered her eyes. - -"I am going to die! I am going to die! And I love him, and he does not -care." Mary groped blindly to a sofa, fell upon it, buried her head in -the cushions. - -Camelia rose to her feet, for she had been kneeling, and stood listening -to the dreadful sobs. - -Her life had never known a comparable terror. The blackness of Mary's -point of view encompassed her. She felt like a murderer in the night. -She crept towards the sofa. "Oh, forgive me, say a word to me." - -"Leave me; go away. I hate you." - -"Won't you forgive me?" The tears streamed down Camelia's cheeks. - -"Go away. I hate you," Mary repeated. There was a compulsion in the -voice Camelia could not disobey. Trembling and weeping she went out of -the room. - -Mary lay there sobbing. She had never so realized to the full the extent -and depth of her woe, yet there was relief in the realization, relief in -the flinging off of secrecy and shame. That Camelia should suffer, -however slightly, restored a little the balance of justice, satisfied a -little the outraged sense of solitary suffering, atoned a very little -for fate's shameful unfairness. To poor Mary, sobbing over her one -triumph, the morality of the universe seemed a little vindicated now -that she had taken into her own hand the long-delayed lash of -vengeance. - -Her weakened religious formalities and conventionalities withered under -this devouring, pagan flame. It was good to hate, and to revenge one's -self, good to see the smooth and smiling favorite of the cruel gods, -weeping and helpless. She was tired of rightness--tired of swallowing -her tears. - -The best thing in her life had been turned against her; everything was -at war with her. Well, she would crouch no longer, she would die -fighting, giving blow for blow. She threw her hands up wildly in -thinking of it all--beat them down into the cushions. To have had -nothing, nothing, and Camelia to have everything! Oh, monstrous -iniquity! Camelia, who had done no good, happy; she, who had done no -wrong, unutterably miserable. - -For a long time she lay sobbing, still beating her hands into the -cushion, a mechanical symbolizing of her rebellion and wretchedness. So -lying, all the blackness of the past and future surging over her, -engulfing her, she heard outside the sound of a horse's hoofs on the wet -gravel. A moment afterwards running footsteps came down the stairs and -crossed the hall. Mary pulled herself up from the sofa, and, with the -outer curiosity of utter indifference, walked to the window. Camelia's -horse stood before the door, a groom at his head. The drizzling mist -shut out all but the nearest trees, flat, pale silhouettes on the white -background, against which the horse's coat gleamed, a warm, beautiful -chestnut. Mary's indifference grew wondering. Her sobs ceased as she -gazed. The gaze became a stare, hard, fixed, as Camelia, in a flash, -sprang to the saddle. Mary saw her profile, bent impatiently, the -underlip caught between her teeth, the brows frowning, while the groom -adjusted her skirt. In a moment she was off at a quick trot, and soon a -sound of galloping died down the avenue. - -Mary stood rigidly looking after the sound. A supposition, too horrible, -too hideous, had come to her, too hideous, too horrible not to be true. -Its truth knocked, fiercely insistent, at her heart. Her knowledge of -Camelia, acute yet narrow, and confused by this latter suffering, sprang -at a bound to the logical deduction. - -Camelia could not bear suffering, revolted against it, snatched at any -shield. She had gone now to Perior, that he might lift from her this -dreadful load of responsibility, cast upon her so cruelly by Mary. He -must tell her that he had never thought of Mary, and that the idea of -robbery was a wild figment of Mary's sick brain. Mary's brain, though -sick, was clear, clear with the feverish lucidity that sees all with a -distinctness glaring and magnified. She saw all now. The meanness, the -cowardice of Camelia's proceeding only gave a deepened certainty. - -Then indeed shame came upon Mary. She saw herself gibbeted between them, -knew too well what he would think. He would himself hang her up, since -truth demanded it, and since Camelia must be comforted. The glaring -lucidity dazzled Mary a little at times, and now the awful justice of -Perior's character assumed in her eyes a Jove-like cruelty, that more -than matched Camelia's dastardliness. The past hour seemed painless in -comparison with the present moment; its blackness, in looking back at -it, was gray. To be debased, utterly debased, in his eyes--that was to -drink the very dregs of her cup of agony. Her hatred of Camelia was her -only guide in the night. She went into the hall and took down her hat -and cloak. She could not wait for Camelia's return. She must herself see -the actuality of her betrayal. Camelia might lie unless she could hold -the truth before her face; might say that she had not ridden to -Perior's. Mary would see for herself, and then--oh then! confronting -Camelia, she would find words, if she died in speaking them. - -She ran down the avenue and turned off into the woods by a short cut -that led more directly than the curving high road to the Grange. Her -weakness was braced by the fierceness of her purpose. She felt herself a -flame, hastening relentlessly through the smoke-like mist. - -The woods were cold and wet. She pushed past dripping branches, splashed -through muddy pools; the inner fire ignored its panting frame. When she -arrived at the foot of the hill on which stood the Grange, she knew that -Camelia must have been with him there for an hour or more. She could not -see the house through the heavy atmosphere, but, hidden by the trees and -fog, she could see the road and be herself unseen. On the edge of the -wood was a little stile; she shuddered with wet and cold as she sat down -on it to wait. She would wait for Camelia to pass, and then, by the same -hidden path, she could go home and confront her. Beyond that crash Mary -did not look. It seemed final. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -But Mary was quite mistaken--as absolute logic is apt to be when dealing -with human beings. Camelia, indeed, had gone to Perior, but on a very -different errand from the one Mary's imagination painted for her. -Camelia was not thinking of herself, nor of throwing off the iron chains -of that responsibility with which she felt herself manacled for life. -Mary's story had crushed every thought of self, beyond that -consciousness of riveted guilt. It was of Mary alone she thought as she -galloped through the mist. With terror and pity infinite she looked upon -Mary's love and the approaching death that was to end it; their tragedy -filled everything, and at the feet of the majestic presences her own -personality only felt itself as a cowering criminal. It was as though -the ocean of another's suffering had flooded the complacent rivers of -her life. They overflowed their narrow channels; they were engulfed, -effaced in the mighty desolation; never again could they find their -flowering banks, their sunny horizons. - -This moan of a suffering universe, heard before only in vaguest -whispers, the minor key of the happy melody that she had known, making -the melody all the sweeter for its half-realized web of sadness--this -moan was now like the tumult of great waters above her head, and a loud -outcrying of her awakened soul answered it. She was guilty--yes, as -guilty as Mary knew her to be, for all the mistaken deductions of Mary's -ignorance. She loved Perior, and he did _not_ love her; but those facts -in no way touched the other unalterable facts--a cruelty, a selfishness, -a blindness, hideous beyond words. - -Yet now she did not think of this guilt, irrevocable as it was. - -Mary--Mary--Mary. The horse's hoofs seemed to beat out the cry! Mary and -her fate. Camelia stood with Mary against that fate; but her attitude of -rebellion was even fiercer, more determined than poor Mary's flickering -light could have sustained. Mary good--with nothing. Virtue _not_ its -own reward. Suffering, crushing, unmerited suffering, eating away the -poor empty life. She herself bad, and the world at her feet. Camelia -felt herself capable of taking the immoral universe by the throat and -shaking it to death--herself along with it. - -She was galloping for help, yes, to Perior. He must help her, he alone -could help her, to clutch the malignant cruelty, tear it off Mary, and -then give her some gleam of happiness before she died. Camelia -straightened herself in the saddle at the thought. "She shall not die," -clenched her teeth on the determination. She might be saved. Who could -tell? One heard of wonderful cures. And at least, at least, she should -not die unhappy. Camelia would wrench happiness for her out of despair -itself. She would fight the injustice of the gods until her last breath -left her. - -All the pitiful humanity in Camelia clung to the human hope of -retribution and reward. Her mind fixed in this desperate hope, she could -take no thought of the coming interview; that would have implied a -retrospective glance at her last visit to the Grange, and Camelia could -not think of herself, nor even of Perior. - -The Grange was desolate on its background of leafless trees. Camelia, as -she dismounted at the door, looked down at the whiteness which brimmed -the valley; the tree-tops emerged from it as from a flood; but where she -stood there was no mist--a clear, sad air, and a few faint patches of -blue in a colorless sky above. She rang, holding the horse's reins over -her arm. Her habit was heavy with the wet, and her loosened hair clung -damply about her throat and forehead. Old Lane, when he appeared, showed -some alarm. She could infer from his expression what her own must be. - -"Mr. Perior? Yes, Miss; in the laboratory with Job Masters. Just go up, -Miss, and I'll take the horse round to the stables." - -The laboratory was at the top of the house. Camelia found herself -panting from the swiftness of her ascension when she reached the door. -Entering, she faced the white light from the wide expanse of window, -which overlooked on bright days miles of wooded, rolling country, to-day -the sea of mist. Perior's back was to her, and he was bending with an -intent interest over a microscope; a collection of glass jars was on the -table, and Job Masters, his elementary features lit by the intelligent -gravity of close attention, was standing beside him. Perior was -saying-- - -"Now, Job, take a look at it." His gray head did not turn. - -"It's Miss Paton, sir," Job volunteered. At that Perior rose hastily, -and Camelia advancing, looked vaguely at Job, at the microscope, at the -jars of infusoria. - -A thought of the last visit had shot painfully through Perior on hearing -her name, but, after one stare at her white face, his fear, freed from -any selfish terror, took on a sympathetic acuteness. - -"I must speak to you," she said. - -"Very well. You may go, Job," and as Job's heavy footsteps passed beyond -the door, "What is it, Camelia?" he asked, holding her hands, his -anxiety questioning her eyes. - -For a moment, the press of all that must be said crowding upon her, of -all that must be said with a self-control that must not waver or -misinterpret through weakness, Camelia could not speak. She looked at -him with a certain helplessness. - -"Sit down, you are faint," said Perior, greatly alarmed, but, shaking -her head, she only put her hand on the back of a chair he brought -forward. - -"I have something terrible to tell you, Michael." That she should use -his name impressed him even more than her announcement, emphasized the -gravity of the situation in which he was to find himself with her. In -the ensuing pause their eyes met with a preparatory solemnity. - -"Michael, Mary is dying." He saw then that her eyes seized him with a -deep severity of demand. The shock, though not unexpected, found him -unprepared. - -"She knows it?" he asked. - -"Yes, she knows it. Listen. She told me everything. It was more horrible -than you can imagine. She told me how cruel I had been to her--how I had -neglected her--how I had cut again and again into her very soul. She -hates me, she hates her life, but she is afraid of death. She is not -going to die happily, hopefully, as one would have thought Mary would -die. She is dying desperately and miserably, for she sees that being -good means merely being trodden on by the bad. She has had nothing, and -she regrets everything." Perior dropped again into the chair by the -table. He covered his eyes with his hands. - -"Poor child! Unhappy child!" he said. - -The shuddering horror of the morning came over Camelia. She clasped her -hands, pressing them against her lips. It seemed to her suddenly that -she must scream. - -"What does it mean? What does a life like that mean?" Her eyes, in all -their helpless guilt and terror, met his look of non-absolving pity. - -"It means that if one is good one is often trodden upon. We must accept -the responsibility for Mary's unhappiness. My poor Camelia," Perior -added, in tones of saddest comprehension, and he stretched out his hand -to her. But Camelia stood still. - -"Accept it!" she cried, and her voice was sharp with the repressed -scream. "Do you think I am trying to shirk it? Do you think that I do -not see that it is I--_I_, who trod upon her? Don't say 'We'; say 'You,' -as you think it. You need have no compunctions. I could have made her -happy--happier, at least, and I have made her miserable. I have -done--said--looked the cruellest things--confiding in her stupid -insensibility. I have crushed her year after year. I am worse than a -murderer. Don't talk of me--even to accuse me; don't think of me, but -think of _her_. Oh, Michael! let us think of her! Help me to mend--a -little--the end of it all!" - -"Mend it?" He looked at her, taken aback by her words, the strange -insistence of her eyes. "One can't, Camelia--one can't atone for those -things." - -"Then you mean to say that life _is_ the horror she sees it to be? She -sees it! There is the pity--the awful pity of it! Not even a merciful -blindness, not even the indifference of weakness! Morality is a gibe -then? Goodness goes for nothing--is trampled in the mud by the herd of -apes snatching for themselves! That is the world, then!" The fierce -scorn of her voice claimed him as umpire. Perior put his hand to his -head with a gesture of discouragement. - -"That is the world--as far as we can see it." - -"And there is no hope? no redemption?" - -"Not unless we make it ourselves--not unless the ape loses his -characteristics." He paused, and a deepened pity entered his voice as he -added, "You have lost them, Camelia." - -"Yes; I can hear the canting moralist now, with his noisome explanation -of vice and misery. Mary has been sacrificed to save _my_ soul, -forsooth! _My_ soul!" - -"Yes." Perior's monosyllable held neither assent nor repudiation. - -"Yes? And what does my miserable soul count for against her starved and -broken life?" - -"I don't know. That is for you to say." - -"I say that if virtue is to give a reward to vice, life is a nightmare." -Perior again put his hands over his eyes. The thought of poor Mary, -conscious of injustice, the sight of Camelia writhing in retributory -flames, made him feel shattered. - -"But I didn't come to talk about my problematic soul," said Camelia in -an altered voice; "I came to tell you about Mary." She approached him, -and stood over him as she spoke, so that he looked up quickly. - -"She will probably be dead in a month. She knows it; and, Michael, she -loves you." Perior flushed a deep red, but Camelia whitened to the lips. -He would have risen; she put her hand on his shoulder. - -"Impossible!" he said. - -"No, listen. She told me. She lashed me with it this morning--that -hopeless love--for she thinks that you love me--thinks that I am playing -with you. She loves you. She has loved you for years." - -"Don't say it, Camelia!" Perior cried brokenly. "Mary's disease explains -hysteria--melancholia--a pitiful fancy--that will pass--that should -never have been told to me." - -"Ah, don't shirk it!" her hand pressed heavily on his shoulder. "Her -disease made her tell me, I grant you, but you could not have doubted -had you heard her!--as I did! You understand that she must never -know--that I have told you." - -"I understand that, necessarily, and I must ask you from what motive -you think your revelation justified; it must be a strong one, for I -confess that the revelation seems to me unjustifiable--cruelly so." - -"I have a strong motive." - -"You did not come to pour out to me the full extent of poor Mary's -misfortune for the selfish sake of relieving, by confession, your -self-reproach? And, indeed, in this matter I cannot see that you are -responsible. It is a cruelty of fate, not yours." - -Camelia looked away from him for a moment, looked at the microscope. A -swift flicker of shame went through her, one thought of self, then, -resolutely raising her eyes, she said, "Am I not at all responsible? Are -you sure of that?" - -"Responsible for Mary loving me?" Perior stared, losing for a moment, in -amazement, his deep and painful confusion. - -"No; that is fate, if you will. But had I not come back last summer, had -I not claimed you, monopolized you, absorbed you. Ah! you are flushing; -don't be ashamed for me! I swear to you, Michael, that I am not giving -myself a thought, had I not set myself to work to make love to -you--there is the fact;--don't look away, I can bear it--can you tell me -that Mary might not have had the chance she so deserved, of slipping -sweetly and naturally into your heart--becoming your wife?" - -"Camelia!" Perior turned white. "I never loved Mary, never could have -loved her. Does that relieve you?" He keenly eyed her. - -"Don't accuse me of seeking relief! That is a cruelty I don't deserve. -If you never could have loved Mary, it is even more dreadful for me--for -it is still crueller for Mary. That she should love you. That you -should not care! could never have cared!" - -At this Perior rose and walked up and down the room. "Don't!" he -repeated several times. His wonder at Camelia interfused intolerably his -sorrow for Mary. - -Camelia followed him with steady eyes. The eagerness of decisive appeal -seemed to burn her lips as she said slowly-- - -"Ah, had you seen her! Had you heard her crying out that she was -dying--that she loved you--that you did not care!" - -"You must not say that." Perior stopped and looked at her sternly, "I am -not near enough. It is a desecration." - -"Ah! but how can I help her if I don't? How can _you_ help her? For it -is you, Michael, _you_. Can't you see it? You are noble enough. -Michael--you will marry Mary! Oh!"--at his start, his white look of -stupefaction, she flew to him, grasped his hands--"Oh, you must--you -_must_. You can make her happy--you only! And you will--say you will. -You cannot let her die in this misery! Say you cannot, Michael--oh, say -it!" And, suddenly breathless, panting, her look flashed out the full -significance of her demand. In all its stupefaction Perior's face still -retained something of its sternness, but he drew her hands to his -breast. "Camelia, you are mad," he said. - -"Mad?" she repeated. Her eyes scorned him; then, rapidly resuming their -appealing dignity, "You can't hesitate before such a chance for making -your whole life worth while." - -"Quite _mad_, Camelia," he repeated with emphasis. "I could not act such -a lie," he added. - -"A lie! To love, cherish that dying child! A better lie than most -truths, then! You are not a coward--surely. You will not let her die -so." - -"Indeed I must. Any pretence would be an insult. As it is, if Mary could -see you here, she would want to kill us both." - -"Not if she understood," said Camelia, curbing the vehemence of her -terrified supplication, the very terror warning her to calm. "And what -more would there be in it to hurt her?" - -"That _I_ should know--and should refuse. Good God!" - -"Where is the disgrace?" Camelia's eyes gazed at him fixedly. "Then we -are both disgraced--Mary and I." Her smile, bitterly impersonal, offered -itself to no interpretations, yet before it he steadied his face with an -effort. He could not silence her by the truth--that he loved her, her -alone; loved now her high, frowning look, her passionate espousal of -another's cause. Mary's tragic presence sealed his lips. He said -nothing, and Camelia's eyes, as they searched this chilling silence, -incredulous of its cruel resolve, filled suddenly and piteously with -tears. - -"Oh, Michael," she faltered. Scorn and defiance dropped from her face; -he saw only the human soul trembling with pity and hope. He did not dare -trust himself to speak--he could not answer her. Holding her hands -against his breast, he looked at her very sorrowfully. - -"Listen to me, Michael. I mustn't expect you to feel it yet as I -do--must I? That would be impossible. I only ask you to _think_. You see -the pathos, the beauty of Mary's love for you! for years--growing in her -narrow life. Think how a smile from you must have warmed her heart--a -look, a little kindness. She adores you. And this consciousness of -death, this nearing parting from you--you who do not care--leaving even -the dear sight of you. Think of her going out alone, unloved, into the -darkness--the everlasting darkness and silence--with never one word, one -touch, one smile, to hold in her heart as hers, meant for her, with -love. Oh, I see it hurts you!--you are sorry; oh, blessed tears! You -cannot bear it, can you? Michael, you will not let her go uncomforted? -She is not strong, or brave, or confident. She is sick, weak, -terrified--a screaming, shuddering child carried away in the night. -Michael!"--it was a cry; she clasped his hands in hers--"you will walk -beside her. You will kiss her, love her, and she will die happy--with -her hand in yours!" Her eyes sought his wildly. He had never loved her -as he loved her now, and though his tears were for Mary, the power, the -freedom of his love for Camelia was a joy to him even in the midst of a -great sadness. He could not have kissed her or put his arms around her; -the dignity of her abasement was part of the new, the sacred loveliness, -and it was more in pity than in love that he took the poor, distraught, -beautiful face between his hands and looked at her a negation, pitiful -and inarticulate. She closed her eyes. He saw that she would not accept -the bitterness. - -"I will do all I can," he then said; "but, dear Camelia, dearest -Camelia, I cannot marry her." - -It was a strange echo. Camelia drew away from him. - -"What can you _do_? She knows you are her friend; that only hurts." - -"Does it?" He saw now, through the unconscious revelation, the greatness -of her love for him, and saw that in the past he had not understood. She -loved him so much that there was left her not a thought of self. Her -whole nature was merged in the passionate wish that he should fulfil her -highest ideal of him. He saw that she would have laid down her life for -him--or for Mary, as she stood there, and, for Mary, she expected an -equal willingness on his side. - -"It would only be an agony to her," Camelia said; "she would fear every -moment that she would betray herself to you, as she betrayed herself to -me. Can't you see that? Understand that?" Desperately she reiterated: -"You must pretend! You must lie! You must tell her that you love her! -You must marry her, take her away to some beautiful country--there are -places where they live for years; make a paradise about her. You -_must_." She looked sternly at him. - -"No, Camelia, no." - -"You mean that basest no?" She was trembling, holding herself erect as -she confronted him; her white face, narrowly framed by the curves of -loosened hair, tragic with its look of reprobation. - -"I mean it. I will not. You will see that I am right. It would be a -cruel folly, a dastardly kindness, a final insult from fate. And I do -not think only of Mary--I think of myself; I could not lie like that." - -Her silent woe and scorn, frozen now to a bleak despair, dwelt on him -for a long moment, then, without another word, she turned from him and -left him, making, by the majesty of her defeated wrong, his victorious -right look ugly. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -Camelia galloped home furiously. The tragedy was then to be consummated. -He would not put out a finger to avert it. Mary would go down into the -pit of nothingness, and her love, her agony, her strivings after good, -would be as though they had never been. - -"And _I_ live," thought Camelia, as she galloped, and her thoughts -seemed to gallop beside her; they were like phantom shapes pressing on -her from without, for she did not want to think. "_I_, thick-skinned, -dull-souled I. Yes, materialism wins the day. Morality is a lie, evolved -for the carpeting of lives like mine, for the preservation of the -fittest!--_I_ being fittest! To those that have shall be given, and from -those who have not shall be taken away--the law of evolution. Oh! -hideous, hideous! Oh, horror!--not even the ethical straw of development -to grasp at; Mary's suffering has warped her, lowered her. She has been -tortured into rebellion against her own sweet rectitude; she, who only -asked to love--hates; she, who lived in a peaceful renunciation, now -struggles, thinks only of herself." - -It was this last thought that seemed to lean beside her, look into her -eyes with the most intolerable look. Mary--inevitably lowered. The -blackness shuddered through her. Camelia on that ride tasted the very -dregs of doubt and despair, and knew the helplessness of man before -them. She could have killed herself, had not a sullen spark, the last -smouldering from the fire of resolution that had burned in her as she -rode to Perior, still lit one path through the darkness. She must throw -herself at Mary's feet, seek and give comfort through her own extreme -abasement. She must cling to Mary, supplicating her to believe in her -infinite love and pity. Could not that love, when all errors were -explained, reach and hold her? Camelia felt her defiance of eternity -clasp Mary forever. But when she reached home Mary was not there. -Camelia panted as she ran from room to room; her desire, thrown back, -rose stiflingly. She was afraid of seeing her mother, for at a look, a -question, she felt that her suspense of hard self-control would break -down; she might scream and rave. She sent a few words to Lady Paton by a -servant; she was tired and was going to rest--must not be -disturbed--then she locked herself into her own room. - -Some hours passed before she heard Mary's voice outside demanding -entrance, hours that Camelia was to look back on as the blackest of her -life, so black that all in them, every thought and impulse, made an -indistinguishable chaos, where only her suffering, a trembling leaf -tossing on deepest waters, knew itself. In looking back, she remembered -that she had not once moved until the knock came, and that, on going to -open the door, her hand had so shaken that it fumbled for some moments -with the key. - -Mary stood on the threshold. She was splashed with mud. Beside the -whiteness of her face, Camelia's was passive in its pain. Mary closed -the door, and, as Camelia retreated a little before her, leaned back -against it. Her eyes went at once over Camelia's wet habit and -dishevelled hair; she had expected a careful effacement of all signs of -the guilty errand; Camelia could not now deny the ride. The thought of a -brazen avowal made Mary close her eyes for a moment. She had to struggle -with a sick faintness, as she leaned against the door, before she could -put that monstrous thought aside and say, returning to her first -impulse, and opening her eyes as she spoke-- - -"I know where you have been." - -Camelia stood still. This unexpected blow confused the direct vision of -appeal and abasement that upheld her. She must face an unlooked-for -contingency, and her mind seemed to reel a little as she faced it. - -"You followed me, Mary?" she asked, with a gentleness bewildered. - -"Yes, I followed you." - -Camelia was now becoming conscious of the definiteness of Mary's heavy -stare. It was like a stone, and under the weight of it she groped, -staggering, in a wilderness of formless conjectures. Mary could not know -why she had gone. A pang of terror shot through her. Mary's next words -riveted the terror. - -"I saw you. I know why you went. I know everything," said Mary. -Camelia's horror kept silence, though the room seemed to whirl round -with her. Had Mary by some unknown means reached the Grange before she -did? Had she been hidden near the laboratory? Had she heard? Were all -merciful lies impossible? She felt her very lips freeze in a rigid -powerlessness. - -"You went to tell him that I loved him?" Mary's eyes opened widely as -she spoke, and she walked up to her cousin, close to her. - -"You told him that I loved him," she repeated, and Camelia in her -nightmare horror felt the hatred of the pale eyes. - -"You don't dare deny that you told him." No, Camelia did not dare deny. -She looked down spellbound at Mary. She was afraid of her, horribly -afraid of her. It was like the approach of a nightmare animal, its -familiar seeming making its strangeness the more awful. She did not dare -deny. She could not move away from her; she was paralyzed in her dread. -Mary looked at her as though conscious of her own power. - -"You told him, so that he might comfort you, tell you he had never loved -me, never could have loved me. You betrayed me to save yourself from -that reproach of robbing me." It was like awakening with a gasp that -Camelia now cried-- - -"No, no, Mary! Oh no." - -She could speak. She could clasp her hands. "No, no, no," she repeated -almost with joy. - -"You lie. You are lying. What is the good of lying to me now? It is easy -for you to lie. You went to ask him the truth, and he gave it to you. -For he would never have loved me, whatever I may have hoped--even -believed at moments." - -"No, Mary; no, no!" Mary's dreadful supposition made Camelia feel the -reality as a peace, a refuge. That world of black cruelty where Mary -wandered, that at least was untrue, an illusion. Not hatred, not deceit -surrounded her, but love, and pity, and tenderness. - -"I did not go for that, Mary," she cried. "Listen, Mary, you are wrong; -thank God, you are wrong. I did not go because I was sorry for myself; I -did not go basely. I was so sorry for you," said Camelia, sobbing and -speaking brokenly, while Mary looked at her in a stern tearless silence, -"I knew he would be sorry. I knew we both loved you, and I wanted him to -marry you, Mary." - -"_What!_" Mary's voice was terrible; yet Camelia clung to the courage of -her love, confident that the truth alone could now reveal it--all the -truth. - -"Yes, dearest Mary, yes. There was no hatred, only a longing to make you -happy--to help atone; only love, not hatred." - -"You are telling me the truth?" - -They were standing still before each other. Camelia could not interpret -the pale eyes. - -"Mary, I swear it before God." - -"And he will not marry me!" - -"He loves you, as I do." - -"He will not marry me!" - -"Let me only tell you--everything; it is not you only----" - -"You tossed me to him--and he refused me! How dare you! How dare you! -How dare you!" And Mary, a revelation of rage and detestation flaming up -in her eyes, distorting her face, struck her cousin violently on the -cheek. - -Camelia stood dazed. The blow interpreted, too well, Mary's attitude. -She could not resent, nor even wonder, could only accept the retribution -of cruel misunderstanding and bow her head. She covered her face with -her hands and wept. Except for this sound of weeping the room was still. -In the darkness of her humiliation--shut in behind her hands--Camelia -felt, at last, the silence. She looked up. Mary was once more leaning -against the door. Her eyes were closed. Camelia went to her, took her -hand, and Mary made no motion. Raising the hand to her lips Camelia -kissed it; its coldness chilled the smarting of the blow. Mastering her -terror Camelia put her arms around her, and, Mary sinking forward into -them, she gathered up the piteously light figure and carried it to the -bed. - -"Mary--Mary--Mary," she murmured, staring at the head which lay so -still, so solemnly. Was she dead? Camelia struck aside the thought of a -so cruel finality. Strengthened by her rebellion she sprang to open the -door, and the house resounded with her cries for help. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -The servant, as he showed Perior into the drawing-room, told him that -Miss Fairleigh was dying, and the imminence of the tragedy was -sorrowfully emphasized by Lady Paton's woe-stricken face, as she came in -to him. - -"Yes, Michael, dying," she said before he spoke; his look had asked the -question. He took her hands, and they sat down, finding a comfort in -being together, and Perior was in as much need of it as she, felt not -one whit stronger before the approaching end. - -"Tell me about it. It has been so sudden." - -Lady Paton sobbed out the sad facts. Her own blindness; poor Mary's long -concealment--too successful; the doctor's fatal verdict. - -"I was blind, too," said Perior, "though I always feared it." - -"Ah! that is the cruellest part of it! And her indifference--she does -not seem to care; she does not speak to any of us." - -"Not to Camelia? Is Camelia with her?" - -Perior's heart must spare some of its aching to his unhappy Camelia. - -"She has not once left her. She is so brave; I can only cry; but it has -made Camelia already different; a strength, a gentleness, yet a despair. -She feels it terribly, Michael, and the first shock was hers. Mary was -out all yesterday afternoon--in the wet and cold, and when she came in -she fainted in Camelia's room." - -Perior looked at her, pondering this sinister announcement. - -"I should like to see Mary--when she is able," he said. - -"Yes. She must have her friends about her, my poor, poor child. Ah -Michael! I can never forgive myself." - -"Why do you say that? You gave Mary all her sunshine." - -"Not enough! not enough! She must have seen that it was Camelia, only -Camelia, in whom my heart was bound up. She must have felt it." - -Perior sighed heavily. He, too, had regrets. Had he but known, guessed -what he had been to Mary! But he said, "Don't exaggerate that; Mary must -have understood; it was inevitable, quite, and pardonable. Camelia was -your daughter." - -"Ah! Camelia had so much, Mary so little!" and to this Perior must -perforce assent. - -Meanwhile Camelia sat by Mary's side. She divided the vigils with the -nurse who came down from London. She found that her eternal -self-reproach had strengthened her. She could bear its steady -contemplation and soothe her mother's more helpless grief. - -Mary was sinking fast. During the next three days she hardly spoke, -though her eyes followed the ministering figures that moved about her -bed. Conscious that she was dying, but wrapped in an emotionless -sadness, she watched them all indifferently, and slept quietly from time -to time. It was going to be much easier than she had thought. Hardly a -thread bound her to life; even her passionate hatred of Camelia was -dimmed by the creeping mists; even her love for Perior wailed, it -seemed, at a long distance from her; she listened to it as she lay -there; only at moments came a throb of pain for all the happiness she -had never had. Camelia meeting the calm eyes would smile tremulously, -but Mary gave no answering smile, and her eyes kept all their calm. - -Camelia had to hold firmly to the self-abnegation of perfect -self-control to keep down the cry of confession that would give her -relief, that would perhaps admit her to Mary's heart; it was not until -the third night, as she sat beside her, that the yearning allowed itself -to grow to hope. Mary's eyes, on this night, turned more than once from -their vacant gaze and dwelt upon her with a fixity almost insistent. - -Camelia dared, at last, to take in both her own the tragic hand that lay -on Mary's chest, and, after a timid pause, she raised it to her lips. It -lay resistless; she held it against her cheek; through the dimness, Mary -felt the tears wetting it. - -The merciful hardness about her heart seemed to melt. She knew a keener -pang, a longer aching, that did not end and give her peace again. It was -not calm, after all, not good to die with that unloving frost holding -one. She lay in silence, looking, in the faint light, at her cousin's -bent head, the ruffled outline of the golden hair. The thought of -Camelia's beauty bowed in this desolation touched her sharply, -intolerably. She felt her heart beating heavily, and suddenly, -"Camelia, I am sorry," she said. - -Camelia clasped the imprisoned hand to her breast, and leaned forward. - -"Sorry! Oh, Mary--what have you to be sorry for?" - -"I was wicked--I hated you--I struck you." - -"I deserved hatred, dear Mary." - -"I should not hate you. It hurts me." - -"Oh my darling!" sobbed her cousin, rising, and bending over her. - -"It hurts me," Mary repeated, but in a voice unmoved. - -"Do you still hate me, Mary?" - -There was a pause before she answered--and then with a certain -faltering, "I--don't know." - -"Will you--can you listen, while I tell you something?" said Camelia -almost in a whisper--for Mary's voice was hardly more, "I must tell you, -Mary, I deserve everything you said, and yet--you misjudged me. Will you -hear the truth?" Camelia clasped the hand more tightly to her breast. "I -am not going to defend myself--I only want you to know the truth; -perhaps--you will be a little sorry for me then--and be able to love -me--a little." - -Mary looked up at her silently, and, when she paused, said nothing; yet -her intent look seemed to assent. - -"It will not give you pain," Camelia said tremblingly, "the pain is all -mine here. Mary--I love him too." The words came with a sob. She sank -into the chair, and dropping Mary's hand she leaned her elbows on the -bed and hid her face. - -"I loved him, Mary, and--I imagined that he must love me. My vanity was -so great that I thought I could choose or reject him. I accepted Sir -Arthur--from spite--partly, and then I was dreadfully frightened. On the -very day I accepted Sir Arthur I sent for Mr. Perior. Mary, I made love -to him. I did not tell him I was engaged; I wanted to escape from that -blunder unscathed. I could not believe in his embarrassment, nor in the -reality of his scorn when he found me out. I broke my engagement--as you -know. I went to Mr. Perior's house. I entreated him to love me--I hung -about his neck, cried, implored. He did not love me; he rejected me. He -scorns me--he is sorry for me; he is my friend, but he scorns me. I was -not playing with him--you see that now. I adore him--and he does not -love me at all." - -Uncovering her face, Camelia found Mary's eyes fixed upon her. - -"Do you understand now, Mary, why I went to him? I loved you so--was so -sorry for you--so infinitely sorry--for had I not felt it all? I never -told him that you thought he might have loved you; but I thought it -myself, I thought that he might love you, indeed, when he _knew_ -you--knew the sweetness, the sadness of your hidden love. If he refused, -Mary, it was because he respected you too highly and himself--to act any -falsity towards you. It was not like my rejection; there was no shame, -no abasement for you. You have his reverent pity, his deep, loving -devotion. Don't regret, dear Mary, that through my well-meant folly he -really knows you now." She paused, and Mary still lay silent, slowly -closing and unclosing her hand on the sheet. - -"Believe me, Mary," said Camelia, the monotony of her recitative -yielding to an appealing tremor, "I have told you the truth--the very -truth. I have not hidden a thought from you." - -"You love him?" Mary asked, almost musingly. - -"Yes, dear, yes. We are together there." - -"I never saw it; never guessed it." - -"Like you, Mary, I can act." - -"And you wanted him to marry me," Mary added presently, pondering it -seemed. - -"Oh, Mary!" said Camelia, weeping, "I did. I longed for it, prayed for -it--I would have given my life to have him marry you. Mary, believe me, -when I tell you that to atone in however a little measure for your -dreary life, I would die--oh gladly, gladly." - -"Would it not have been worse than dying?" Mary asked in a voice that -seemed suddenly to subtly smile, though she herself lay unsmiling in the -shadowed whiteness of the bed. - -"What--worse?" - -"To see him marry me." Camelia gazed at her. - -"I think, Mary," she said presently, "I could have seen it without one -pang for myself; I would have been too glad for you to think of that. -And then--he does not love me. The iron entered my soul long ago. I have -long since lost even the bitterness of hope." - -"And he does not love you," Mary repeated quietly, raising her eyes and -looking away a little. - -"He does not, indeed." - -Camelia's quivering breaths quieted to a waiting depth. But Mary for a -long time said nothing more. Her hand lay across her breast, and above -it her face now surely smiled. - -At last she turned her eyes on her cousin. Looking at her very gently, -she said, "But I love you, Camelia." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -Camelia was sitting again by Mary's bed when Perior was announced the -next morning. - -"You must go and see him to-day," said Mary. - -"Why--must I?" - -"I should like to see him," Mary's voice had now a thread only of -breath; to speak at all she had to speak very slowly, "and you must tell -him first, that I know." - -"Mary--dear----" - -"I do not mind." - -"No, one does not, with him. I will see him, tell him. - -"Talk--be nice to him; do not be angry with him because he will not -marry me." Her smile hurt Camelia, who bent over her, saying-- - -"If I had not gone!--you would not be here now; we might have kept you -well much longer." - -"That would have been a pity--wouldn't it?" said Mary, quite without -bitterness. - -"Oh, Mary! Could we not have made you happy?" - -"Perhaps it is knowing that I can never be well that keeps me now from -being sad," Mary answered; "don't cry, Camelia--I am not sad." - -But Camelia cried as she went down the stairs. - -A pale spring sunshine filled the morning-room, where she found Perior. -She had hardly noticed the outside world for the last few days, and it -gave her now a sweetly poignant shock to see that the trees were all -blurred with green, a web of life embroidering the network of black -branches; beyond them a high, pale, spring sky. She saw the green really -before seeing Perior, for he was looking at it, his back turned to her -as she came in. Then, as he faced her, his aging struck her more -forcibly than the world's renewal of youth. As she looked at him, and -despite the memory of their last words together, despite the tears upon -her cheeks, she smiled. She had forgiven him. He had been right, she -wrong; and then--his sad face, surely his hair had whitened? The love -for Mary that overflowed her heart seemed to clasp him in its pity and -penitence, but she could only feel it as the overflow. - -"She wants to see you," she said, giving him her hand, and she added, -for the joy of last night must find expression, "She knows everything. -She followed me that day--and half guessed the truth--only half; I had -to tell her all. And she has forgiven me--for everything." Camelia bent -her forehead against his shoulder and sobbed--"She is dying!--and she -loves me!" - -"My darling Camelia," said Perior, putting his hand on her hair. - -To Camelia the words could only mean that he forgave--and loved--as Mary -did; but she felt the deep peace of truest union. - -"Then she is dying in the sunshine, isn't she?" he added, "not in that -horrible darkness." - -"Yes--but such a cold, white sunshine. It is because she feels no -longer. It is peace--not happiness; just 'peace out of pain.'" - -"And cannot we two doubters add, 'With God be the rest'?" - -"We must add it. To hope so strongly--is almost to believe, isn't it? -Come to her now." - -She left him at Mary's door. - -The nurse, with her face of hardened patience, rose as he entered. - -"I will leave you with Miss Fairleigh, sir. Call me if I am needed." - -Her look was significant. - -Perior felt his heart shake a little as he went round the white curtain. -He was afraid. If he should blunder--stab the ebbing life with some -stupidity! Something of this tender fear showed in his look at the dying -girl, and the fear deepened for a moment to acutest pain at sight of -her. Was that the Mary he had last seen sitting over the account -books?--the Mary he had fatuously told to keep cheerful? Remorse wrung -his heart. But as for the fear of hurting her, Mary was very far beyond -all little mundane tremors, and they faded away, ashamed for having -been, as he clasped her hand, and met her eyes; their still smile -quieted even his pain, and wrapped him in its awe and beauty. - -He sat down beside her, keeping her hand in his. - -"Dear Mary," he said. - -For a long time she did not speak; indeed Perior thought that she might -not wish to employ the coarser medium of communication, could not, -perhaps; her eyes, as they rested upon him, seemed amply significant; -but he could not fathom, quite, their ultimate meaning. Perhaps a great -sadness underlay their calm. But at last, very faintly and very slowly -she said-- - -"You saw Camelia." - -"Yes." - -"You know--that I was--cruel to Camelia?" - -"No, I did not know." - -"I was." - -"I cannot believe that, Mary." - -"I was, I misjudged her. I struck her. She did not tell you that?" - -"No," said Perior, after the little pause his surprise allowed itself. - -"I did, I struck her," Mary repeated, with a certain placidity. "You -understand?" she added. - -Perior was putting two and two together; the result was clearly -comprehensible. - -"Yes, I understand," he said. - -"Camelia understood too." - -"Yes," Perior repeated his assent, adding, "You have saved Camelia, -Mary; I don't think she can ever again be blind--or stupid." - -"Camelia--stupid?" Mary's little smile was almost arch. - -"That is the kindest word, isn't it?" Perior smiled back at her, "Let us -be kind, for we are all of us stupid--more or less; you very much less, -dear Mary." - -Mary's look was grave again, though it thanked him. "You are kind. -Camelia has been very unhappy," the words were spoken suddenly, and -almost with energy. - -"I don't doubt that." Mary closed her eyes, as if all effort, even the -passive effort of sight, must be concentrated in her words. - -"And I am afraid--she will be very unhappy about me." - -"That is unavoidable." - -"But--unjust. She is nothing--that I thought. Nothing is her fault. It -is no one's fault.--I was born--not rich, not pretty, not clever, not -even contented; it is no one's fault. I have been cruel. You must -comfort her," and Mary suddenly opening her eyes looked at him fixedly. -"You must comfort her," she repeated, adding, "I know that you love -Camelia." - -Perior, with some shame, felt the red go over his face. Mary observed -his confusion calmly. - -"You need not mind telling me," she said. - -"Dear Mary, I am abased before you." - -"That isn't kind to me," Mary smiled. "You do love her--do you not?" - -"Yes, I love her." - -"And she loves you." - -"I have thought it--sometimes," said Perior, looking away. - -"She has always loved you. You too have misjudged Camelia. She told -me--last night--she told me that you had rejected her." - -"Did she, Mary?" Perior looked down at the hand in his. - -"Yes--through love of me. You understand?" - -"Perfectly." - -"It brought us together," said Mary, closing her eyes again. - -She lay so long without speaking that Perior thought she must, in her -weakness, have fallen asleep, but at last she said, the words wavering, -for her breath was very shallow, "That is what Camelia needed. Some -one--to love--a great deal----" And with an intentness, like the last -leap of a dying flame, she added, looking at him, "You will marry -Camelia." - -"If Camelia will have me," said Perior, bending over her hand and -kissing it. - -A gleam of gaiety, of pure joyousness, shone on Mary's face. Humorously, -without a shadow of bitterness, she said, "I win--where Camelia failed!" - -The tears rushed to Perior's eyes. He could not speak. He rose, and -stooping over her, he took her in his arms and kissed her. - -"Ah!" she said quickly, "it is much better to die. I love you." She -looked up at him from the circle of his arms. "How could I have lived?" - -At the great change in her face he wondered if he had done well in -yielding to the impulse of pure tenderness; but still supporting her -fragile shoulders he said, stammering-- - -"Dear child--in dying--you have let us know you--and adore you." - -The light ebbed softly from her eyes as she still looked up at him. -"Perhaps--I told you--hoping it----" she murmured. These words of -victorious humility were Mary's last. When Camelia came in a little -while afterwards she saw that Mary's smile knew, and drew her near; but -standing beside her, holding her hand, she felt that Mary would not -speak to her again. Through her tears she looked across the bed at -Perior; his head was bowed on the hand he held; his shoulders shook -with weeping. At the unaccustomed sight a half dull wonder filled her. - -For a long time Mary smiled before her, as they held her hands; and -Camelia only felt clearly that the smile was white and beautiful. She -waited for it to turn to her again. Only on meeting Perior's solemn look -the sense of final awe smote upon her. - -"She is dead," he said. - -To Camelia the smile seemed still to live. - -"Dead!" she repeated. Perior gently put the hand he held on Mary's -breast. - -"Not dead!" said Camelia, "she had not said good-bye to me!" - -Perior came to her; his silence, that could not comfort, answered her. -She fell upon her knees beside the bed, and her desperate sobs wailed -uselessly against the irretrievable. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -It was many weeks afterwards that he told her what Mary had said. Her -woe, not selfish, but inconsolable, made it impossible that during the -first days of bereavement he should do more than help and sustain her by -the fullness of a friendship now recognized as deep and unrestrained. - -It was she herself who asked him one day if Mary had said anything that -he could tell her, had spoken of her with a continuation of the -forgiveness, her trust in which made life possible. Camelia, in her new -devotion to her mother, its vehemence almost alarming Lady Paton, -controlled for her sake all tears and lamentations, but lying on a sofa -this afternoon, alone in the twilight, the tears had risen, and they -were falling fast when Perior came in and sat down beside her. It was -then that she asked him about Mary. - -"She told me what you said to her the night before she died," Perior -answered, and Camelia let him take her hand. She lay reflecting for some -moments before saying-- - -"She wanted you to think as well of me as possible." - -"She wanted to make me happy. She knew that you were mistaken." - -"How mistaken?" Camelia asked from her pillow. - -His voice had been unemphatic, but in the slight pause that followed -her question she felt that his eyes dwelt upon her, and she looked up at -him. - -"You told her--that I did not love you." Camelia lay silent, her hand in -his, her eyes on his eyes. - -"You believed that, didn't you?" he asked. - -"How could I help believing it?" - -"Ah! that shows a trust in me! Well, Mary did not believe it. Mary told -me that I loved you." - -"And do you?" cried Camelia. She took her hand away, sat upright, and -faced him. Perior was forced to smile a little at the baldness of his -answering, "I do, Camelia." - -"You did not know till----" - -"Oh, I knew all along," Perior confessed, interrupting her. Camelia's -eyes widened immensely as she took in the astounding revelation. He -replied to their silent interrogations with "I have been a wretched -hypocrite. How I convinced you of the lie I don't know." - -"And you told that to Mary." He saw now that her gaze passed him, -ignored him and his revelation in its personal bearing. - -"I told her the truth. It did not hurt her. She was far above such -hurts. You had showed her that you were worthy of any love. To share her -secret made her happy." - -"Happy! Oh, Mary! Mary!" Camelia murmured, looking away from him. "It -must have hurt," she added. "Ah, it must have hurt." - -"She was as capable of nobility as you--that was all." - -"As I!" It was a cry of bitterness. - -"As you, indeed. I feel between you both what a poor creature I am. I -suppose I did for a test. You proved yourselves on me." - -There was silence for a little while. Camelia looked out of the window -at the spring evening. It was here they had sat together on that day of -their first meeting after her return. Her mind went back to it in all -the sorrow of hopeless regret. What had Mary been to her then? - -"What more did she say?" she asked at last in a voice of utter sadness. -She still looked out of the window, but when he answered, "She said that -you loved me," she looked at him. - -"Is that still true, Camelia?" he asked, smiling gravely and with a -certain timidity. - -"So you know, at last, how much." - -"My darling." His tone brought the tears to her eyes; they rolled down -her cheeks while she said brokenly, "And I told her; I gave her the -weapon--and she smiled at us. Oh, that smile!" - -"There was triumph in it. She asked me to marry you, Camelia, and I said -I would--if you would have me. But, I must not ask you now--must I?" He -sat down beside her on the sofa, and kissed her hand. - -"Ah, no; don't think of that. It would kill me, I think, if for one -moment I forgot." - -"You need not forget--yet you may be happy, and make me happy." - -"Oh, you don't know," said Camelia, clasping her hands and looking down -at them, "you don't know. Even you don't know how wicked I have been." - -"We all have such dark closets in our hearts. Don't shut yourself in -yours." - -"I don't shut myself. I am locked in. That is my punishment. Michael," -and she looked round at him without turning her head, "I think of -nothing else; that I made her miserable--that I made her glad to die. I -must tell you. You don't know how I treated her. I remember it all -now--years and years--so plainly. I robbed her of everything. If a -sunbeam fell on her path I stood between her and it." - -Perior was silent, but putting his hand over hers he held it faithfully. - -"Listen. Let me tell you a few--only a few--of the things I remember. I -don't know why you love me!--how you can love me! It hurts me to be -loved!" she sobbed suddenly. - -"If it will help you, tell me everything. And I must love you, even if -it hurts you." - -And, her hand in that faithful hand, her eyes on his, demanding -inflexible judgment, Camelia began the long confession--a piteous tale, -indeed. All the blots and failings gathered in a huge blackness; she -spoke from it. He felt as she spoke that the clasp of his hand was her -one link with revival. It was a piteous tale: for the robbery of Mary's -ride, the brutal taunts flung at her on that winter night--these were -but the bigger drops in the sea of selfish thoughtlessness. After each -incident, rounded with a succinct psychology that showed her pitiless -clearness of vision, she paused, as if waiting for him to speak. His -silence seemed to acquiesce, and she wanted no soothing denial. And even -now his hand held hers, and did not cast her off. When she had done, and -after the silence had grown long, he said-- - -"And so I might lay bare my heart to you." - -"I would not be afraid of its dark corner. You have never been meanly -selfish, never trodden on people." - -"But I might affirm other things. I will open the door if it will help -you to sit down with me in the doubled darkness." - -"No, dear Michael, no. Mine is enough." - -"I have heard you; and may I now tell you again that I love you?" - -"Not again. Not now. But I am glad that you love me. I feel it. I should -like to sit like this forever, just feeling it, with my hand in yours." - -This very debatable love-scene must be Perior's only amorous consolation -for many months. Of her quiet content in his presence there could be no -doubt. No barrier, no pain, was now between them. Their union was -achieved, as if by a mere wave-wash, effacing one misunderstanding--it -hardly seemed more now, nor their change of relation apparent; but under -all Camelia's courage was the fixed determination to allow herself no -happiness. Superficially there was almost gaiety at times; her regret -would never become conventional or priggish; but even Lady Paton did not -guess that Camelia and Michael were lovers, although a secret hope--very -wonderful, and carefully hidden--painted for her future rosy -possibilities. With all the sadness, with all the regret, these days -were the happiest Lady Paton had known; and as Camelia's devotion was -exclusively for her, she could not guess that the secret hope was -already realized. - -Yet Camelia did not leave her silent lover utterly bereft. After the -deep gravity of the first avowal her little demonstrations were of a -light, an almost mocking order. In this new phase she returned to the -teasing fondness of the old one; and sometimes the central tenderness -would pierce the lightness. - -Perior could afford patience. Reading one afternoon in the library (his -daily presence at Enthorpe was a matter of course), he heard steps -behind him, then felt her hand clasp over his eyes. - -"You are keeping on--loving me?" she demanded. - -"Yes, I am keeping on," said Perior, turning his page with a masterly -calm. He knew that the little outburst conceded nothing, and that even -when Camelia dropped a swift kiss on his hair he was by no means -expected to retaliate. - -For the lighter mood the cottages made endless subjects for conversation -and discussion. In talking--squabbling amicably--over their interior -civilization, Camelia felt that she and Perior had much the playful -gravity of children making sand pies at the seaside. - -Camelia insisted on her prints and photographs, and on hanging them -herself. She had fixed theories on the decoration of wall-spaces. - -Perior held the ladder and criticised. "They are quite out of place, you -know. That exotic art is most incongruous. It jars." Camelia was hanging -up a modern print after Hiroshighé. - -"It wouldn't jar on us, would it?" she asked, driving in a nail. - -"We are exotic mentally." - -"Let us train them to a more cosmopolitan out-look, then." - -"They would far prefer the colored prints from Christmas numbers." - -"Well, they shan't have them!" Camelia declared, and he laughed at her -determined tyranny. But when her tenants were duly installed Camelia was -forced to own that the honest forces of the soil were difficult to -manage. She came in to tea one afternoon with the announcement, that the -Dawkins had taken down all their prints and put up flower-entwined texts -and horrible colored advertisements. Mrs. Dawkins had said that her -husband objected to "those outlandish women"; they made him feel "quite -creepy like." - -Later on she had to confess that the Coles by no means appreciated their -photographs of the Sistine Sibyls, so charmingly placed along the walls, -and that from among them glared a well-fed maiden with upturned, -prayerful, and heavily-lashed eyes; testifying to the Coles' religious -instincts and to their only timid opposition. - -"How can they be so stupid!" cried Camelia. "And how can I!" - -"You can't grow roses on cabbages, Camelia," said Perior, "to say -nothing of orchids. You are demanding orchids of your cabbages." - -"Desire precedes function," Camelia replied sententiously, "if the -cabbages want to, very much, they may grow orchids. I shall still -hope." - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -On a beautiful October afternoon a visitor came to Enthorpe. - -Camelia was summoned to find Mrs. Fox-Darriel in the drawing-room. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, with a pastoral hat--rather Gallic in its conscious -innocence--tipped over her emphasized eyes, her gown of muslin and lace -very fluffy on very rigid foundations, looked with her triumphant -artificiality of outline quite oppressively smart. Camelia, after her -year's seclusion, felt her to be oppressive. - -It was rather difficult to smile on meeting her, their parting had such -painful associations--the dark turmoil of those days drifted over -Camelia's memory as she gave her friend her hand. - -"You are surprised to see me, aren't you, Camelia?" said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel. - -"Yes. Rather surprised." - -"No wonder, you faithless young woman. You haven't troubled to toss me a -thought for this twelvemonth. Well, I bear you no grudge; it is a -psychological phase that will, I hope, wear itself away. Yes, I am -stopping down in these parts again, twenty miles away, with the -Lambournes. You have not seen them yet, I hear. New importations. Mr. -Lambourne is a bloated capitalist, and as my poor Charlie is Labor -personified, I hope that my display of four new gowns daily in the -Lambourne ancestral halls--they will be ancestral some day--will result -in a beneficial return of favors. Charlie is going in very much for -companies; Mr. Lambourne's companies are extremely advantageous. Oh, I -uphold the uses of Lambournes in our modern world; they make us poor -penniless aristocrats so very comfortable; they are good, grateful -people." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel, while she talked, was looking Camelia up and down in a -slowly cogitating manner. - -"No, I can't stop to tea; I must be going back directly, it is a long -drive. I only came to have a look at you, and, if possible, to solve the -mystery. What's up, Camelia? That is what I want to know. Is this all -the result of last year's little _esclandre_?" - -Camelia evaded the question. - -"We have had trouble. You heard that my cousin was dead." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye travelled again over Camelia's black dress. -"Yes--I heard. Poor little thing. And she would never appreciate how -charming was the mourning being worn for her; that gown is really--well, -there is a great deal in it, a great deal. I don't know how you manage -to make your clothes so significant. You've got all Chopin's Funeral -March into those lines. Well, it makes you feel badly, of course." - -"Yes. Very badly." From the very patience of Camelia's voice Mrs. -Fox-Darriel was keenly aware of barriers. How Camelia had disappointed -her! A certain baffled, angry affection rose within her. - -"You certainly treated her horribly, my dear. I understand regrets." -Camelia made no reply, and looked at her with a steady sadness. - -"And--she was in love with the vial of wrath. You knew that, I suppose." - -"I knew that I was in love with him, Frances." - -At that Mrs. Fox-Darriel gasped. Her eyes took on an unblinking fixity. -"So you own to it?" - -"Yes, I certainly own to it." - -"Camelia! You are not going to--" The conjecture made her really white. - -"To what?" and Camelia smiled irrepressibly. - -"Camelia, I am fond of you. I did wish best things for you. I did hope -to see you _somebody_. You would have been. You _can_ be. Sir Arthur -will be on his knees before you if you lift a finger." - -"Oh! I hope not," cried Camelia. - -"You know it. You know it. Lady Elizabeth hasn't a chance. She has -become literary--is writing the life of her great-grandfather, deep in -archives--that means hopelessness.--Camelia!" and Mrs. Fox-Darriel's cry -gathered from Camelia's impassive smile a frenzied energy. "You are -not--tell me you are not--going to marry that man--relapse into a -country matron! He will swamp you. You have nothing in common. It is -calf-love, pure and simple. I felt it all along; hoped he would see the -incongruity of it--take your poor little cousin, who was cut out for -submission and nurseries." - -"Oh, I don't think a superfluity of either will be expected of me," said -Camelia, with a laugh really unkind. - -"Oh, heavens! You are going to marry him?" - -"Yes, immediately," said Camelia, somewhat to her own surprise. She had -not expected her rather indefinite views on this subject to crystallize -so suddenly and so irrevocably. "Console yourself, Frances," she added, -really feeling some compunction before Mrs. Fox-Darriel's tragic -contemplation, "it won't be my funeral. He dug me out, and I am going to -dig him out. You may hear of me yet--as his wife." - -"Ah!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel had found the calm of her despair. "It is the -same old story. His indifference has done it all. It may be brutal, but -I must say it, you threw yourself at his head. The flattery at last -penetrated his priggishness; Endymion stooped to Selena." - -Camelia's serenity held good. - -"You can't make me angry. I like your disinterestedness, Frances. Let me -thank you for Endymion; I am sure the simile would flatter his -forty-five years." - -"And I came hoping----" - -"Hoping what my kind Frances?" - -"That I was to be a link; that I would find you sane again--willing to -pay me a visit, and meet _him_." - -"But, as you see, I am on Latmos, and like it." - -"Yes, I see. I am disillusionized, Camelia; I confess it. I didn't -expect that sort of floppiness from you. And there is a -self-righteousness about your whole manner that is insufferable, quite; -I tell you so frankly." Mrs. Fox-Darriel, as she spoke, shouldered her -closed parasol, and clasped her hands over it in a militant antagonism -of attitude. "The sheep looking suavely from its fold at the goat. We -are all goats to you now." - -"Come, let us kiss through the bars, then." - -"Oh, you are miles away--æons away!" - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel submitted drearily. "You are lost! done for! And the -name, the power, the future you might have had! You were clever." - -"I rather doubt that." - -"Ah! of course you doubt it; you must doubt it. As the wife of a crusty -country squire it would be a corroding cleverness merely. You turn your -back on it." - -"We won't be hopelessly provincial. You will see us in London. He may -get into Parliament." - -"Us! He! Alas! he will swamp you," she repeated. "He will turn you into -a pillar of salt--looking back, and being sorry. _You_ to be wasted!" -was the last Camelia heard. - -When she had gone Camelia went slowly across the lawn; Perior, she knew, -was lurking about the garden waiting for her. Some of Mrs. Fox-Darriel's -remarks had cut--so far less deeply, though, than her own thoughts -during past months. It was the strong revival of these thoughts that -pained her more than the mode of revival. - -It was dusk, a pensive dusk, the evening sky faintly barred with pink. -Perior was walking up and down the garden between rows of tally growing -flowers. Was the thought of his patience and loneliness, of her -selfishness in prolonging them, a mere sophistry meant to hide her own -longing for happiness? As she walked down the path towards him her mind -juggled with this thought; it was very confusing. - -"Who do you think it was?" she asked, putting her hand in his, a little -_douceur_ Perior had never presumed upon. - -"Mrs. Jedsley? Mrs. Grier? Lady Haversham?" he asked affably, but -scanning, as she felt, the sadness of her face. - -"No--the past has been having a flick at me--Mrs. Fox-Darriel the whip." - -"Ah yes. I never liked her." - -"There is not much harm in her." - -"No, perhaps not," Perior acquiesced. - -"I told her," said Camelia, after a little pause in which they turned a -corner of the garden, and walked down it again by an outward path. - -"Well, what did you tell her? She has hurt you. I can see that." - -"No, not she. She asked me if I had never seen that Mary loved you, so, -in reply, I said that I had only seen that _I_ loved you." - -"Did that excellent piece of truth-telling pain you?" - -"No; it was a delicious mouthful. But, she said too, that the flattery -of my love had pierced your indifference--or your priggishness, she -called it"--and Camelia gave him a rather arch glance, "and I didn't -really wonder, not _really_; but you were so much more indifferent than -I was, weren't you?" and she paused in the path to look at him, not -archly, but very seriously. Her candor was so charming, with its little -touch of fear, that Perior's answer could not resist an emphasis. - -"Dearest," he said, and Camelia's wonder was not unpleasant, and his -daring went unrebuked, as he put his arm around her. - -"That means you were not?" - -"It means a great deal more. I was in love with you when I was nothing -to you. I've always been in love with you--horribly in love with you. -Indifference! Great heavens! that was what I prayed for, that was what I -tried to feign, for I thought you such an abominable little siren. All -the time that you were picking me up, and putting me down, and whisking -past me, and torturing and teasing me, all the time I was adoring you, I -couldn't help myself! adoring you with all your crimes upon you! -thinking myself a fool for it, I grant." - -"Putting you down? No, I never did that," Camelia demurred. - -"Well, I thought so. And at all events you know that you were most -comfortably indifferent until you found out that you couldn't get me for -the asking." - -"No, no!" cried Camelia. "From the first, if you had really let me think -you loved me, told me so, nicely, and begged a little, I should have -fallen straight into your arms, and perhaps never have found out how bad -I was!" - -"And that would have been a pity, eh? No," he added, with an -argumentative gravity that touched and made her smile sadly. "You were -never _bad_. It was always half my fault. I misjudged you, and you -danced to my lugubrious piping." - -"This is the very madness of devotion! Oh, dear Alceste, with you, -perhaps, with you I have not dealt so badly; but, _but_----" She walked -on again, turning away her head. - -"Don't," said Perior gently. - -"Ah, I must, I must remember." - -For a long time they were silent during the rounding of the whole -garden, where the high walls grew dark against the sky, and the flowers, -in the faint light, were ghostly. - -"Michael," she said at last, "I rebel sometimes against my own -unhappiness. I want to crush it--I am afraid of it; but I am more afraid -of being happy." - -"Why can't they go together?" he asked. - -"Ah! but can they?" - -"They must, sooner or later. Then you won't be afraid of either. Doesn't -this all mean," he added, "that _now_ I may tell you how much I love -you?" and he stopped to look at her. Her face was like a white flower in -the dusk. Far away, over long sweeps of thin purpling cloud, shone one -star, faint and steady. He saw together her face, the sky, and the star. - -"Oh!" said Camelia, "_do_ you know me? Even now, do you know me? I'm not -one bit good! I am still the horrid child who clamored for your love; my -love for you the only good thing in me! You love me, all the same? You -don't mind? don't expect anything? I want so much, but I will have -nothing, not a kiss, not your hand holding mine,--there, let it go,--on -false pretences." - -"I can only retaliate. _I_ am not one bit good. Dear, horrid child, will -you put up with me?" - -"Oh, I never minded!" she cried. "I loved you, good or bad." - -"And I you; only I minded. That is all the difference. There isn't a -falsity between us, Camelia," he added. - -"No, there isn't." - -"Then, may I kiss you, and hold your hand?" - -"Yes; only--first--first--" she held him off, smiling, yet still -doubting, still tremulously grave, "I am not good enough; no, I am not -good enough." - -"Quite good enough for me," said Perior. "I am getting tired of your -conscience, Camelia." - -THE END. - - -Typographical errorscorrected by the etext transcriber: - -befere=> before {pg 274} - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Confounding of Camelia, by -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - -***** This file should be named 41917-8.txt or 41917-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/9/1/41917/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/41917-8.zip b/old/41917-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 43f3d86..0000000 --- a/old/41917-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/41917-h.zip b/old/41917-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 7aecfdc..0000000 --- a/old/41917-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/41917-h/41917-h.htm b/old/41917-h/41917-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 2589c84..0000000 --- a/old/41917-h/41917-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9277 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> - <head> <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> -<title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Confounding of Camelia, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.cb {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - -.letra {font-size:300%;float:left;margin-top:-.85%;} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;margin-bottom:5%;text-align:center;clear:both;} - - h2 {margin-top:5%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:120%;} - - hr.full {width: 50%;margin:5% auto 5% auto;border:4px double gray;} - - body{margin-left:2%;margin-right:2%;background:#fdfdfd;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - - img {border:none;} - -.figcenter {margin-top:3%;margin-bottom:3%; -margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's The Confounding of Camelia, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Confounding of Camelia - -Author: Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Release Date: January 26, 2013 [EBook #41917] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="348" height="550" alt="book cover" title="book cover" /> -</p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<p class="cb"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER: I</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX.</a> -</p> - -<h1>The Confounding of<br /> -Camelia</h1> - -<p class="cb">By<br /> -Anne Douglas Sedgwick<br /> -Author of<br /> -“The Dull Miss Archinard,†Etc.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p class="cb">New York<br /> -Charles Scribner’s Sons<br /> -1899</p> - -<p><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a> </p> - -<p class="c">Copyright, 1899, by<br /> -Charles Scribner’s Sons<br /> -<br /> -MANHATTAN PRESS<br /> -474 W. BROADWAY<br /> -NEW YORK<br /> -</p> - -<p><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a> </p> - -<p class="cb"><i>TO<br /> -<br /> -“CHARLIE†AND “JIMMIEâ€</i></p> - -<p><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a> </p> - -<p><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a></p> - -<h1>The Confounding of Camelia</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN Camelia came down into the country after her second London season, -descended lightly upon the home of her forefathers, her coming -unannounced, and as much a matter of caprice as had been her long -absence, a slowly growing opinion, an opinion that had begun to form -itself during Camelia’s most irresponsible girlhood, became clearly -defined, a judgment fixed and apparently irrevocable. The Patons had -always been good, quiet people; absolutely undistinguished, were it not -that the superlative quality of their tranquil excellence gave a certain -distinction. There were no black sheep in their annals, and a black -sheep gives, by contrast, a brilliancy lacking to unaccented bucolic -groupings, strikes a note of interest at any rate; but none of the Paton -sheep were even gray. They fed in pleasant, plenteous pastures, for it -was a wealthy, though not noticeably wealthy family, and perhaps a -rather sheep-like dulness, an unimaginative contentment not conducive to -adventurous strayings, accounted for the spotless fleeces.</p> - -<p>Their cupboards had never held a skeleton—nor so much as the bone of -one. The family portraits,<a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a> none even pretending to be Sir Joshuas or -Vandycks, only presented a respectable number of generations, so that -the mellow perspective of old ancestry, remarkable at least for a -lengthy retrogression into antiquity, made no background to their -commonplace. Sir Charles, Camelia’s father, was the first Paton weighted -with an individuality that entailed nonconformity, and since Sir -Charles’s individuality had confused all anticipations, further -developments of the wild streak could not be unexpected. Many of the -quiet, conservative people, who had known Camelia, her father and -mother, and Patons of an earlier epoch, pronounced with emphasis that -Camelia was spoiled; there was a tenderness in the term, an implication -of might-have-beens; and other people, more bitter and perhaps more -sensitive, remarked that not her head-turning London successes, of which -big echoes had rolled down to Clievesbury, but the inherent, the no -doubt inherited defects of Miss Paton’s character were responsible for -her noticeable variation from family traditions. Did not that portion of -Blankshire, which lay about the dim old village of Clievesbury, send up -to the capital every year its native offerings of maidenhood? A London -season had never induced in these well-balanced young ladies the merry -arrogance so provokingly apparent in Miss Paton. Old Mrs. Jedsley it -was, the last rector’s widow, who most openly denounced Camelia, and -that, despite her long friendship for the Patons; denounced her -frivolity, her insincerity, her egotism, and her wonderful gowns—their -simplicity did not deceive Mrs. Jedsley’s keen eye; the<a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a> price of one -would keep the parish in flannel for a year she declared, and, no doubt, -include the school feast. Mrs. Jedsley prided herself on her impartial -faculty for seeing disagreeable truths clearly and for announcing them -unflinchingly. Her fondness for Lady Paton—“poor Lady Paton‗could not -blind or silence her. Poor Lady Paton was more than ever effaced, Mrs. -Jedsley said; one might have thought that Sir Charles had required as -much submission as a woman’s life could well yield, but the daughter had -called forth further capabilities.</p> - -<p>“The very way in which she says ‘Oh, Camelia!’ is flattering to the -girl. Her mother’s half-shocked admiration encourages her in the belief -that she is very naughty and very clever; and really while Camelia talks -Lady Paton looks like a hare under a bramble.â€</p> - -<p>The simile hit the mark so nicely that the alarmed retirement of Lady -Paton’s attitude was pictorially apparent forthwith. And, “Ah, well!†-Mrs. Jedsley added, “What can one expect in the child of such a father! -The most gracefully selfish man who ever lived. Charles Paton would have -smiled you out of house and home, and left you to sit in the snow, while -he warmed himself at your fireplace.â€</p> - -<p>Indeed this application of the laws of heredity might have induced a -certain charitable philosophy on Camelia’s behalf. The love of -adventure, of prowess, of power, had shown itself in Charles Paton; but -much had been forgiven—even admired—with a sense of breathlessness, in -a cloud-compelling younger son (his good looks had been altogether -supreme), which, when seen flaunting indecorously<a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a> in the daughter, was -highly unpopular. Charles Paton at a very early age had found the family -traditions “devilish dull†(and, indeed, it could not be denied that -dull they were); he entered the army, kicked over the traces, and was -“wild†with all his might and main. Clievesbury disapproved, but at the -same time Clievesbury was dazzled.</p> - -<p>Surrounded by this naughty atmosphere, reverberating with racing and -betting, dare-devil big-game shooting, and the extreme fashion that is -supposed to reverse the “devilish dull†morality of tradition, Charles -Paton—like his daughter—returned to Clievesbury, and there fell most -magnanimously and becomingly in love with little Miss Fairleigh, the -eighth daughter of a country baronet—a softly pink and white -maiden—wooed and married her and settled down, after a fashion, to -carve out an army career for himself. He carved to good purpose, luck -giving him the opportunity. He carried his life as lightly and gallantly -as a flag; sought peril, and the tingling excitement of the strangest -feats. His reckless bravery won him a knighthood; his fame, his happy -good-nature, and extreme good looks, made him a hero wherever he went. -Charles Paton’s yellow curls, his smile, the Apollo-like line of his -lips, were as well known as his martial exploits.</p> - -<p>He was vastly popular, and his little wife in the shadow by his side, -looked up, like the others, and adored where they admired. Sir Charles -liked a sunny atmosphere, and though the hearthstone flame in its steady -commonplace did not count for so much as the wider outdoor effulgence, -it was very cosy to come back to, when domesticity was a<a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a> momentary -necessity. He would not have liked a change of temperature, and -tolerated the wifely worship very graciously. He was fond of her too; -she was very pretty, not clever—(an undesirable quality in a wife)—far -more of a help than a hindrance, though how much of a help he perhaps -never realized. That broad triumphal road down which the hero marched -was swept and garnished by the indefatigable wife. The dustiness and -thorniness of daily life were kept from him. Lady Paton packed and paid, -and dashed from post to pillar. She was a delicate woman who, petted and -made much of, might have allowed herself an occasional headache and a -tea-gown existence. The years in India were not easy years; through them -all she unwaveringly adored her husband, and in many phases of a varied -life showed the steely fibre so often and so unexpectedly displayed by -the most delicately inefficient looking women.</p> - -<p>Camelia was the fifth child; the others died, two in India and two in -England, away from the poor mother. This last one was little more than a -baby when ill-health and the death of his brother decided Sir Charles on -a return to England. Lady Paton rejoiced in the home-coming. With her -pretty baby—a girl, alas! but the estate was unentailed—and her great -and glorious husband by her side—the future seemed to open on an -unknown happiness. But Lady Paton was to know few compensations. Sir -Charles found the rôle of country gentleman very flavorless, and his -attempts to evade boredom left his wife more lonely—and too, more -conscious of loneliness, than in busier days.<a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a></p> - -<p>When Camelia was eight her father died. One saw then that Lady Paton was -supremely adapted to eternal mourning. As a widow, she reached a -black-encompassed repose, a broken-hearted finality of woe. Camelia was -the one reason for her life. The child had never to enforce her will, -her mother’s devotion yielded to the slightest pressure. Camelia was -hardly conscious of ruling, nor the mother of being ruled. As the -stronger egoism, Camelia domineered inevitably. She was a gay, kind -child, happy in the unfettered expansion of her individuality; she -delighted in its exercise, and in all sorts of unconventional -acquirements. She read voraciously and loved travel. Lady Paton had by -no means reached the end of packing and paying days. Camelia hated -beaten tracks; the travelling must be different from other people’s; she -managed in a tourist-ridden Europe to find the element of adventurous -experience. Camelia was keen on experiences. Lady Paton did not -appreciate them properly; but then Lady Paton saw life from no artistic -standpoint. She thought undiscovered Greece and Poland more trying than -the most trying places in India. The steppes depressed her; she dared -not mention wolves, but her mind dwelt dejectedly upon them. She could -hardly think of the cooking in certain out-of-the-way corners in Spain -without shuddering. But she bore all with apparent placidity, and her -helpful qualities won her daughter’s approval just as they had won her -husband’s.</p> - -<p>There was nothing rude or uncouth in Camelia’s domineering spirit, it -was too happy, too spontaneous, too sure of its own right. Even after -these<a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a> two years of London her severest detractors could not accuse her -of the grosser forms of vanity, nor of affectation, nor of the ugly -thing that goes by the name of “fastness.†Her unerring sense of the -best possible taste made “fast†girls seem very tawdry, and her coolly -smiling eyes told them that she found them so. Even with the fact of her -serene indifference to them growing into the consciousnesses of the -people about Clievesbury, they still owned, generously, but perforce, -that she was neither strident nor slangy, nor given to any form of -posing. The change in Camelia, if change there were, was a mere -evolution. She had tasted the joys of a wide effectiveness. She was only -twenty-three, and more than once had been told that she was the only -woman in London fitted to hold a “salon,†a “salon†that would be a -power social, artistic, and political. Authors talked to her about their -books, painters about their pictures; her presence at the opera was -recorded as having judicial importance; a new pianist was made if he -played at one of her musicals. She was a somebody to whom the -Clievesburyites were nobodies indeed.</p> - -<p>Camelia smiled at her own power. She did not think more highly of -herself, but less well of other people, for she measured at once the -comparative worth of her own attributes in a world of mediocrity. She -saw through the flattery, valued it at its proper rate, but enjoyed it, -and indulged in a little air of self-mockery that to appreciative minds -crowned her beauty irresistibly. But she was rather disappointed in -finding most people so stupid. It was difficult to hold to one’s -standard in a world where the second-best<a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a> passed so fluently. By those -standards Camelia saw herself very second-best; but were there then no -clever people to see it with her? She caught herself in a yawning -weariness of it all. A lazy month or so in the country appealed to her; -other motives, too, were perhaps not wanting. With a little retinue of -friends she reappeared at Clievesbury, and, by degrees, old neighbors -discovered that little Camelia had developed into a rather prickling -personality. On calling they found Lady Paton very much in the -background. Camelia seemed to make no claim, and yet she was the -important personage, and to ignore her prominence was to efface oneself -with her mother. It was thought—and hoped—that Lady Haversham, the -magnate of the county, would vanquish that complacent sweetness, the -aerial lightness of demeanor that glanced over one’s head while one -spoke, and “positively†said Mrs. Jedsley “makes one feel like a cow -being looked at along with the landscape.â€</p> - -<p>But although Lady Haversham held rule in the country, in London she, -too, was a nobody, and Camelia very much the contrary. Lady Haversham -knew right well that in going to see her old friend Lady Paton, Camelia -was her objective point, and to try a fall with Camelia upon her native -heath, her intention. Lady Haversham knew that in the eyes of the -world—the world that counted—she was a mere country mouse creeping -into the radiant effulgence of the young beauty, and this unpleasant -consciousness gave her quite a drum-like sonority of manner—a fatal -manner, as she felt helplessly while she beat out her imposing phrases -beneath<a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a> the clear smiling of Camelia’s eyes. Lady Haversham tried in -the first place to exclude Camelia, and addressed herself with most -solicitous fondness to Lady Paton; but Camelia’s silent placidity stung -her into self-betrayal. Camelia evidently cared nothing for Lady -Haversham’s graciousness—or lack of it; seemed, indeed, unconscious of -the cold shoulder turned so emphatically upon her. Lady Haversham -thumped and rumbled, and knew herself worsted.</p> - -<p>“Manner! Unpleasant manner!†she said to Mrs. Jedsley later on in the -day, “the child has no manners at all! That takes in London nowadays, -you know. Anything in the shape of arrogant youth and prettiness is sure -of having its head turned. And as to prettiness, I should call her -curious-looking rather than pretty.†And by this Mrs. Jedsley knew that -Camelia had snubbed Lady Haversham, without trying to—there was the -smart; Camelia was making no effort at all to be unpleasant, to impose -herself, but, unmistakably, she only thought of the good people about -her home as cows in the landscape.</p> - -<p>“I suppose she finds us all very provincial,†said Mrs. Jedsley, not -averse to planting the shaft, for she had felt Lady Haversham’s -graciousness to be rather rasping at times.<a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span>N the sunny autumn day with which this story opens, Miss Paton was in -the morning room at Enthorpe Lodge, waiting for some one—a some one who -to her was not a nobody; and though her attitude hardly denoted much -anxiety, her mind was alert and very conscious of a pleasing and yet -exasperating suspense. Her friend Mrs. Fox-Darriel was with her. Miss -Paton leaned against the mantelpiece as she talked, her eyes often -swerving to the clock, but calmly, with no perceptible impatience, or -passing in a quiet glance over her hand, the falling folds of her white -dress, her friend’s face and figure—figure and face equally artificial, -and perhaps affording to Miss Paton’s mind a pleasing contrast to her -own distinctive elegance.</p> - -<p>There is in Florence a plaque by one of the della Robbia; a long -throated girl’s head leans from it, serenely looking down upon the -world; a delicate head, with a clear brow, a pure cheek, a mouth of sad -enchanting loveliness; Camelia’s head was like it; saint-like in -contour, but with an added air, an air of merry irresponsibility. The -outward corners of her eyes smiled into a long upward curve of shadow, -her brows above them made a wing-like line, wings hovering extended, and -a little raised. The upward tilt pervaded the corners of her mouth,<a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a> a -sad mouth, yet even in repose it seemed just about to smile, and its -smile sliding to a laugh. The very moulding of her cheek and chin showed -a tender gaiety. As for coloring it might have been the coloring of a -pensive Madonna, so white was her skin, so palely gold her smooth thick -hair. She was slender too, with the long narrow hands and feet of an -Artemis, and on seeing her one thought of a maiden-goddess, of a St. -Cecilia, and, without surprise over the incongruity, of an intimately -modern young taster of life, whose look of pagan joyousness took neither -herself nor other people seriously, said “que voulez-vous,†to all -blame, and gently mocked puritanical earnestness.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel was plunged into the depths of an easy-chair, a type -without hints and whispers to baffle and fascinate. She was thoroughly -conventional and not in the least perplexing. Her elaborate head, a -masterpiece of wave and coil and curl, rested against the high-chair -back, its lustre a trifle suspicious where the light caught too gold a -bronze on the sharp ripples.</p> - -<p>She was considered a beauty, and her steely, regular face looked at one -from every stationer’s shop in London. Miss Paton’s photographs were to -be procured at no stationer’s, one among the many differences that -distinguished her from her friend.</p> - -<p>On Camelia’s “coming-out†in all the dryad-like freshness of her one and -twenty years, Mrs. Fox-Darriel, smartest of the “smart,†kindly -determined to “form†and “launch†her. She was very winning, and Camelia -seemed very willing. But Mrs.<a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a> Fox-Darriel soon recognized that she was -being led—not leading, soon recognized that Camelia would never follow. -The first defeat was at the corsetière’s visible symbol of the “forming†-process. Under Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s eye, Miss Paton’s nymph-like slimness -was measured for stays of all sorts and descriptions; Camelia, when the -stays were done, surveyed her figure therein confined, with reflective -rather than submissive silence.</p> - -<p>The week after she went to Paris, and when she returned it was with a -stayless wardrobe. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was fairly quelled as Camelia swept -before her in these masterpieces of the Rue de la Paix.</p> - -<p>“They are not æsthetic,†said Mrs. Fox-Darriel—“I own that—not a -greenery-yallery whiff about them; nor too self-conscious; but my dear, -why? Don’t you like my figure?â€</p> - -<p>Camelia turned candid eyes upon the accurate waist, the rigid curves and -right angles. “I can’t say I do, Frances,†she owned, wherewith Mrs. -Fox-Darriel winced a little. “I don’t think it looks alive, you know,†-said Miss Paton. “Of course one must know how to dress one’s -nonconformity. I think I have succeeded.†And Camelia went to court -looking like a glorified Romney, with hardly a whalebone about her. -Their future relationship was forecast by this declaration of -independence. The stayless protégée conferred, did not receive lustre.</p> - -<p>Inevitably Mrs. Fox-Darriel found herself revolving about the young -beauty—a satellite among the other satellites, and more than Camelia -herself<a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a> was Mrs. Fox-Darriel impressed by Camelia’s effectiveness.</p> - -<p>On this morning from the depth of her laziness she observed her young -friend’s glances at the clock with some wondering curiosity; it was -difficult to imagine a cause for the stirring of Camelia’s contemplative -quiescence under country influences, but Mrs. Fox-Darriel was quick to -see the faintest ripple of change, and to her well-sharpened acuteness -the ripple this morning was perceptible.</p> - -<p>“No new guests coming to-day?†she had asked, receiving a placid -negative. “And what are you going to do?†she pursued, patting the -regular outline of her fringe.</p> - -<p>“I thought of a ride with Mr. Merriman and Sir Harry. Do you care to -come?â€</p> - -<p>“No, no, I have too much of Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman as it is.â€</p> - -<p>“It is dull down here, Frances. Perhaps you had best be off to Homburg. -I am bent on recuperative vegetating, you know.â€</p> - -<p>“Whom are you waiting for?†Mrs. Fox-Darriel asked, coming to the point -with a circumspection rendered rather ridiculous by the frank promptness -of Miss Paton’s answer.</p> - -<p>“I’m waiting for Mr. Perior, Frances,†and she laughed a little, -glancing at her friend with a rapid touch of ridicule, “and he is -half-an-hour late; and I want to see him very badly.â€</p> - -<p>“Mr. Perior?†Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s vagueness was not affected. “One of the -vegetables, my dear? Has not the curiosity of the neighborhood exhausted -itself?<a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Ah—this vegetable isn’t curious, I fear, not a shoot shows at least. -If he is curious he will pretend not to be, and pretend very -successfully.â€</p> - -<p>“That is subtle for a vegetable. Perior, the name is familiar. Who is -this evasive person?â€</p> - -<p>Miss Paton’s serene eyes looked over her friend’s head at the strip of -blue and green outside framed by the long window. She was asking herself -with an inward smile for her own perversity, whether she had not come -down into the country for the purpose of seeing the “evasive person.†-She would not mind owning to it in the least. Pickles after sweets; she -anticipated the tart taste of disapproval pleasantly.</p> - -<p>“Who is he?†Mrs. Fox-Darriel repeated.</p> - -<p>“He is my oldest friend; he doesn’t admire me in the least—so I am very -fond of him. I christened him ‘Alceste,’ and he retaliated with -‘Célimène.’ He is forty odd; a bachelor; he lives in a square stone -house, and taught me very nearly everything I know. My Greek is almost -as good as my skirt dancing.â€</p> - -<p>“The square-stone gentleman didn’t teach you skirt-dancing, I suppose. I -begin to place him. The editor; the family friend; the misanthrope.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, my ‘Alceste.’ He has reason for misanthropy. His life has been a -succession of disappointments. I am one of them, I fear.â€</p> - -<p>“Dear me, Camelia!†Mrs. Fox-Darriel sat upright, “have you ever dallied -with this provincial Diogenes?â€</p> - -<p>Miss Paton smiled over the supposition. “His disappointments are moral, -not amorous. Why do I tell you this, I wonder?<a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“To show me that you don’t care for him perhaps,†said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -who to tell the truth, was rather alarmed. Since she had resigned -herself to a planetary, a reflected brilliancy, her star at least must -never wane; its orbit must widen. Camelia’s whole manner seemed suddenly -suspicious. She was evidently waiting for this person, pleased, -evidently, to talk of him, and though Camelia might be trusted for a -full appreciation of her future’s possibilities, Mrs. Fox-Darriel was -hardly satisfied by the frankness of her “Oh! but I do care for him; he -preoccupies me.â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflected for some moments on the dangers of -country-house propinquity and retrospective intimacy before saying -pleasantly—</p> - -<p>“What does he look like?â€</p> - -<p>Camelia laughed again, soothing Mrs. Fox-Darriel somewhat by the -good-humored glance which seemed to pierce with amusement the anxiety on -her behalf.</p> - -<p>“His eyes are thunderous; his lips pale with suppressed anger.â€</p> - -<p>“Dear me! I am really anxious to see this vial of wrath.â€</p> - -<p>“And since that is his footstep on the gravel, you shall see him -immediately,†said Camelia.</p> - -<p>A moment after Mr. Perior was announced.<a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>R. PERIOR was a tall man, well built, yet carrying himself with a -certain ungainliness. He had an air of eagerness reined back. His face -was at once severe and sensitive.</p> - -<p>He gave no notice to Mrs. Fox-Darriel, whose head twisted round to -observe his entrance, and walking up to Miss Paton he took her -hands—she had put out both her hands in welcome—and, looking at her -kindly, he said—</p> - -<p>“Well, Célimène.â€</p> - -<p>“Well, Alceste.â€</p> - -<p>The smile that made of Camelia’s face a changing loveliness seemed to -come and go, and come again while she looked at him, as a butterfly’s -wings fold and open while it rests upon a flower. She rarely laughed -outright, but her face in gravity was unfamiliar; one could hardly -imagine it without the shifting charm.</p> - -<p>“You might have come before,†she said—her hands in his, “and I -expected you.â€</p> - -<p>“I was away until yesterday.â€</p> - -<p>“You will come often now.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will.â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s eye—a none too friendly eye—travelled meanwhile up -and down the “vial of wrath.†Clever, eccentric, he had evidently made -an impression<a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a> upon the not easily impressed Camelia, and his -clean-shaved face, and the rough gray hair that gave his head a look of -shaggy heaviness, seemed to express both qualities significantly.</p> - -<p>“Did you ride over?†Camelia asked. “No? Hot for walking, isn’t it? -Frances, my friend Mr. Perior.â€</p> - -<p>“You live near here, Mr. Perior?†said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, glancing at his -boots, which were peculiarly solid and very dusty.</p> - -<p>“Only five miles away,†he said. Mr. Perior’s very boots partook of -their wearer’s expression of uningratiating self-reliance.</p> - -<p>“We have heard of you in London too, I believe. You are editor of—what -review is it, Camelia?â€</p> - -<p>“I was the editor of the <i>Friday Review</i>, but I’ve given that up.â€</p> - -<p>“He quarrelled with everybody!†Camelia put in, “but you can hear him -once a week in the leading article—dealing hatchet-blows right and -left. They don’t care to keep him at closer quarters.â€</p> - -<p>Mr. Perior looked at her, smiling but making no repartee.</p> - -<p>“And Camelia has been telling me that you are responsible for her -Greek.â€</p> - -<p>“Is Camelia ashamed of her Greek? She needn’t be. She was quite a good -scholar.â€</p> - -<p>“But Greek! For Camelia! Don’t you think it jars? To bind such dusty -laurels on that head!â€</p> - -<p>“Laurels? Camelia can’t boast of the adornment—dusty or otherwise.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh! leave me a leaf or two. You are disloyal. I am glad of my Greek. -When one is so frivolous<a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a> the contrast is becoming. And every twig of -knowledge is useful nowadays in a woman’s motley crown, provided she -wears it like a French bonnet.â€</p> - -<p>Perior observed her laughingly—Mrs. Fox-Darriel had as yet seen no -hatchets.</p> - -<p>“No danger of your being taken for a blue-stocking, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“No, indeed! I see to that!â€</p> - -<p>“You little hypocrite,†said Perior.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s eyebrows arched into her fringe. She got out of her -chair trailingly.</p> - -<p>“I will go into the garden. Lady Paton is there, Camelia? I think so. I -know that you have reminiscences. I am in the way.â€</p> - -<p>“You are, rather,†said Perior, when she had gone out. “A very -disagreeable face that, Camelia; how do the women manage to look so hard -nowadays?â€</p> - -<p>“Thanks. She is a dear friend.â€</p> - -<p>“I am sorry for it. I hate to see eyes touched up; it gives me the -creeps. I am sorry she is a dear friend.â€</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I shall often give you cause for sorriness.†Camelia stood -by the mantelpiece, smiling most winningly. “Come, now, let us -reminisce. I saw you last in London. Why didn’t you stop there longer?â€</p> - -<p>“I had enough of London to last me for a lifetime when I lived there,†-said Perior. “I do go up for a bout of concerts now and then,†he added, -and looking away from her he took up a large photograph that stood on -the table beside him. “Is this the latest?<a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“How do you like it?†she asked, leaning forward to look with him.</p> - -<p>“It makes a very saintly little personage of you; but it doesn’t do you -justice. Your Whistler portrait—the portrait of a smile—is the best -likeness you’ll ever get.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia looked pleased, and yet a trifle taken aback.</p> - -<p>“What a nice Alceste you are this morning!†she said. “Tell me, what are -you doing with yourself down here? Growing more and more of the stoic? I -expect some day to hear that you have left the Grange and moved into a -tub. How do you get on without your pupil?†and Camelia as she stood -before him made ever so faint a little dancing step backwards and -forwards, expressive of her question’s merriment.</p> - -<p>“I have existed—more comfortably perhaps than when I had her.â€</p> - -<p>“Now tell me, be sincere,†she came close to him, her own gay steadiness -of look exemplary in the quality she recommended, “<i>Are</i> you crunchingly -disapproving? Ready to bite me? Have you heard dreadful tales of -frivolity and worldliness?â€</p> - -<p>“Not more than are becoming to a pretty young woman with such capacities -for enjoyment.â€</p> - -<p>“You don’t disapprove then?â€</p> - -<p>“Of what, my dear Camelia?â€</p> - -<p>“Of my determination to enjoy myself.â€</p> - -<p>“Why should I? Why shouldn’t you have your try like the rest of us? I am -not going to throw cold water on your laudable aspirations.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia still looked at him steadily, smilingly, and<a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a> a little -mockingly. Their eyes at these close quarters could but show a -consciousness of familiarity that made evasions funny. Camelia’s eyes -were gray, the sunlit gray of a brook—reflecting broken browns and -greens, <i>yeux pailletés</i>, as changing as her smile; and Perior’s eyes, -too, were gray, but the fixed, stony gray that is altogether another -color, and they contemplated her fluctuations with an apparently -unmoved, though smiling calm.</p> - -<p>She laughed outright, and then Perior permitted himself a dry little -responsive laugh that left his lips unparted.</p> - -<p>“What are you up to, Camelia?†he asked.</p> - -<p>“We <i>do</i> see through one another, don’t we?†she cried joyfully. “I see -you are going to pretend not to mind anything. ‘That will sting -her!—take down her conceit! I’ll not flatter her by scoldings!’ Eh! -Alceste?â€</p> - -<p>“You little scamp!†he murmured, while Camelia, sitting down on the -sofa, swept her white draperies over her feet and motioned to the place -beside her. “You will not—no, you will not take me seriously.â€</p> - -<p>“If you see through me, Camelia,†said Perior, taking the seat beside -her with a certain air of resignation, “you see that I am very sincere -in finding your behavior perfectly normal—not in the least surprising. -You are merely gay, and happy, and self-centred; and behaving as all -girls, who have the chance, behave,†he added, putting his finger under -her chin with a paternal pat and a look of gentle ridicule.</p> - -<p>“Well done! That was very neat! Do you want me to show signs of -discomfiture. I won’t. You<a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a> know that I am quite individual, and that -for years you have thought me a selfish, hard-hearted little scoundrel.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh no; not so bad as that.â€</p> - -<p>“What have you thought, then?†she demanded.</p> - -<p>“I have thought that, like other girls, you can’t evade that label——â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, wretch!†Camelia interjected.</p> - -<p>“That, like other girls,†Perior repeated with an unkind emphasis, “you -are going to try to make a ‘good match.’†His face, for all its attempt -at lightness, took on a shade of irrepressible repugnance as he spoke. -“The accessories don’t count for much. You may be quite individually -naughty, but in your motives I see only a very conventional conformity.â€</p> - -<p>“That’s bad—bad and crude. The good match is, with me, the accessory; -therein lies my difference, and you know it. You know I am not like -other girls. You saw it in London. You saw,†Camelia added, wrinkling up -her nose in a self-mockery that robbed the coming remark of fatuity, -“that I was a personage there.â€</p> - -<p>“As a noticeably pretty girl is a personage. You really are beating your -drum rather deafeningly, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes; I’ll shock you by mere noise. But, Alceste, I am not as conceited -as I seem; no, really, I am not,†and with her change of tone her look -became humorously grave. “I know very well that the people who make much -of me—who think me a personage—are sillies. Still, in a world of -sillies, I am a personage. It does come round to that, you see.<a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Yes; I see.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia leaned back in her end of the little sofa, her arms folded, her -head bent in a light scrutiny of her companion’s face. The warm quiet of -the summer day pervaded the peaceful room, a room with so many -associations for both of them. They had studied, read there together for -years; laughed, quarrelled, been the best of friends and the fondest of -enemies. Perior, as he looked about it, could call up a long vista of -Camelias, all gay, all attaching, all evasive, all culminating and -fulfilling themselves with an almost mathematical inevitableness, as was -now so apparent to him, in the long, slim “personage†beside him, her -eyes, as he knew, studying him, her mind amused with conjectures as to -what he really thought of her, she herself quite ready to display the -utmost sincerity in the attempt to elicit that thought. Oh no, Camelia -would keep up very few pretences with him. Perior, gazing placidly -enough at the sunlit green outside the morning-room, knew very well what -he thought of her.</p> - -<p>“Are you estimating the full extent of my folly,†she asked presently, -“tempering your verdict by the consideration of extenuations?â€</p> - -<p>This was so apt an exposition of his mental process that Perior smiled -rather helplessly.</p> - -<p>“See,†she said, rising and going to the writing-table, “I’ll help you -to leniency; show you some very evident extenuations.†From a large -bundle of letters she selected two. “Weigh the extent of my influence, -and find it funny, if you like, as I do.â€</p> - -<p>“I wonder if you quite realize the ludicrous aspect<a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a> of our -conversation,†said Perior, taking a thick sheaf of paper from the first -letter.</p> - -<p>“Quite—quite. Only you push me to extremes. I must make you own my -importance—my individuality.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah, from Henge,†said Perior, looking at the end of the letter. “He was -my fag at Eton, you know; dear old Arthur!â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, and you quarrelled with him five years ago, about politics.â€</p> - -<p>“We didn’t quarrel,†said Perior, with a touch of asperity; “he was -quite big enough not to misunderstand my opposition. Must I read all -this, Camelia? It looks rather dry.â€</p> - -<p>“Well, I should like you to. He is one of the strongest men in the -government, you know.â€</p> - -<p>“Quite. He is the man for me, despite past differences of opinion. The -man for you, too, perhaps,†he added, glancing sharply up at her from -the letter; “his devotion is public property, you know.â€</p> - -<p>“But my reception of his devotion isn’t,†laughed Camelia.</p> - -<p>“I am snubbed,†said Perior, returning to the letter, and flushing a -little. Camelia noted the flush. Dear old Alceste! Shielding so -ineffectually, under his sharp blunt bearing, that quivering -sensitiveness.</p> - -<p>She put her hand through his arm, sinking down beside him, her eyes over -his shoulder following his, while he read her—certificate. Perior quite -understood the smooth making of amends.</p> - -<p>“Well, what do you say to that?†she asked when he had obediently read -to the very end.<a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a></p> - -<p>“I should say that he was a man very much in love,†said Perior, folding -the letter.</p> - -<p>“You are subtle if you can trace an amorous influence in that letter.â€</p> - -<p>“It doesn’t call for subtlety. Samson only abandons himself so -completely under amorous circumstances. I hope you are not going to -shear the poor fellow.â€</p> - -<p>“For shame,†said Camelia, while Perior, looking at her reflectively, -softly slapped the palm of his hand with Arthur Henge’s letter. “I am -his comrade. I help him; I am on his side, if you please, and against -the Philistines.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, are you? And this? Ah! this is from the leader of the Philistines, -Rodrigg. Yes, I heard that Rodrigg was in the toils.†Perior examined -the small, compact handwriting without much apparent curiosity.</p> - -<p>“That is simply nonsense. There was a time—but he soon saw the -hopelessness. He is my friend now; not that I am particularly fond of -him—the grain is rather coarse: but he is a good creature, far more -honest than he imagines, simple, after a clumsy fashion. He aims at -distinguished diplomatic complexity, I may tell you, and, I fancy, comes -to me for the necessary polishing. Read his letter.â€</p> - -<p>Perior had looked at her, still smiling, but more absently, while she -spoke.</p> - -<p>“Oh! Rodrigg is more cautious,†he said glancing through the great man’s -neatly constructed phrases. “You are not with the Philistines; he feels -that.â€</p> - -<p>“Politically no; but I have a good deal of influence<a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a> with him. You see -those reviews he mentions; I went through a lot of heavy French and -Italian reading for him—sociology, industrialism—and saw the result in -his last speech.â€</p> - -<p>“Really.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah, really. Don’t be sarcastic, Alceste, to me. One of those men will -probably be Prime Minister some day. You can’t deny that they are -eminent men.â€</p> - -<p>“And therefore you are an eminent woman. Well, the logic isn’t too lame. -I’ll conclude, Camelia, that you may do quite a lot of harm in the -world.â€</p> - -<p>“You don’t believe that a woman’s influence in politics can be for -good?â€</p> - -<p>“Not the influence of a woman like you—a—a <i>femme bibelot</i>.â€</p> - -<p>“Good!†cried Camelia, gently clapping her hands.</p> - -<p>“It is as that, you know, that these men court you. An <i>objet d’art</i> for -their drawing-rooms.â€</p> - -<p>“You are mistaken, Alceste.â€</p> - -<p>“If I am mistaken—if they cherish ideals, they are unlucky devils.â€</p> - -<p>“No, Alceste, I am well justified in keeping my self-respect intact. It -is not for my <i>beaux yeux</i> that I am courted—yes, yes—that wry look -isn’t needed! I know in what hideously bad taste I am talking, but one -can’t use artistic methods with you. As I say, I have my finger in any -number of pies besides the pie political. You should see the respect in -which I am held by the writers and painters. And I <i>have</i> good taste; I -know that. You can’t deny it, since you helped it to grow. What other -woman in<a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a> London has a collection to equal mine? Dégas—Outamaro—Oh, -Alceste, don’t look so funnily! Do you really imagine that I am not -conscious of the baldness of my exposition? But what is the good of -putting on a wig for you!â€</p> - -<p>“And all this to convince me——â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, to convince you.â€</p> - -<p>“Of what, pray?â€</p> - -<p>“That I am not a little insignificance to be passed by with indulgence.â€</p> - -<p>“Should you prefer severity?†and Perior, conscious that she had -succeeded in “drawing†him, could not repress “You are an outrageous -little egotist, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia, her hands clasped over her knee, contemplated him with more -gravity than he had expected.</p> - -<p>“No,†she demurred, “selfish, but not egotistic. There is a difference, -isn’t there? Egotism is subjective, selfishness objective. I wonder,†-she added, “what you <i>do</i> think of me. Not that I care—much! Am I not -frank? I must care, since I am shuffling about before you; getting a -cuffing for my pains!†She rose suddenly, laughing, not in the least -bitterly, and walked to the window.</p> - -<p>“Mamma and Mary,†she announced. “Did Frances evade them? They -disconcert her. Frances, you know, goes in for -knowingness—cleverness—the modern vice. Don’t you hate clever people? -Frances doesn’t dare talk epigrams to me; I can’t stand it. You saw a -lot of Mamma and Mary last winter, didn’t you? Took Mary out riding. -Now, come here, Mr. Perior, and tell me <i>how</i> she looked on horseback.<a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>â€</p> - -<p>Camelia was smiling irrepressibly as he joined her, and they watched the -approach of the two ladies across the lawn. Certainly the angular, -thick-set form of the younger gave no hint of pleasing possibilities -under circumstances so trying as the equestrian.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> never could wheedle Mary into the saddle. I should like to see her -on horseback immensely.†Camelia’s eyes twinkled: “A sort of cowering -desperation, wasn’t it?â€</p> - -<p>“No, she rode rather nicely,†said Perior concisely. There was something -rather brutal in Camelia’s comments as she stood there with such -rhythmic loveliness of pose and contour.</p> - -<p>“I wish Mary did not look so much like a milk pudding,†she went on; “a -raisinless milk pudding—so sane, so formless, so uneventful.â€</p> - -<p>Perior did not smile.<a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">L</span>ADY PATON was a thin, graceful woman, her slenderness emphasized, like -her daughter’s, by a very small head. Since her husband’s death she had -worn black, and even now it seemed to invade her delicate whiteness -rather overwhelmingly, rising closely about her throat, falling over her -fragile hands, enfolding her with a soft solemnity. Her white hair was -smoothed thickly under the transparent cambrics of an exquisite cap, and -framed the sweetness of a faded face, in profile like Camelia’s. -Camelia’s eyes were her father’s, and her smile; Lady Paton’s eyes were -round like a child’s, and her smile half-frightened, half-explanatory. -With all the gentlewoman’s mild dignity, her look was timid, as though -it besought indulgence for a lifelong sense of insignificance, a look -that aroused in Perior his grimmest scorn for a world in which such -flower-like moral loveliness is inevitably victimized by garish -egotisms. He had known Sir Charles, a charming companion, a good -fellow—in the somewhat widely licensed sense the term implies, but not -fit to untie his wife’s shoe-strings when it came to a comparison. -Camelia now had stepped upon her father’s undeserved pedestal, and -Perior, watching the new epoch of incense-burning, had smiled more and -more grimly. He was devoted to Lady Paton, and had<a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a> been so since the -days when a raw, sensitive, high-strung youth, fresh from college, her -Madonna head had roused in him poetical idealizations, and her husband’s -gay indifference a chafing resentment. With years he had grown rather -fond of Sir Charles, could make allowances for him, and, too, had no -longer idealized Lady Paton; but though he now saw her, sweet but dull, -lovely in unselfishness, yet weak in all except a submission noble in -its own way, the fragrant charm still stirred him with an almost -paternal tenderness, a pity, even a reverence. She was too obtuse to see -her own cramped and imprisoned life, but he saw it, and her -unconsciousness was part of the pathos. He was very fond of her, and she -of him, so that with all his protective partisanship there was, too, a -willing filial deference.</p> - -<p>This little corner of appreciation and affection was the softest spot in -Perior’s character. He took both her hands now and said, looking at her -with a whimsical gentleness, “So you are back at last! And glad to be -back, too, are you not?â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, very. And Camelia seems to like it so much,†she smiled round at -her daughter; “she was beginning to look quite fagged; already the -country has done her good.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia smiled back with a humoring lightness.</p> - -<p>Mary Fairleigh stood quietly behind her aunt. Her expressionless face -certainly did suggest a lacteal dulness. The Fairleighs were not -responsible for her short nose and clumsily-cut mouth. Impecunious -Maurice Fairleigh, third son, had “done for himself†when he married his -younger sisters’ nursery governess. Maurice had no money—and not<a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a> many -brains, and poor Miss Hockey had neither brains nor beauty, nor family -nor money. Her flaxen hair and vacant blue eyes captured Maurice’s -vagrant fancy during a lazy summer. He was very young, that fact was the -only excuse possible; but, as the Fairleighs said, there was no -accounting for Maurice’s folly. Maurice himself, after a very little -time, could no longer account for it. He was a good-natured fellow, and -his wonder at himself did not become too painfully apparent to his wife; -but the short years of their married life were by no means a success. -Maurice was very delicate, and the struggle to make both ends meet was -but grudgingly aided by disapproving relatives. Lady Paton, only, was -sympathetic, practically sympathetic too; but during the greater part of -Maurice’s matrimonial venture she was in India, and, as the other -Fairleighs said, Angelica never had the wit to resent anything. Maurice -died at Davos-Platz, and Mrs. Fairleigh, when her daughter was sixteen, -departed her seemingly very pointless existence. Her last years had been -sweetened by Lady Paton’s devoted kindness, and she left Mary to this -guardian angel. Since that time Mary had lived at Enthorpe Lodge; a -grave, good little girl, solemnly submissive to her cousin, painstaking -in dutiful gratitude toward her aunt. Camelia had always found this -gratitude irritating, and Mary’s manner—as of one on whom Providence -had laid the patiently-borne burden of obscurity and dependence, very -vexing. Camelia intended as little as her mother to recognize a -difference, and did not realize that her own dominant characteristics -necessitated Mary’s non-resistance.<a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a></p> - -<p>She laughed at Mary’s gravity, tried to tease her out of her stolid -acceptance of the rôle of poor relation, but, inevitably, she came to -treat Mary with the tolerant carelessness she seemed only to expect. As -for Lady Paton, she never surmised about Mary, nor analyzed her. Lady -Paton accepted people and things as they appeared, and without -conjecture. Mary was a dear, good girl. It was indeed impossible that -her uninteresting virtues should arouse enthusiasm, and her aunt’s -appreciation from its very fulness was calmly unemotional.</p> - -<p>Lady Paton having become in these latter days a sort of decorative -adjunct to her daughter—for Camelia used her mother to the very best -advantage,—lace caps, sweetness and all,—it was upon Mary that the -duller duties fell. Mary managed bills and servants, and household -matters; wrote little notes, ran little errands, chose embroidery silks, -and sent for the books to Mudie’s,—the tender books with happy -matrimonial endings that Lady Paton liked. She read these books aloud, -and talked to her aunt—as Camelia never did, never could. Lady Paton -listened to her daughter, but she and Mary talked about her. Mary’s -conversation required no adjustment of amazed faculties, no quelling of -old-fashioned alarms, nor acceptance of a wondering incompetence.</p> - -<p>The little prattle of gardening and gowns, and Camelia’s doings went on -happily, unless hushed in an absorbed observance of that young heroine -herself,—flinging pretty missiles of speech far above the heads of her -mother and cousin.</p> - -<p>Both dull dears; such was Camelia’s realistic inner<a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a> comment, but Mary -was an earthenware dear, and Mamma translucent porcelain. Camelia, who -appreciated and loved all dainty perfection, appreciated and loved her -mother, with much the same love that she would have given a slender -white vase of priceless ware, displayed on a stand of honor in her -knowingly grouped drawing-room. She was a distinctly creditable and -decorative Mamma. As for Mary, she was not decorative; a harmless, -necessary hot water jug.</p> - -<p>Camelia, now, as her mother spoke to Perior, went to her side and gave -the muslin that fell over her shoulder a little touch and settling.</p> - -<p>“You have had a nice walk round the garden?†she said, smiling, “your -cheek is just the pink of a sweet-pea.â€</p> - -<p>“And how are you, Mary?†Perior asked, turning to Miss Fairleigh. “You -might have more color I think.â€</p> - -<p>“Mary has a headache,†said Lady Paton, the fluttering smile with which -she had received her daughter’s commendation fading, “I think she often -has them and says nothing.â€</p> - -<p>“You must play tennis with the Mappuck girls. You need more exercise,†-Perior continued. “They are at it vigorously from morning till night.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh—really,†Mary protested, “it is only Aunt Angelica’s kindness—I am -quite well.â€</p> - -<p>“And no one must dare be otherwise in this house,†Camelia added. “Go -and play tennis at once, Mary. I don’t approve of headaches.†Mary -smiled a modest, decorous little smile.</p> - -<p>“Nor do I,†said Perior, and then as Lady Paton<a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a> had taken a chair near -her work-table, he sat down beside her, while Mary sank from her -temporary prominence, and, near the window, took up some sewing. Camelia -remained near her, looking out at the smooth green stretches of the -lawn, lending half an ear to the talk behind her, but keeping up at the -same time a kindly little flow of question and reply with her cousin. -How were the flowers getting on? and the hay making? Had she seen that -morning her poor village people? The questions were rather perfunctory; -and while she spoke Camelia aided the faltering march of a burnished -little beetle up the window, and helped him out on to the fragrant -branch of syringa that brushed the pane.</p> - -<p>“I hear that you are embarked on a season of parties,†said Perior to -Lady Paton.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Camelia has so many friends. She thought she would like it here if -she could keep it gay with people.â€</p> - -<p>“You will like it too. You were lonely last winter.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah, Camelia was not here; but I was not lonely, Michael; you were too -kind for that; and I had Mary. You don’t think Camelia looks thin, -Michael?†She had always called the family friend by his Christian name. -Perior had Irish ancestry. “She has been doing so much all spring—all -winter too; I can’t understand how a delicate girl can press so many -things into her life—and studying with it too; she must keep up with -everything.â€</p> - -<p>“Ahead of everything,†Perior smiled.</p> - -<p>“Yes, she is really so intellectual, Michael. You don’t think she looks -badly?<a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“She is as pretty a little pagan as ever,†said Perior, glancing at Miss -Paton.</p> - -<p>“A pagan!†Lady Paton looked rather alarmed. “You mean it, Michael? I -have been troubled, but Camelia comes to church with me. It is you who -are the pagan, Michael,†she added, finding the gentle retort with -evident relief.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wasn’t speaking literally. I have no doubt that Camelia is a -staunch church-woman,†he smiled to himself. Camelia was a brazen little -conformist, when conformity was of service.</p> - -<p>“No, not that. I don’t quite know. I have heard her talk of religion, -with Mr. Ballenden, who writes those books, you know, scientific, -atheistic books, and Camelia seemed quite to overpower him; the -illusions of science, the claims of authority.†Lady Paton spoke with -some little vagueness. “I did not quite follow it all; but he became -very much excited. Controversial religion does not interest me, it -confuses me. It is the inner change of heart, Michael,†she added with a -mild glance of affection, “the reliance on the higher will that guides -us, that has revealed itself to us.â€</p> - -<p>Perior looked somewhat gloomily on the ground. The thought of Lady -Paton’s religion, and Camelia’s deft juggling with negatives, jarred -upon him.</p> - -<p>“You don’t agree with me, Michael?†Lady Paton asked timidly.</p> - -<p>“Of course I do,†he said, looking up at her, “that is the only -definition needful. We may interpret differently, from different points -of view.â€</p> - -<p>“You would find, I think, greater peace in mine, Michael. May you come -to it in time!<a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>â€</p> - -<p>They were both silent for a moment, and both looked presently at -Camelia.</p> - -<p>“She is so much admired, and so unspoiled by it. So frank, so -unaffected. She is found so clever.â€</p> - -<p>“So she tells me,†Perior could not repress.</p> - -<p>“And so humorous,†Lady Paton added, taking his smile in its kindest -sense, “she says the most amusing things.â€</p> - -<p>“Mr. Perior,†said Camelia, turning rather abruptly, “if Mamma is -singing my praises I give you leave to repress her sternly.†She joined -them, standing behind Lady Paton’s chair, and, over her head, looking at -Perior. “I know how trying such praises are, heard outside the family -circle.â€</p> - -<p>“In which I hope I may include myself. I enjoy Lady Paton’s -interpretation.â€</p> - -<p>“Mamma would not believe the biting intention of that speech. Cuff! -cuff! cuff! <i>Il me fait des misères</i>, Mamma!â€</p> - -<p>Lady Paton’s smile went from one to the other.</p> - -<p>“You have always teased Michael, Camelia, and he has always been so -patient with you.â€</p> - -<p>“Every one is patient with me, because I am a good girl. ‘Be good, sweet -maid—’ I believe in a moral universe,†and Camelia over her mother’s -head wrinkled up her nose roguishly as she made the edifying statement. -“Mamma,†she added, “where is my flock this morning? I fancied that you -were shepherding some of them. I want to trot them out before Mr. -Perior. I want to study his expression as Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman -present themselves. Sir Harry the mere superlative<a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a> of Mr. Merriman’s -fatuity. I imagine that by some biological adaptation of function they -use their brains for digestive purposes, since I am sure they never -think with them.â€</p> - -<p>Lady Paton took refuge from a painful recognition of the inhospitable -nature of these remarks in a vague smile. Lady Paton had a faculty for -misunderstanding when either misunderstanding or disapproval was -necessary. If Camelia hoped by her brisk personalities to shock her -former preceptor she failed signally, for laughing appreciatively he -asked, “And for what purpose were these latest sports of evolution -imported?â€</p> - -<p>“Purpose! Could one pin a purpose to such aimless beings? They came -because I like to have beautiful things about me, and, in their way, -they are beautiful. Then, too, with a plant-like persistency they turn -to the sun, and I do not flatter myself in owning that I am their sun. -It would have been cruel to deny them the opportunity of basking.â€</p> - -<p>“The hunting, dancing, yachting species, I suppose.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes; their lives comprise a few more movements, but very few. It is a -mere sort of rhythmic necessity.â€</p> - -<p>Perior laughed again, and his eyes met hers, as she leaned above her -mother’s chair, in quite a twinkling mood.</p> - -<p>Mary, near the window, paused in her stitching to look at them both with -a seemingly bovine contemplation.</p> - -<p>“And who are your other specimens?†asked<a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a> Perior, less conscious -perhaps than was Camelia of the purely dual nature of the conversation. -She enjoyed this little display before him, and her enjoyment was -emphasized by the presence of two alien listeners, it defined so well -the fundamental intellectual sympathy.</p> - -<p>Her smile rested on him as she replied, “You saw Mrs. Fox-Darriel.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes.â€</p> - -<p>“My only other guest just now is Gwendolen Holt, in appearance a -youthful replica of Mrs. Fox-Darriel, but in character very embryotic.â€</p> - -<p>“A very pretty girl,†said Lady Paton, finding at last her little -foothold.</p> - -<p>“A spice of ugliness—just a something to jar the insignificant -regularity of her face, would make her charming. As it is, her -prettiness is a bore. You will stay to lunch, Alceste, and see these -people?â€</p> - -<p>“I can’t say that you have made me anxious to see them.â€</p> - -<p>“Have you no taste for sociology?â€</p> - -<p>“You will stay and see <i>us</i>, however, will you not?†said Lady Paton, -advancing now in happy security. “I want a long talk with you.â€</p> - -<p>“Then I stay.â€</p> - -<p>“His majesty stays!†Camelia murmured.</p> - -<p>“How are the tenants getting on?†asked Lady Paton, taking from the -table a soft mass of white wool, and beginning to knit. She was one of -those women whose hands are always uselessly and prettily busy.</p> - -<p>“Mary and I drove past the cottages yesterday—<a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>I wish you had come, -dear—you would have liked to see them. So pretty they are, among their -orchards, with such beautiful gardens full of flowers.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, don’t they look well?†said Perior, much pleased. “I am trying to -get the people to devote themselves to fruit and flower growing. It pays -well.â€</p> - -<p>“And do the cottages themselves pay?†Camelia inquired mischievously. “I -hear that, asking the ridiculous rents you do, you need never expect to -make the smallest profit—or even get back the capital expended.â€</p> - -<p>“Thank Heaven the money-making epoch of my life is over,†said Perior, -folding his arms and looking at her rather defiantly.</p> - -<p>“But what blasphemy against political economy! Cottages that don’t pay! -It’s very immoral, Alceste. It is feminine. You are pauperizing your -tenants.â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t at all disbelieve that a little infusion of femininity into -political economy would be a very good thing. Besides, the cottages will -pay in the end.â€</p> - -<p>“The rents are lower than the lowest in the village. Lord Haversham was -telling me about it yesterday.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, Haversham!†laughed Perior.</p> - -<p>“He was very plaintive. Said that times were hard enough for landlords -as it was, without your charitable visionaries and your socialistic -theories.â€</p> - -<p>“The two accusations don’t fit; but of the two I prefer the latter.â€</p> - -<p>“It is a mere egotistic diversion then?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, a purely scientific experiment.<a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“And your tenants have bath-tubs, I hear. Do they use them with Pears’ -soap every morning?â€</p> - -<p>“I flatter myself that they are fairly clean. That alone is an -interesting experiment. Dirt, I firmly believe to be the root of all -evil.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah, we come down to the bed-rock of ethics at last, don’t we? Well, how -is the laboratory getting on? Have you found traces of original sin in -protoplasm?â€</p> - -<p>“I think I have spotted perverse tendencies,†Perior smiled.</p> - -<p>“What a Calvinist you are!â€</p> - -<p>“Michael a Calvinist, my dear child!†Lady Paton looked up from her -knitting in amazement.</p> - -<p>“An illogical Calvinist. Instead of burning sinners he washes them! and -I’ve no doubt that to some of them the latter form of purification is as -disagreeable as the former. He puts them into model cottages, with -Morris wall-papers.â€</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon. No Morris wall-papers.â€</p> - -<p>“Camelia, my dear, how extravagantly you talk,†said Lady Paton, her -smile reflecting happily Perior’s good-humor. Michael did not mind the -teasing—liked it perhaps; and though she did not understand she smiled. -Camelia sank down to a low chair beside her mother’s, and taking her -mother’s hand she held it up solemnly, saying, “Mamma, Mr. Perior is a -tissue of inconsistencies. He despises humanity; and he works for it -like a nigger.â€</p> - -<p>“You are an impressionist, Camelia. Don’t lay on your primaries so -glaringly.â€</p> - -<p>“Confess that you are a philanthropist, though an unwilling one.<a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“I confess nothing,†said Perior, looking across the room at Mary with a -smile that seemed to invite her participation in his well-borne baiting.</p> - -<p>“Is not your life one long effort to help humanity—not <i>la sainte -canaille</i> with you—but, and hence your inconsistency, the gross -<i>canaille</i>, the dull, treacherous, diabolical <i>canaille</i>?â€</p> - -<p>“Not to hurt it, rather; and as one is oneself gross, dull, treacherous, -and diabolical, that may well engage one’s energies. There would be less -cant and more comfort in the world if we would merely avoid treading -upon our neighbor’s corns. Let us cultivate the negative virtues. What -do you say, Mary? You have a right to a strong opinion, since I never -saw you hurt anybody.â€</p> - -<p>Mary, thus unexpectedly appealed to, started, grew red, and laughed an -embarrassed and apprehensive laugh. Camelia cast a glance upon the long -strip of rather foolish embroidery lengthening under her cousin’s -fingers.</p> - -<p>“My philosophy!†she declared. “People who make a row about things are -such bores.â€</p> - -<p>Lady Paton, still smiling, quite at sea, but conscious of a pleasant -atmosphere, bent her eyes upon an intricate turn in the futile garment -upon which she was engaged.</p> - -<p>“Do you avoid your neighbor’s corns, my young lady?†Perior inquired.</p> - -<p>“I never think of such unpleasantnesses,†Camelia replied lightly. “As I -haven’t any corns myself, I proceed upon the supposition that other -people enjoy my immunity. If they don’t, why, that is their own -fault—let them cut them and give up tight boots.<a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>â€</p> - -<p>Perior, looking on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his hands -clasped, laughed again.</p> - -<p>“Little pagan!†he said.</p> - -<p>“Frank, healthy paganism, an excellent thing. I don’t own to it, mind; -but is not the soul in our modern sense a disease of the body?â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, Camelia!†said Lady Paton, looking up with eyes rounded. Camelia’s -smile reassured her somewhat, and she glanced for its confirmation at -Perior.</p> - -<p>Mary Fairleigh, in her distant seat, carefully drew her silk about the -contour of an alarming flower.</p> - -<p>“Never mind, Lady Paton, she doesn’t shock me at all,†said Perior.</p> - -<p>“I am glad of that, Michael; she will make herself misunderstood. -Camelia dear, it is one o’clock. The others must be in the drawing-room. -Shall we go there?â€</p> - -<p>“Willingly, Mamma. I’m very hungry. Did you order a <i>good</i> lunch, Mary?â€</p> - -<p>“I hope you will like it.†Mary paused in the act of neatly rolling up -her work. “Fowls, asparagus——â€</p> - -<p>“<i>Don’t</i>,†Camelia interposed in mock horror; “the nicest part of a meal -is unexpectedness!†She laughed at her cousin; but Mary, securing her -work with a pin, murmured solemnly, “I am so sorry.â€</p> - -<p>“Mary, you are as silly as your own fowls!†cried Camelia; she gave her -cousin’s flaxen head a pat, and then, as Lady Paton had taken Perior’s -arm and led the way, she drew herself up in a mimicry of their stately -progress, and followed them demurely.<a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>ICHAEL PERIOR was an unfortunate man; unfortunate in his temperament, -which was enthusiastic, sensitive, and idealistic; unfortunate in the -circumstances with which that temperament found itself called upon to do -battle. To a man who had expected less of life the circumstances might -have been more amenable and far more endurable, but Perior had the -ill-luck to be born with an unmanageable instinct for the best, with an -untamable scorn for the second-best. It is not necessary to go into the -details of a life which had not spared these qualities nor improved -while disillusionizing him. Two blinding buffets met him at its -threshold. His father was ruined in a lawsuit, which by every ethical -standard he should have won, and Perior was in consequence jilted by the -girl whom he had enshrined in his heart as the perfect star of his -existence. At twenty-three he found himself under a starless sky, with a -heart stupefied at its own emptiness, and in a world of thieves and -murderers—for his father died under the shock of disaster, and Perior -did not pick his phrases.</p> - -<p>The abject common-sense of his ex-<i>fiancée</i> could be borne with perhaps -more philosophy. He accepted the starlessness as in the nature of -things, and<a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a> his own brief belief in stars as typifying the ignorance of -youth; but his father’s death—the crushing out of life rather than its -departure—was tragedy, and it was with the sense of inevitable and -irretrievable tragedy that he began life. He had been thought clever at -Oxford, and had considered himself destined for Parliament. With a huge -load of debts upon his back, and an unresigned mother to support, all -thoughts of the career for which he had fitted himself were out of the -question. He turned to its only equivalent, and took up journalism. He -was much in earnest; he believed in a right and in a wrong, and was -intolerant of expediency. In a world of interested motives he bore -himself with unflinching disapproval. He would limit his freedom by no -party partiality, and in the laxity of public life his keen -individuality made itself felt like a knife cutting through cheese. At -the end of years of very bitter struggle he found himself in a position -of some eminence, editor of a courteous, caustic review, whose chief -characteristics were a stubborn isolation and a telling of truths that -made both friends and foes blink. No half-measures, no half-truths. -Conformity with the faintest taint upon it was intolerable to him. His -idealism had not evaporated in the storm and stress, it had condensed, -rather, into a steely resistance to ugly reality. Insincerity, -injustice, meanness, hurt him as badly in middle-age as they had at -twenty-five, but he now expected them, and by a stoical presage braced -himself against disappointment. The stoicism was only a rather brittle -crust, hastily improvised by Nature’s kindly adaptation; he was soured, -but his heart was still soft; he<a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a> expected nothing, and yet he was hurt -by everything. It was now some time since he had promised himself that -Camelia should never hurt him. Camelia had occupied his thoughts for a -good many years. The pretty child, with her face of subdued saint-like -curves, and her smile of frank unsaintliness, had seemed to claim him -from the very first home-coming. By a final irony of fate poor Mrs. -Perior died only a few months before the Grange was freed from its last -encumbrances. She had not made life easier for her son. She had always -refused to believe in the necessity for letting the Grange, had always -resented the lodgings in South Kensington, had always considered herself -injured, and had not been chary in demonstrations of injury. Perior had -looked forward with pride to the time when he should reinstate her in -her own home, and her death made a mockery of his own home-coming.</p> - -<p>It was in Camelia’s early girlhood that ill-health, overwork, and a -violent row with the powers of political darkness, made this home-coming -definite. The battered idealist sought rather sulkily a retreat from the -intolerable contemplation of a wider world’s misdeeds. Young Camelia, so -different from her dully worthy ancestors, so different even from her -dashing but not intellectual papa, charmed him as the woods and flowers -of spring charm eyes weary with city winter. She was too young to be -taken seriously; that was a lifted weight, in the first place. The -joyous receptivity of her mind afforded to his scholarly instincts just -the foothold he required to excuse to himself an indulgent and -thoughtless affection. As friend and adviser of Lady Paton, he<a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a> drifted -easily into a paternal attitude towards the fatherless Camelia; he was -over twenty years her senior, and her eagerness for knowledge appealed -to him. As she had said, he taught her nearly everything she knew; she -rebelled against other methods, and Perior himself would have felt -robbed had governess or tutor supplanted him. During those quiet and -pleasant years he felt that on a melancholy walk he had picked a handful -of primroses—their pale young gold irradiated his solitude. He did not -say to himself that Camelia would never disappoint him, nor own that the -handful of primroses meant much in his life, but hopefulness seemed to -emanate from her, and insensibly he lived in the sunny impression. Her -very defects were charming, the mere superfluity of exuberant vitality, -and with this conviction he observed her happy, youthful selfishness as -one observes a kitten’s antics, and treated her claims for dominion with -gentle ridicule. Camelia laughed with him at herself, and this gave them -an irresistible sense of companionship; consoling too, since no defect -so humorously recognized could be deep; his primroses still kept their -dew. But as she grew older, Perior began to realize uncomfortably that -Camelia could laugh at the deepest defect, recognize it, analyze it, and -stick to it—a deft combination. This faculty for firm sticking despite -obstacles gave the paternal Perior food for reflection, and, as he -reflected, he felt with a sudden little turn of terror that he was in a -fair way to take Camelia seriously after all. His terror struck him as -very cowardly, a shrinking from responsibilities—his, of a truth, to a -certain extent. That lightly assumed guardianship<a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a> meant much in her -life. Had he failed in some essential? Was she not the product of her -training? He owned with a sigh that the note of true authority it had -not been his right to emphasize; yet in defending himself from the -probable pain of a deep affection, had he not weakened his claim to a -moral influence? And had he defended himself? Perior turned from the -question. Camelia respected him, he knew that; and yet his very -frankness with her—he, too, had laughed at himself for her benefit—had -given her a power over him. He was not at all afraid of seeming -priggish, but he was shy before certain contingencies; he knew that he -should blunder if he preached, and that Camelia would force him to smile -at the blunder and to blur the sermon.</p> - -<p>At the age of eighteen he caught her more than once managing, -manipulating the plastic elements about her with a skill approaching -deceit. The very absence of a necessity for deceit alarmed him; she had -so few temptations, there was no way of testing her, yet, that once or -twice, when circumstances by a little twist or turn opposed her, he had -caught her—too dexterous. Perior had not controlled himself, nor taken -the advantage he might have seized. He had immediately lost his balance, -exaggerated what Camelia regarded as a quite permissible and pretty -compromise into a fault worthy of biting denunciation, and in so doing -had given her a point of vantage from which she laughed—not even -angrily. Perior for many years had thought most goodness negative, and -preferred to see it tested before admiring, but he had forgotten to -apply his philosophy in this<a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a> case. He lost his temper, and Camelia kept -hers, kept hers to the extent of soothing him by a smiling confession of -her misdoing, an affectionate declaration that she was wrong and he -quite right—“But don’t be cross, dear Mr. Perior.†What was he to do? -She did not care if she were wrong. Perior thought he would be wiser in -the future; he would give Camelia no further opportunity for facile -confession; but though the first sting of unexpected disappointment was -over, many unmerited aches were still reserved to him—all the more -painful from the fact that he had never intended to ache for Camelia. -Mary Fairleigh had come to the Patons when Camelia was sixteen, and -Camelia’s treatment of her cousin was another and more constant cause -for growing discontent. Perior could not define the discomfort with -which he watched Camelia’s indifferent kindness, or, worse still, an -unkindness as unintentional. He assumed by degrees an attitude of -compensatory gentleness towards poor Mary; it held, however, no sting -for Camelia; she seemed to watch his doing of the things she left undone -very complacently. It was by degrees that his dismay took refuge in a -manner of unshocked indifference which he hoped would prove salutary. It -did seem to irk and perplex her somewhat, and he had the consolation of -thinking that many of her perversities might be intentionally engineered -for his benefit. Perior, too, had learned to smile, and Camelia was -baffled. He would not scold her. After all, he counted for very little, -so Camelia assured herself as she entered upon her London life, and he -should see that she could be indifferent with far more<a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a> effectiveness. -Perior saw little of her during those years. The little he saw on his -rare visits to London confirmed his grim conviction. She was a pretty, -clever, foolish, worthless creature; her frankness threw no dust into -his eyes. She might own herself a self-seeking worldling, and she did -not overshoot the mark. Many were the corns she danced over in her quest -of power and happiness. Her sincerity was insincere—it adapted itself -too cleverly. Perior had seen her flatter, when only he and she knew -that she was flattering; had seen her make her effect by pliancy or by -resistance; had watched her smile light for those who could serve her, -or stiffen to a sweet blankness for the incompetent. He recognized in -her his own scorn for the world without his ideal, which would not -permit him to stoop and use it; but, so Perior thought, Camelia knew no -ideals; reality did not hurt her—she met it with its own weapons. One -did not conquer an immoral world by moral methods; and if one lived in -it, not to conquer it would be intolerable. The scorn no doubt excused -her to herself, but it hedged her round with a sort of stupidity from -which Perior’s quick recognition of moral beauty preserved him. Ethical -worth had come to be everything to him. Camelia simply did not see it. -He himself had armed her with that scientific impartiality before which -he felt himself rather helpless, before which good and bad resolved -themselves into very evasive elements. She told him that her science was -more logical than his, it had made her charitable to the whole world, -herself included, whereas he was hard on the world and hard on himself. -His very kindness lacked grace, while<a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a> her unkindness wore a flower-like -color. He was sorry for people, not fond of them—but Camelia was -neither fond nor sorry. They were shadows woven into the web of her -experience, her business was to make that experience pleasant, to see it -beautifully. It was this love of beauty—beauty in the pagan sense—that -baffled him in her. She had put appreciation and an exquisite good taste -in the place of morality. Life to her was a game, to him a tragic, -insistent conundrum. These, at least, were Perior’s reluctant -conclusions.</p> - -<p>When he walked away from Enthorpe Lodge his mind was to a certain extent -already reverting to the daily preoccupations of cottages, perverse -protoplasm, and his weekly article for the <i>Friday Review;</i> but also -dwelling with the dual peculiarity observable in our meditations, upon -the people he had just left, Lady Paton, Mary, Camelia’s guests, and -Camelia herself. It seemed really unnecessary to remind himself of that -promise he had made himself some time ago; Camelia could not disappoint -him; he knew just what to expect from her; she could not hurt him. Yet -the promise had been made at a time when she was hurting him very badly, -and even now, while he recalled it with some vehemence, he was feeling a -most illogical smart.</p> - -<p>The country road wound among dusty hedges and through the little -village. About half a mile beyond it lay a remnant of the Perior estate, -once large, second only in importance to the Haversham’s, now sadly -shrunken and dislocated. By degrees, and during years of only meagre -competence, he had built upon this pretty bit of land a cluster of<a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a> -cottages, his playthings; to make them unnecessarily delightful was his -perverse pleasure.</p> - -<p>Perior was by no means a paternal landlord; the lucky occupants of the -cottages were never reminded of the propriety of gratitude. Indeed -Perior had enraged neighboring landowners by remarking that the cottages -were none too good for the rent—a saying big with implications, and -perhaps intentionally spiteful. Indeed intentional spite was attributed -to many of his actions. It was a great fox-hunting country; and one of -the finest coverts, rich in foxes lovingly preserved by Perior’s -forefathers, lay on his estate. Now it was currently reported that -Perior had had all the foxes shot! A murder would have made him less -unpopular. Malicious insanity seemed the only explanation.</p> - -<p>He did not scruple to proclaim his blasphemous heresies on the sacred -sport. He grew angry, said he abominated it, would do all in his power -to stamp it out, and at least would see that no animal should be -“tortured†on his property. The foxes had certainly disappeared from -Mandelly Woods, and good, honest sportsmen could hardly trust themselves -to mention the criminal fanatic’s name. It must be owned that Perior’s -love of animals approached the grotesque. He entertained at the Manor a -retinue of battered cats and outcast dogs, many garnered from London -streets. He could hardly bear to have surplus kittens drowned, and only -by the firmness of the housekeeper was the necessary severity -accomplished. He was exaggerated, peculiar, unpractical; the kindest -said it of him. He had sent two clever village boys to the University, -one the son of the<a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a> village poacher and ne’er-do-weel, a handsome lad -with a Burns-like streak of genius, who had distinguished himself at -Oxford, and disappointed many pessimistic prophecies by turning out more -than creditably. At the present moment the son of one of Perior’s -field-laborers came every day to the Grange for a coaching in the -humanities. Perior was a fine master, and Camelia was none too well -pleased when she heard of her successor. These experiments in sociology -aroused only less hostile comment than the black affair of the foxes.</p> - -<p>Our misanthropic gentleman paused at an angle of the road to survey his -cottages, each set in its own happy acres, stretching flower-beds and -young orchards into the sunny country. His tenants all had a pleasant -look of successful adaptation. One was a cobbler, and made most of -Perior’s boots; a fact rather apparent.</p> - -<p>It was evening by the time he reached the tall gates through which the -roadway led up to the Grange, a high-standing, unpretentious, gray stone -house, rather bleakly situated on its height, but backed by a further -rise of wood, and, despite its vineless severity of outline, gravely -cheerful in aspect. An immaculately-kept lawn stretched in a gradual -slope before it, shaded by two yew trees, and the light grace of -beeches. Under the windows of the ground floor were beds of white and -purple pansies, and at one side, near the shrubberies, were long rows of -irises, also purple and white. From the other side of the house the -ground descended very abruptly, giving one the realization of height, -and a long view over woods, hills, and valleys to the distant sunset.<a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a></p> - -<p>The house within carried out consistently the first impression of -pleasant bareness. The wainscotted walls were reflected in the gleaming -floors. No tenderness of draperies, no futile ornament. In the -drawing-room three old portraits of three dead Mrs. Periors looked -quietly from the walls; some good porcelain was on shelves where there -was no danger of its breaking; the faded brocade of the furniture was -covered with white chintz sprigged with green. The library, where the -light came serenely through high windows, was lined with books; here and -there on the peaceful spaces a good engraving or etching; philosophical -bronzes above the shelves. The writing-table was spacious; opposite it -was Perior’s piano—he played well. This was the room he lived in. Now, -when he entered, an old setter, glossily well-groomed, looked up with an -emotional thudding of the tail, and of two cats curled exquisitely in -the easy-chair, one only opened placid eyes, while the other, after -arching itself in a yawn, advanced towards him with a soundless mew.</p> - -<p>Perior was devoted to his cats, and adored his dogs. After stooping to -pat these animals, he took up a letter from the table. Arthur Henge’s -writing was familiar, though of late years Perior had rarely seen it. -The old friendship had borne pretty sharp twinges—had survived even -Perior’s ruthless handling of Henge’s pet measure some years ago: Henge -had believed ardently in the bill, and thought Perior responsible to a -certain extent for its failure. That Henge had not been embittered by -this political antagonism had deeply touched Perior. He always<a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a> -remembered the fact with a delightful, glowing comfort. His respect and -fondness for Henge were a staff to him. The two men were intrinsically -sympathetic, though they had hardly an opinion in common. Arthur Henge -was an optimist, and deeply religious, his wide humanism going hand in -hand with a fervent churchmanship. He was aided towards a happy view of -things by happy circumstances. He was one of the richest men in England, -and one of the most powerful; he held a high place in the present -Government. No sword of Damocles in the shape of a peerage hung over his -career in the Lower House, and at the same time the baronetcy, hoary -with an honorable antiquity, had the consequence and standing of many -greater but less significant titles. He was young, handsome, and -serious. Above all small cynicisms and hardness, his experience of life -seemed only to have taught him a wise, fine trust, and, perhaps in -consequence of this attitude of mind, it was impossible not to trust -him.</p> - -<p>This was the man who had fallen in love with Camelia Paton. The fact was -town talk, though it was surmised that despite his evident absorption he -had not yet given her occasion to accept him. That he was courting her -was not yet apparent, but his devotion remained gravely steady. Lady -Henge was supposed to be the cause of this adjournment of decisive -measures. Lady Henge was even more serious than her son, and her -influence over him was paramount.</p> - -<p>Now with all her ready qualities Camelia seldom pretended to -seriousness. To Perior there was<a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a> something highly distasteful in the -whole matter. That Camelia should be the object of such comment, that -her achievement of the “good match†should be canvassed, infuriated him. -No blame could attach itself to Arthur’s reticence; if reticence there -were it was on the highest grounds. It was the world’s base, -materialistic chatter that jarred, its weighing of her charm and -loveliness against his wealth and prominence merely. Perior weighed -Camelia’s merits against Arthur’s. In his heart of hearts he did not -consider Camelia fitted to make a high-minded man happy—and some dim -foreboding of this fact no doubt chilled her lover’s resolution. Perior, -however, was not logical. He might not approve of Camelia, but that Lady -Henge should disapprove nettled him. Arthur no doubt was a fool in -loving Camelia, but Perior wished to be alone in that knowledge. As for -the world’s gross view of Henge as one of the greatest “catches†in -England, of Camelia as lucky if she got him, Perior’s blood boiled when -he thought of it,—and that Camelia, with all her reliance on her own -attractions, was quite aware of the world’s opinion and was not angered -by it.</p> - -<p>She, too, thought Henge a great “catch,†no doubt; a great catch even -for Camelia Paton.</p> - -<p>Perior read the letter now, standing near the window and frowning very -gloomily. It was natural that Henge should write to him in this strain -of only thinly-veiled confidence.</p> - -<p>Henge knew of the long paternal intimacy with Camelia, and relied -perhaps too much on a paternal sympathy. Henge and his mother were -coming<a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a> down to Clievesbury to spend some weeks at Enthorpe. He avowed -no intention, but the whole note, its very restraint, was big with -intention. He seemed, too, to emphasize his mother’s pleasure in coming, -and Perior felt in the emphasis a touch of triumph. He hoped to see a -great deal of Perior, there was in the concluding passages of the note -quite a prophecy of future relationship, nearer than any they had known. -But through it all Perior fancied just the hint of an appeal—a quite -unconscious appeal, none the less significant for that.</p> - -<p>Camelia was to be put on trial before Lady Henge, and to Arthur the -process would be painful. The Henges had stately requirements; and -although Perior imagined that, were these requirements not satisfied, -Arthur had almost determined to overlook them, he felt the keenness of -the hope that all would be satisfactory, the support that the hope found -in Perior’s intimacy with Camelia.</p> - -<p>Lady Henge shared her son’s respect for Perior, and to her Perior’s -friendship could interpret many phases in Camelia’s charming character -perplexing to the anxious mother’s unaided vision.</p> - -<p>“I am glad my mother is to know her better; she has seen only the -surface as yet,†wrote Arthur. Arthur’s love was a surety not quite -trustworthy, but the lifelong friendship of a man like Perior must -convince grave Lady Henge of many depths. Perior felt that his rigidity -was to be made use of. His well-known earnestness was to vouch for -Camelia’s. His brow was very black as he finished the letter. He was -nearly angry with Arthur.<a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> - -<p>“Mrs. Jedsley is in the drawing-room,†Camelia announced, “so I ran -away. I am really afraid of her.â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel laughed slightly; she put down the book with which she -was solacing a lazy afternoon on the sofa, and, looking at Camelia’s -cloth dress and sailor hat, asked her if she had been out again.</p> - -<p>“Yes, just back. I only stayed in the drawing-room long enough to show -Mrs. Jedsley that she scared me. It’s those eyebrows, you know, that -lack of eyebrow rather, emphasized by an angry redness in the place -where they should be. No, I cannot face her.â€</p> - -<p>“She is rather <i>épatante</i>. I suppose you were walking with your brace of -suitors.â€</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t know where they are. I was walking by myself. I think I -must have walked eight miles,†Camelia added, stretching out her feet to -look at her dusty shoes.</p> - -<p>“You certainly are an unsociable hostess, but those boys are becoming -bores. Whom do you expect next week? You must have something to leaven -the lump of pining youthful masculinity.â€</p> - -<p>“That poet is coming—the one who writes the virile poems, you know, and -whose article of faith is<a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a> the <i>joie de vivre;</i> and Lady Tramley, dear -creature, Lord Tramley, and—would you specify Sir Arthur as leaven?â€</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to imply that he <i>isn’t</i> pining?â€</p> - -<p>“I imply nothing so evident.â€</p> - -<p>“Wriggling, then—that you must own.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia was sitting near the window, opened on its framing magnolia -leaves, and said rather coolly as she took off her hat—</p> - -<p>“No, <i>I</i> am wriggling. <i>I</i> must decide now.â€</p> - -<p>This was a masterly assurance. Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflecting that nothing -succeeds like unruffled self-confidence, and that Camelia’s had never -shown a ripple of doubt, owned to herself that her slightly stinging -question was well answered.</p> - -<p>“Don’t wriggle, my dear; decide,†she said, accepting the restatement -very placidly, “you could not do better. To speak vulgarly—the man is -rich beyond the dreams of avarice.â€</p> - -<p>“Beautifully rich,†Camelia assented.</p> - -<p>“Ah—indeed he is.â€</p> - -<p>“And he himself is wise and excellent,†Camelia added; “I like him very -much.â€</p> - -<p>“He is coming alone?â€</p> - -<p>“No, Lady Henge comes too.â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel gave her friend a sharp glance.</p> - -<p>“That’s very serious, you know, Camelia. I think you must have -decided—to suit Lady Henge.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia smiled good-humoredly. “I will suit her—and then see if he -suits me.â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel lay reflecting on the sofa. Camelia accepted frankness -to a certain point, beyond that point she repulsed it. It was rather sly -of her,<a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a> Mrs. Fox-Darriel thought, to keep up these needless pretences. -Camelia must be anxious for the match—anxious to a certain degree, and -her careful preservation of the false dignity of her position was really -rather mean. As for Mrs. Fox-Darriel, she desired the match with a -really disinterested fervor. She felt a certain personal pride in -Camelia’s success; she had resigned supremacy, and only asked Camelia to -uphold her own. Camelia as Lady Henge would, from a very charming -person, have become a very important personage, a truly momentous -friend. Her fondness for the child would ensure the child’s loyalty. A -near friend of the Prime Minister’s wife—who knew? The thought flitted -pleasantly through Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s mind, and the thought, too, of all -that Camelia, in an even less exalted position, could do for the -impecunious Hon. Charlie, Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s husband. There was really -no possibility of a doubt in Camelia’s mind. Mrs. Fox-Darriel simply did -not believe her, and regretted her lack of candor; but at the same time -she felt a little anxiety. There were certain phases in Camelia that had -always baffled her investigations, an unexpectedness that Mrs. -Fox-Darriel had encountered more than once.</p> - -<p>“It is really the very best thing you could do,†she observed now, “and -I wouldn’t play with him if I were you. I know that he is the image of -fidelity, and yet the Duchess of Amshire is very anxious for him to -marry her girl, that ugly Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Henge favors that -match, and he really is under his mother’s thumb.â€</p> - -<p>“Decidedly I must waste no time,†said Camelia, laughing, “and decidedly -it would be the best thing I<a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a> could do, since the Marquis was snapped up -by the American girl—swarming with millions. I think I should have been -a Marchioness, Frances, had not that strange look, between a squint and -a goggle, in his eyes made me hesitate.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, the Marquis! You know that this is far better. This man means a -lot.â€</p> - -<p>“He swarms with millions too,†said Camelia. “Come, Frances, preach me a -nice little worldly sermon on the supreme utility of riches—without the -gloves now.â€</p> - -<p>“I usually remove them when I approach the subject,†Mrs. Fox-Darriel -sighed with much sincerity. “My poor Charlie! How we keep our heads -above water I really don’t know, and, as it is, the sharks are nibbling -at our toes! Supreme! Money, my dear, is the only thing! Once you’ve -that foundation you may begin to erect your sentiments, your -moralities.â€</p> - -<p>“And how few people are honest enough to say so. You and I are honest, -Frances; it buys everything, of course.â€</p> - -<p>“Well, almost everything. One must thank Nature for beauty and -cleverness.â€</p> - -<p>“Beauty and cleverness in rags have a sorry time of it in this world. -But money, of course, especially if not too new, buys friends, power, -good taste, morality. Poverty makes people base and cringing—makes -criminals. One is jumped on in this world, scrunched into the earth, -into the dirt, if one hasn’t money, and yet the hypocrites talk of -compensation! Of all the sloppy, canting optimism with which people try -to make themselves comfortable that is<a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a> the sorriest! And while they -talk they go on scrambling and scrunching for all they are worth; nasty -beasts! They kick a man on the head, and say ‘the stupor compensates for -the pain.’ That is the current theory about the lower classes.â€</p> - -<p>“Yet you enjoy the world, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“I am not jumped on.â€</p> - -<p>“You jump on other people, then?â€</p> - -<p>“Not in a sordid manner; I don’t have to soil my feet. Why shouldn’t I -enjoy it?â€</p> - -<p>“And you think that Sir Arthur’s millions would emphasize the -enjoyment?â€</p> - -<p>“Widen it, certainly. But don’t be gross, Frances. A great deal depends -on him. I am not offering myself for sale, you know.â€</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think you would. You have no need to.â€</p> - -<p>“He would really be glaringly golden, wouldn’t he, were he not draped -with the mossy antiquity of his name?†said Camelia, drawing a white -magnolia flower within the window frame, and bending her head to the -scented cup.</p> - -<p>“An ideal husband, from every point of view,†Mrs. Fox-Darriel resumed; -“clever, very clever, and very good—rather overpoweringly good, -Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“I think goodness a most charming phenomenon, I shouldn’t mind studying -it in a husband.â€</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Jedsley is good. Why don’t you study her?â€</p> - -<p>“There is nothing phenomenal in her goodness, it is a product of -circumstance only. There is Mary,†Camelia added, tipping her chair a -little towards the window for a clearer view of the lawn below. “Mary<a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a> -in a Liberty silk, of yellow-green, and smocked. Why, Mary, why wear a -Liberty gown, especially smocked?â€</p> - -<p>“I have sometimes suspected that your colorless little cousin is here to -play the part of a discord that resolves into and heightens your -harmony,†said Mrs. Fox-Darriel; “or is it the post of whipping-boy that -she fills?â€</p> - -<p>Camelia continued to look from the window placidly, only raising her -eyebrows a little.</p> - -<p>“No, Mary never gets a whipping, not even when I deserve one. Mamma is -very fond of Mary; so am I,†she added. Mrs. Fox-Darriel took up her -book with a little yawn that Camelia for all her placidity resented.</p> - -<p>“How can you read that garbage?†she inquired smilingly, glancing at the -title.</p> - -<p>“The <i>bête humaine</i> rather interests me.â€</p> - -<p>“Even interpreted by another? The man is far more insupportable than -Zola, inasmuch as he is clever, and an artist.â€</p> - -<p>“That’s why I read him. You seem to know a good deal about garbage, my -dear.â€</p> - -<p>“I know a good deal about everything, I fancy!†said Camelia, with her -gayest laugh. “I took a course of garbage once, just enough to make up -my mind that I did not care for the flavor. We have a right to choose -the phases of life we want to see represented.â€</p> - -<p>“I like garbage,†Mrs. Fox-Darriel said stubbornly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you are very catholic, I know. I am more limited.†Camelia still -eyed the lawn, sniffing at<a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a> the magnolia. Now she rose suddenly and went -to the mirror.</p> - -<p>“Mary puts on a sailor hat—so,†she said gravely, setting hers far back -at a ludicrous angle. “Poor Mary!†She tilted the hat forward again, and -briskly put the pin through it. “I am going down to harry Mrs. Jedsley. -Good-bye, Frances.â€</p> - -<p>“Good-bye. I shall be down to tea presently.â€</p> - -<p>“The <i>bête humaine</i> will spoil your appetite!†laughed Camelia as she -went out.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel heard her running down the corridor and the light -rhythm of her feet on the stairs.</p> - -<p>“Pretty little minx!†she said good-humoredly; and her thoughts turned -to Sir Arthur. What a lucky girl was Camelia! It was rather tiresome, -perhaps, to sit by and watch her triumphs. Mrs. Fox-Darriel found the -rôle of second-fiddle a little dull; still, it was well worth while to -play it. She got up and went to the window, where the magnolia still -swayed faintly from the suddenness of Camelia’s departure. Tapping the -sill lightly with her finger-tips, Mrs. Fox-Darriel looked out, yawning -once more, at the translucent blue of the sky, the still shining of the -little lake beyond the trees, the sun-dappled lawn, and at Mary -Fairleigh on the lawn in the funny Liberty dress. Mr. Perior was walking -beside her, in riding costume, a whip in his hand. Mrs. Fox-Darriel -surveyed them as they walked slowly away from the house. He had -evidently just joined Mary; and as Camelia herself appeared on the lawn -her departure took on an amusing aspect.</p> - -<p>Now it really was too bad of Camelia, she could<a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a> have no use for him -herself. The sun flashed from her hair as she bounded gaily across the -turf and caught Perior’s arm with a schoolgirl familiarity. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel drew back sharply, but still observed from the screen of -magnolia leaves Mary’s slow return to the house, and Camelia’s skipping -step as she led Mr. Perior towards the garden. He held the whip clasped -in his hand behind his back, and, as he walked, switched his calf in its -leather gaiter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel fancied some temper in the action.<a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN Mrs. Fox-Darriel descended to the drawing-room a quarter of an hour -later, she found Lady Paton and Mary alone with Mrs. Jedsley, who as yet -showed no intention of departing. Mrs. Jedsley was very stout, but of a -vigorous bearing. Her firm, wide face was dashed with rather choleric -notes of red on cheeks, chin, and eyebrows. Her eyes were witty and -humorous. Mrs. Fox-Darriel, very indifferently, felt these quickly -travelling eyes taking in every gleam and glitter of her tea-gown. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel always jingled a little as she walked; she was one of those -women who dangle lorgnettes at the ends of swaying neck-chains, and -circle their wrists with a multitude of bangles, and now, as she sank -into a chair beside Lady Paton, and smiled a languid acceptance of tea, -the infinity of pendent jewels and the linked gold that draped her -person, chimed out quite a harmonious clatter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel always -gave Lady Paton a fluttered look, the look of a child shrinking from a -too persistently obtrusive rattle, and she handed her the tea and bread -and butter with gently scared glances.</p> - -<p>“What delicious tea,†said Mrs. Fox-Darriel affably, “and the pouring of -tea is an art in its decadence. Really, dear Lady Paton, you have -spoiled me for all cups poured by other hands. Your aunt’s hands add a -distinct charm, do they not?†she<a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a> added, looking at Mary,—“and her -cap.†Indeed Lady Paton’s caps and hands resembled one another in -blanched delicacy.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,†Mary replied hastily; she was not accustomed to this suave -mode of address from Mrs. Fox-Darriel.</p> - -<p>“I saw you walking in the garden just now,†pursued that glittering -personage; “you made quite a picture in your pretty dress, I assure -you.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh! do you like it?†Mary’s face was transfused by a blush of surprised -pleasure.</p> - -<p>“It is really charming,†said Mrs. Fox-Darriel unblinkingly, while Mrs. -Jedsley’s eyes travelled up and down poor Mary’s ungainliness.</p> - -<p>“Against the deeper shades of green, you know, and with your golden -hair, you looked quite—quite like an Albert Moore. Has your friend, Mr. -Perior, gone? I saw him with you.†There was a subtly delightful -intimation in this question that filled Mary with a half painful, half -delicious embarrassment.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Perior is with Camelia,†she said, the crude fact hardly jarring on -the dulcet echo of Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s question. He was her friend, Mary -knew, felt it with a wave of gratitude that quieted many aches, but was -it then so evident—so noticeable?</p> - -<p>“Ah yes! Camelia is rather fond of teasing him, I am afraid,†said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, observing Mary’s flush, and noting as an unkindness of -nature that her hair, the only grace she possessed, should grow so -thickly at the back and with such unbecoming scantiness around the high -brow. Mary’s whole being had been quivering with the pain of her -dispossession,<a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a> but a grateful warmth now stole through the chill of -bereavement.</p> - -<p>Her flush had not died when Camelia came in, Perior following her. -Camelia’s face was imperturbably gay, but from a certain severity and -tension in Perior’s expression, Mrs. Fox-Darriel surmised that the -pastoral promenade had not been altogether peaceful.</p> - -<p>It was hardly possible, of course, that the indifference of this stiff -provincial should pique Camelia into an attitude that might compromise -real interests; no, hardly possible; yet Mrs. Fox-Darriel, with some -acuteness, determined that all her efforts should tend to make such an -absurdity impossible indeed.</p> - -<p>Ugly Mary was evidently in love with the unattractive Diogenes; but -Camelia need not know that. Mrs. Fox-Darriel almost laughed at herself -while she meditated; Camelia could hardly intend more than the -purposeless capturing of Diogenes; Camelia’s head was perfectly sound -when it came to decisive extremes. Only—well—women, all women, were -such <i>fools</i> sometimes. That bounding, pursuing step across the lawn had -given Mrs. Fox-Darriel a new impression of Camelia.</p> - -<p>“Look, Mamma, is not this beautiful? Look, Frances.†Camelia held out a -branch of white roses, buds and leaves climbing on lovely curves to a -heavy, swaying flower;—“it is such a perfect spray that I am going to -attempt a Japanese arrangement with this bit of pine. Mary, will you -fetch me that bronze vase out of the morning room—with its little -stand, you know—and have it filled<a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a> with water; and, Mary,—†Mary was -departing obediently, “a pair of scissors—don’t forget. If there is -anything I dislike,†Camelia went on, hers was always a temperate manner -of speech, “it is a heavy mass of flowers bunched together with all the -individuality, all the form and vitality, of line quite lost.â€</p> - -<p>She smiled at Mrs. Jedsley as she spoke, skimming caressing finger-tips -over her rose branch, and adding, “You may see me at your place -to-morrow, Mrs. Jedsley. Mr. Perior has been giving me a dreadful -scolding on my neighborly deficiencies. To-morrow I make a conscientious -round of calls—and pour balm into all the wounded bosoms.†Mrs. -Fox-Darriel glanced quickly at Perior to see how he relished this -offensive obedience; Perior, as he stood before the fireplace, was -looking at his boots. Mrs. Jedsley’s eyebrows grew very red.</p> - -<p>“I won’t be at home to-morrow,†she said decidedly, “and if I were -conscious of wounds I’d keep at a good distance from you, Camelia.†Lady -Paton looked from her daughter to Perior, an alarmed appeal, but he did -not raise his eyes nor seem to notice Camelia’s graceful promises.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Jedsley, <i>why</i> are you always so unkind to me?†Camelia asked, -laughing. “I assure you that you may trust my balms. Mrs. Jedsley, I -will wager you—do you ever bet?—that by to-morrow night the whole -county-side will be singing my praises. I like people to sing my -praises—I like to feel affection and sympathy about me; now Mr. Perior -has been telling me that there is a distinct absence of these elements -in my atmosphere. I<a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a> begin to feel the vacuum myself. Won’t you help me -to fill it—help my regeneration?—No, Mary, that is the wrong vase—how -could I arrange flowers in that? On the stand, was it? The house-maid’s -stupidity, then; and I bought together the stand and the proper vase to -go with it. No; don’t take the <i>stand</i> back with you, you goosie! put it -here. Now, Mrs. Jedsley,†she added, when Mary had once more departed, -Perior having relieved her of the stand and carried it, not at all -graciously, to Camelia, “tell me how I can best please every one most? -You know them all so well—their pet pursuits, their pet hobbies. Mrs. -Harley has orchids, of course; I shall immediately ask her to take me to -the conservatory. And Mrs. Grier—that pensive little woman with the -long, long nose—has she not a son at Oxford, a boy she dotes on? Isn’t -she very fond of music?â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Jedsley was stirring her third cup of tea with an entirely -recovered composure. “Yes, Mrs. Grier plays the violin, and has a son -she dotes on; if you flatter her nicely enough, she will certainly join -in the ‘Hallelujah.’â€</p> - -<p>“Well, that is nice to know.†Mary had now brought the correct Japanese -vase, and Camelia neatly trimmed from her branch while she spoke a few -superfluous leaves and twigs.</p> - -<p>“Is not Mrs. Grier a dear friend of Lady Henge’s?†Mrs. Fox-Darriel -asked in an aside to Lady Paton—to the latter a very welcome aside, as -in murmured acquiescence she found a momentary refuge from the -bewildered sensations her daughter’s projects gave her.<a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a></p> - -<p>Yes, Lady Henge and Mrs. Grier were great friends, both musical, both -deeply interested in charitable work. Mrs. Grier, a sweet woman,—“and -you know,†said Lady Paton, bending gently towards her guest, “her nose -is not so long. That is only Camelia’s droll way of putting things, you -know.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,‗Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s smile was very reassuring—“you and I -understand Camelia, Lady Paton. It doesn’t do to take her <i>au grand -sérieux</i>.†Indeed, Mrs. Fox-Darriel smiled inwardly, feeling that all -disquiet on Camelia’s account was very unnecessary, and convinced that -she knew her very thoroughly.</p> - -<p>“You won’t be at home to-morrow, then?†asked Camelia, looking around -from her vase as Mrs. Jedsley rose to go.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear; and I’m afraid you won’t find me of use at any time. I -haven’t any particular foibles. You won’t discover a handle about me by -which to wind me up to the required musical pitch.â€</p> - -<p>“You traduce yourself, Mrs. Jedsley; with your charitable heart, do you -mean to tell me that, were I to wrap Clievesbury in red flannel, fill it -with buns and broth, you wouldn’t think me charming, and make sweet -music in my ears?â€</p> - -<p>“I never denied that you were charming, balefully charming, you naughty -girl,†said Mrs. Jedsley with a good humor that implied no submission.</p> - -<p>“Here is a rose for you. May it give you kind thoughts of me.†Camelia -fastened one of the rejected buds in the lady’s portly bosom, and when -she was gone, Lady Paton, leaving the room with her, she added, “Mary, -is the piano tuned?<a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>â€</p> - -<p>Mary went to the Steinway. “Lady Henge is a composer, as you know.†She -turned a face sparkling with mischief to Perior, who maintained his -silence beside the mantelpiece.</p> - -<p>“You have heard her? Yes? Well, you shall hear her again. That’s enough, -Mary,†she added, lightly; “we hear that the piano needs tuning.â€</p> - -<p>Now Mary had a certain little pride in the neat execution of Beethoven’s -Sonatas, that many hours of faithful practice had seemed to justify, and -while Camelia stood back to admire her flower arrangement, both Perior -and Mrs. Fox-Darriel noticed the flush that swept over Mary’s face.<a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>Y the time Sir Arthur and Lady Henge arrived, Camelia had fulfilled her -prophecy and become a popular person. Under the blighting indifference -of her first appearance Clievesbury had naturally retaliated with -severity, but that the first impression had been erroneous the most -severe owned—after Camelia had called on them. Camelia found the -process of winning the whole neighborhood great fun, and its success -gave her a delicious sense of efficiency. She cared nothing, absolutely -nothing, for her neighbors, but once she determined to be cared for by -them she found the facility of the task highly flattering to -self-esteem.</p> - -<p>She drove from place to place, sweet, modest, adaptable. She dispensed -pretty compliments with a grace that disarmed the grimmest suspicion. -She showed a pretty interest in every one. Indeed why should they not -like her? Camelia thought she really deserved liking; and though she -laughed at herself a little for the complimentary conclusion, her -kindness struck her as rather nice. It was motiveless, was it not? -almost motiveless, a game that it pleased her to play. Certainly she did -not care to appear before Lady Henge on a background of unpopularity; -the background must harmonize, become her; she would see to that. At -the<a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a> bottom of her heart Camelia cared very little for Lady Henge’s -approval or disapproval; Lady Henge was part of the game; but Camelia -had determined that the game required Lady Henge, like everybody else, -to find her charming; the game required Arthur Henge to propose—then -she might accept him; but she must make quite secure the possibility of -refusing him. So Camelia aimed steadily at one result, and was not at -all sure of her own decision once the result was reached, and this -indecision gave her a happy sense of freedom.</p> - -<p>She must capture Sir Arthur; this visit was definite, the last test; but -once captured, Camelia wondered if she would care to keep. Theoretically -she owned to a hard common-sense ambition that would make rejection -doubtful; but when the moment for decision finally arrived, Camelia felt -that this trait in her character might fail her; she did not really -believe in it, though she paraded it, flaunted it. Every one might think -her a hard-headed, hard-hearted little worldling—as far as practice -went they were right, no doubt, in all honesty she must own that she -gave them no occasion to think anything else; but she reserved a warm -corner of unrevealed ideals—ideals she never herself looked at, where a -purring self-content sat cosily.</p> - -<p>Lady Henge and her son arrived on a Monday. Lady Henge was nervous, -though her massive personality concealed the tremor, and unhappy—for -she felt Arthur’s fate to be a foregone conclusion. She was not a clever -but an immensely conscientious woman. She lived up to all her -principles, and she took only the highest view of everything. Her<a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a> son’s -love for the pretty Miss Paton, who meddled frivolously with politics -(Lady Henge meddled ponderously), and made collections of Japanese -pictures, had thrown her into a dismal perturbation. She could not like -Miss Paton; her cleverness was not disinterested; her sense of duty was -less than dubious, she lived for pleasure, for admiration; she was no -fit wife for a Henge.</p> - -<p>The most imperative of the Henges’ stately requirements was that solemn -sense of duty which Lady Henge embodied so conclusively.</p> - -<p>She felt the tremor quieted, the unhappiness soothed, however, on seeing -Camelia in her home. Indeed, Camelia’s background was masterly. By the -end of the first day Lady Henge was owning to herself that the glare of -London had perhaps been responsible for her former unfavorable -impression. Camelia’s manner was perfect; she was quiet and gentle; her -wish to please was frank but very dignified. Lady Henge felt that in no -way was her favor being courted, and she was quite clever enough to -appreciate that. Lady Paton was left to take all the initiatives, and -behind her mother Camelia smiled with an air of happy obscurity.</p> - -<p>The following days emphasized the initial approval. The image of the -excellent Lady Elizabeth faded by degrees from Lady Henge’s mind, and -the ache of disappointment with it. She wonderingly expanded into -confidence under Camelia’s gentle influence.</p> - -<p>She was a shy woman; she had been afraid of Camelia; but with tender -touches the shyness and the fear seemed to be pressed away. There was<a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a> -nothing to be afraid of. Was it possible? She doubted sometimes, when -alone and deeply thoughtful; but with Camelia quiet satisfaction was -irresistible.</p> - -<p>Perior watched the little comedy, convinced of its artificiality. That -doubt of her final choice which preserved for Camelia her sense of -independent pride free from all tarnish of self-interested scheming, he -could not have believed in. Her motives were, he thought, very clear to -him—as they must be to everybody else. He could not credit her with -love; a girl so dexterously managing her hand was held by no compulsory -force of real feeling. She was going to marry Arthur Henge, because he -was a good match, not because she loved him; any girl might have loved -him certainly, but Camelia was capable of loving no one. He was very -sore, very angry, very moody. Lady Henge’s transparent bids to him for -sympathy in irritating his scorn for Camelia irritated him, too, against -her, against Arthur even. Why couldn’t they let him alone? They should -get neither yea or nay from him, for, after all, Perior was -inconsistent; the scorn did not shake his rather negative loyalty to his -pupil, and beneath that there lay another and a deeper feeling, the -feeling that made it possible for Camelia to hurt him.</p> - -<p>“I was talking to her—to Miss Paton—about Woman’s Suffrage to-day,†so -Lady Henge would start a conversation, “she seems to have thought rather -deeply on the subject of a widened life for women—the development of -character by responsibility—the democratic ideal, is it not?†Lady<a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a> -Henge combined staunch conservatism with a devout belief in Humanity.</p> - -<p>Perior answered “Yes, I suppose so,†to the question.</p> - -<p>“She has, I see, a great deal of influence down here in the -country—more than I could have expected in such a gay young creature. -Mrs. Grier spoke to me of her good-heartedness, her generous help in -charitable matters. Mrs. Grier, as you know, is deeply interested in the -improvement of the condition of the laboring classes. I shall count upon -Miss Paton next year; her aid would be very effective; she could help me -with some of my clubs—a pretty face, a witty tongue, popularize one; -she has promised to address the Shirt Makers’ Union. She takes so much -interest in all these absorbing social problems,—interest so -unassuming, so free from all self-reference.â€</p> - -<p>They were in the drawing-room after dinner. Perior seemed, in watching -Camelia fulfil herself, to find a searing fascination, for he was often -at Enthorpe Lodge of late. The faint flavor of inquiry in Lady Henge’s -assertions only elicitated, “I’m sure she’d be popular.†No; he would -not be held responsible for Camelia; and again he determined that Lady -Henge should on the subject of Camelia’s full fitness get from him -neither a yea or a nay.</p> - -<p>Lady Henge’s clear brown eyes had turned contemplatively upon her son -and Camelia, who were sitting on an isolated sofa in a frank -<i>tête-à -tête</i>.</p> - -<p>Perior’s glance followed hers, and while she read in Arthur’s absorbed -attitude and expression the wisdom of submissive partisanship—the utter -futility<a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a> of further resistance, Perior studied the half grave, half -playful smile with which Camelia received her lover’s utterances. She -seemed to feel Perior’s scrutiny, for her eyes swerved suddenly and met -his, and the smile hardened a little as she looked at him.</p> - -<p>“She is very lovely,†Lady Henge said with an irrepressible sigh. “It is -a very unusual type of loveliness,†at which Perior looked away from -Camelia and back at his companion. “He is very fond of her,†Lady Henge -added—a little tearfully, Perior suspected.</p> - -<p>“He has taken it seriously for quite a while, I believe.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, yes indeed,†Lady Henge, conscious of having herself made the -only barrier to an earlier declaration, spoke a little vaguely. -“Arthur’s wife will have many responsibilities,†she went on; “I think -that—if she accepts Arthur—Miss Paton will prove equal to them.†The -“if she accepts Arthur†Perior thought rather noble, “and her gaiety -will be good for him, he needs such sunshine. I must not be so selfish -as to think that <i>I</i> could give it him. And then—with all her gaiety,†-here a recrudescence of the vein of urgency crept once more into Lady -Henge’s voice, “she has depths, Mr. Perior—great depths, has she not? -Neither Arthur nor I take life lightly, you know,†and Lady Henge held -him with a waiting pause of silence.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know you don’t,†he said, and then found himself forced to add, -“there are many possibilities in Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>At all events, he might have said much more.<a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a> Again he looked across at -Camelia as he spoke, and again her eyes met his. She rose abruptly, and -crossed the room.</p> - -<p>“Lady Henge,†she said, standing before her guest in an attitude of -delicate request, “won’t you play for us? We all want to hear you—and -not as mere interpreter, you know—one of your own compositions, -please.â€</p> - -<p>If there were a vulnerable spot in Lady Henge’s indisputable array of -virtues it was a touching egotism in regard to her musical capabilities. -She fancied herself the pioneer of a new school, and hoped for a rather -shallow smattering of form and polyphony to more than atone by an -immense amount of feeling. She smiled now, drawing off her gloves -immediately, even while saying, with the diffidence of a master—</p> - -<p>“I am afraid my <i>poèmes symphoniques</i> are not quite on the after-dinner -level, my dear. You know I can’t promise a comfortable accompaniment to -conversation.â€</p> - -<p>“Don’t degrade us by the implication,†smiled Camelia; “we are at least -appreciative.â€</p> - -<p>“My music is emotionally exhaustive,†said Lady Henge, shaking her head -and rising massively. “In my humbler way I have tried to do for the -abstract what Wagner did for the concrete. I do not depict the sea, but -the psychological sensations the sea arouses in us.†Lady Henge was -moving towards the piano, her very back, with its serene, brocaded -breadth, imposing by its air of large self-confidence a hush upon the -babble of drawing-room flippancy.<a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, good gracious!†Gwendolen Holt ejaculated in an alarmed whisper to -her neighbor Mr. Merriman.</p> - -<p>“Poor dear Lady Henge,†murmured Lady Tramley, leaning back in her -delicate thinness, and fixing sad eyes upon her musical friend.</p> - -<p>“Awfully bad, is it?†Mr. Merriman inquired.</p> - -<p>“Awfully,†said Gwendolen.</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s all one to me,†said Mr. Merriman jocosely.</p> - -<p>“I paint the soul of man, as influenced by the forces of nature,†still -delivering explanatory comments, Lady Henge had seated herself at the -piano. “My symphonic poem—‘Thalassa,’ shall I give you that?†and from -a careful adjustment of the piano-stool, she looked up at Camelia, who -had followed her.</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur, on his solitary sofa, showed some dismay at the imminence of -his mother’s performance. Perior, who had heard Lady Henge play, fixed -enduring eyes on the cornice. Camelia dropped into the vacant seat -beside him.</p> - -<p>“Hold your breath, Alceste,†she murmured, her smiling eyes still gently -observant of Lady Henge, who, after a majestic turn up and down the -key-board, had paused in a menacing attitude, one hand lifted in a -heavily pouncing position.</p> - -<p>“She’ll have our heads under water in a minute. Ah! here comes the -splash!†The very walls quivered as that fierce hand fell. A volcanic, -incoherent volume of sound hurtled forth upon the stillness. From -thenceforward they might have been sitting amidst the clamorous -concussions of a<a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a> thunder-storm, Lady Henge, high priestess of terrified -humanity, making valiant warfare with the angry gods. The wind, or -rather the effect of the wind upon the shrinking mind of man, shrieked -in long sweeps down the key-board—Lady Henge’s execution with the flat -of her hand being boldly impressionistic; the waves beat out their -stormy rhythm in crashing chords of very feeble construction, but in -noisiness immensely effective, leaping, bounding, shouldering, -swallowing one another with a splendid inconsequence as to time or key. -A chaos of stammering phrases cried out fitfully above the steady -bellowing of the bass.</p> - -<p>Physically the composition was most certainly exhausting. Lady Henge’s -fine, flushed profile, bent with brooding intensity above the key-board, -evinced a panting effort to cope with the mighty requirements of her -creation.</p> - -<p>“It sounds as if she were being tossed in her cabin, doesn’t it?†-Camelia’s soft voice murmured under the safe cover of the tumult, her -face keeping the expression of grave attention, “and horribly seasick. -One hears the bottles breaking, and the basins clashing, and the boots -being hurled from side to side. Anything but abstract. Intimately -descriptive rather—don’t you think?†A side glint of her eye evidently -twinkled for sympathy; but Perior solemnly stared at the ceiling.</p> - -<p>“The construction too,†Camelia said more soberly, “she plunged us into -the free fantasia—and perhaps at the end she may fish us out with the -dominant phrase—but I haven’t caught it yet; ah, this thudding finale -announces the journey’s end.<a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>†And she jumped up as Lady Henge, with a -fine, tense look of soul-experience, rose from the piano. The dazed and -wilted listeners chimed out the polite chorus usual on such occasions. -Camelia led Lady Henge to her chair. “Thank you—so much,†she said. -Lady Henge smiled dimly, her eyes fixed on vacancy.</p> - -<p>“It was like a glorious wind blowing about one. It made me think of -Wordsworth’s sonnets—of the soul in nature,†said Camelia. Perior still -looked stolidly at the ceiling, and she felt his silence to be ominous.</p> - -<p>“Such music,†she added, “gives one courage for life.†She was angry -with Perior. Lady Henge pressed her hand.</p> - -<p>“Thanks, my dear. Yes—you <i>felt</i>. One must hear, of course, a -composition many times before entering into the sanctuary of the -artist’s meaning.†Camelia’s mouth retained its sympathetic gravity. -Perior said nothing; and faint, relieved little groups of talk twittered -like birds after a storm.</p> - -<p>“And you, Mr. Perior,†Lady Henge, fanning herself largely turned to -this silent critic. “You, too, are a musician as I know, a musician at -least in appreciation. What do you think of my ‘Thalassa’? Frankly -now—as one artist to another.†Perior moved his eyes slowly from the -ceiling, and dropped them to Camelia’s face. He grew very red.</p> - -<p>“Frankly now,†Lady Henge reiterated with genial urgency.</p> - -<p>“I think it is very bad,†said Perior. The sentence fell with a thud, -like a stone.<a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a></p> - -<p>Lady Henge flushed, and her fan fluttered to stillness; Camelia, her -eyebrows lightly lifted, met Perior’s square look.</p> - -<p>“Bad,†Lady Henge repeated, with a pathetic mingling of deprecating -pride and pain, “really bad, Mr. Perior?â€</p> - -<p>“Very bad,†said Perior.</p> - -<p>The unmitigated sentence reduced her to feeble plaintiveness.</p> - -<p>“But why? This is really savage, you know.â€</p> - -<p>“Excuse me, I know I seem rude,†he looked at her now with something of -an effort. “You see I tell you the uncompromising truth. Your piece is -weak, and crude, and incoherent!â€</p> - -<p>Now that she met his eyes, Lady Henge saw that it gave him pain to speak -so. Camelia standing over them smiled unruffled.</p> - -<p>“It is a case of Berlioz and the Conservatoire, Schumann and the -Philistines, Lady Henge. Mr. Perior is an old classicist—understands -nothing outside strictest adherence to form. Your more modern march of -the <i>Davidsbündler</i> could say nothing to him.†Perior did not look at -her.</p> - -<p>“If you will allow me, Lady Henge, I will come some day and go over a -lot of Schumann with you. I think you will recognize the difference. His -power and genuineness are apparent. And Schumann has a great deal to -say.â€</p> - -<p>He smiled at her as he spoke, a very sweet smile—asking tolerance for -the friend in spite of the critic’s unwilling arrogance. Lady Henge was -soothed, though decidedly shaken.</p> - -<p>“You are severe, you know.<a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“But you prefer severity to silly fibs.â€</p> - -<p>“I may be silly,†Camelia here put in with a touch of coldness, “if so, -I stand convicted with you, Lady Henge, for I found your ‘Thalassa’ -neither crude, nor weak, nor incoherent; but I can’t be accused of -fibbing. You will play your symphonic poem to me again, won’t you? and -we will leave Mr. Perior to the pleasures of iconoclastic conservatism.†-After so speaking, Camelia went back to her seat beside Sir Arthur.</p> - -<p>He had a book in his hand, and was turning the leaves vaguely, he put it -down as he looked up at her. For a man well over thirty, Sir Arthur had -certain boyish traits, as a frank nervousness of glance now revealed.</p> - -<p>“Well?†Camelia smiled, feeling a something in the silence.</p> - -<p>“It was bad, wasn’t it?†said Sir Arthur.</p> - -<p>“Bad?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, poor mother.â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it bad.â€</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur surveyed her with pained hesitation.</p> - -<p>“Why do you say that?†he demanded, with an abruptness of wounded -tenderness that put Camelia alertly on her guard.</p> - -<p>“Why do you say <i>that</i>?†she asked, rounding innocent eyes at him.</p> - -<p>“I saw you laughing at it, with Perior—not that he laughed. I heard -what he said too, I prefer that, you know.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia herself was feeling wounded, was smarting under a sense of angry -humiliation. This added and unexpected blow brought the blood vividly -to<a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a> her face, and the sincerity of her discomfort seemed even to herself -to warrant the sincerity of her quick question.</p> - -<p>“You suspect me of lying?â€</p> - -<p>Camelia hardly thought that she had lied; neither the flush nor the tone -of voice was acted.</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur looked away. “I saw you laughing,†he repeated.</p> - -<p>“I <i>was</i> laughing,†Camelia declared. “Not at Lady Henge,†she added.</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur kept a silence in which doubt and a longing to believe -evidently struggled.</p> - -<p>“I said to Mr. Perior that the rocking passage with the chord -accompaniment made me feel seasick—from its realism; that touch of -levity doesn’t imply insincerity in my admiration—I always smile at the -birds in the ‘Pastoral.’ Why should I be insincere? If I had not liked -it, I would have said so.â€</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur’s long breath escaped with the relief of recovered joy.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be insincere;—dearest,†he added, looking at her; and seeing the -surprise with which she received the grave, impulsive word, he went on -quickly, yet gently.</p> - -<p>“You know you often want to please people—to make every one like -you;—even I have fancied it—forgive me, won’t you, at the price of a -little falseness. When one feels as I do, the least flaw cuts into one -like a knife.†With Camelia’s triumph there now mingled a bitter -distaste; she could hardly bring herself to look into his honest, -adoring eyes; the quickness of her breath and wavering of her<a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a> glance -were, again, quite spontaneous, and that she knew them to be effective, -deepened her humiliation.</p> - -<p>“To see you laugh at mother—and then praise her—I thought it; and I -can’t tell you how it pained me. You forgive me?â€</p> - -<p>Her self-disgust now seemed to lend her a certain sense of atoning -self-respect. “How good you are!†she said, looking at him very gravely, -and this recognition of his goodness restoring still more fully that -sick self-respect, she was able to smile at him, to think that she must -not exaggerate the little <i>contretemps</i>, and to ask herself whether she -might not fall in love with Sir Arthur—simply and naturally. Dear man! -The words were almost on her lips—her eyes at least caressed him with -the implication.</p> - -<p>He looked embarrassed, but very happy. “No—no! Please don’t say that! -How divinely kind you are. I have been insufferable. It is noble of you -to understand—. Can’t we get away from all these people—if only for a -moment. Let us go into the garden—it is very warm.†She would rather -not have gone into the garden, but she could not refuse him, she felt -that to some extent she would like to justify his faith in her, and to -shake from her that snake-like imputation of baseness. She glanced at -Perior as she went out; he was talking most affably with Lady Henge, and -did not look at her. His lack of faith stung perhaps more than Sir -Arthur’s faith. It was unmerited too, more unmerited than Sir Arthur’s -trust, so she told herself, stepping down from the terrace on to the -gravel-path, and the sense<a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a> of unmerited scorn sharpened that wish to -justify herself—as far as might be—to the kinder judge.</p> - -<p>“No, Sir Arthur, you are good,†she went on, pausing before him, her -hands clasped behind her after a little-girl fashion habitual with her; -“and I am horrid—it’s quite true—but not as horrid as you thought me. -I do like to please people. I am often pettily, impulsively false; it’s -quite, quite true. I do like your mother’s piece, but probably not as -much as I implied to her by my praise—not as much as greater things: -and Mr. Perior’s silence made me angry too; but I probably was a little -insincere, and that every one is the same is no excuse for me. I don’t -want to be like every one, and you don’t want me to be, do you? But if I -had <i>not</i> liked it, you would not have wished me to express myself with -the bludgeon-like directness of our rugged friend, would you?†Camelia -asked the question with real anxiety, conscious though she was that she -had thought the composition quite as ridiculous as Perior had declared -it. After all, his ugly sincerity justified her kindly fibbing; and as -for the laughing, she was sorry she had laughed, since Sir Arthur had -seen her. His erectness of moral vision would so distort that -unintentional meanness that she could not be asked to confess it; but -her partial confession, all the same, left her confused by the stinging -of small, uncomfortable compunctions. These, however, did not show -themselves in her eyes, nor in the pure lines of her face. Her silvered -garments and exquisite whiteness gave her in the moonlight an angelic -look that might well humble modest manhood before her. Sir<a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a> Arthur had -never felt himself so near to the girl he loved, nor his love so well -justified.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think it’s necessary to give a person the truth like a box -on the ear,†he said, and he would have taken her hands, but Camelia -again put them behind her back, and stood smiling at him.</p> - -<p>“Poor old Perior,†he added, and they walked slowly for a little way -down the path. “You can understand it, though, can’t you? He thought you -were fibbing, and that made him give mother the ruthless <i>coup de -dent</i>.â€</p> - -<p>This was very true, and so Camelia knew, knowing, too, that she <i>had</i> -been fibbing. “But that didn’t justify the <i>coup de dent</i>,†she -declared, “and why should he think I was fibbing?†The bit of audacity -was so inevitable that she hardly felt a qualm over its enunciation. On -Perior’s loyalty she relied as she relied on the ground beneath her -feet.</p> - -<p>“Well, he knows that you are clever, and that your taste has not been -distorted—as mother’s has—by fancied talent.†Sir Arthur was all -candid confidence.</p> - -<p>“He was <i>very</i> nasty,†said Camelia, “and I shall tell him so. And now -that I have made my little confession, and that you have absolved -me—for I am absolved, am I not?—shall we go in?†Camelia drew back -from the proposal she saw looming in the moonlight; there was time, -ample time, for that, now that she was sure of him, quite sure. A warm -little thrill of pleasure went over her at the thought that it was she -who was not ready, was not sure, though she had never liked him more.</p> - -<p>“Must we go in?†Sir Arthur looked up at her<a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a> as she stood on the step -above him. He was very handsome Camelia thought with some complacency.</p> - -<p>“I think we must,†she said prettily, adding, “I promised to do my skirt -dancing for them, you know. You must tell me it is delightful when I -have done, even if you laugh at me while I am dancing.†Sir Arthur had -held out his hand, and she put hers in it.</p> - -<p>“You absolve me, don’t you?†he said. “You forgive me? You are not -angry?â€</p> - -<p>“Angry? Have I seemed angry?â€</p> - -<p>“You had the right to be.â€</p> - -<p>“Not with you,†said Camelia, and at that he kissed her hand, and they -went back into the drawing-room.</p> - -<p class="cb">. . . . . -. . . . . -. . . . . -. . . . . -. . . . . -. . . . . -. . . . .</p> - -<p>Camelia as she undressed that night decided that Perior was responsible -for her still smarting irritation. It was too tiresome. Of course, -apparently she had not behaved nicely; but, in neatly analyzing the -whole affair, she could find herself guilty of nothing worse than a -little humorous gaiety—that took an old friend’s sympathy for -granted—(could one not think things one did not say? she had only -thought aloud—to him), and a little kindly hypocrisy practised every -day by models of uprightness. Perior’s rudeness set a standard by which -social conventions were guilty of black falseness. It was too bad of -him, and her anger put him aside with a sense of relief. The only really -serious part was the stinging sequel. How closely Arthur Henge must have -watched her to catch that irrepressible<a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a> glint of the eye. He had caught -it, though, and she had lied about it—well, yes—lied, deliberately -lied to a man she respected.</p> - -<p>Of course it made her feel uncomfortable—of course it did. “I am not -the vain puppet <i>he</i> thinks me,†she said, leaning on her -dressing-table, and looking gravely at her illuminated reflection—the -<i>he</i> being Perior—“the very fact of my worrying over such a trifling -incident proves that I am not. It is <i>his</i> fault that I should feel so.†-She paused for a further turn of silent meditation before adding, “My -only fault was in having trusted to his sense of fun, in having been -amused. The rest followed inevitably. I could not have told Arthur Henge -that I found his mother ridiculous, now <i>could</i> I, you foolish -creature?†and irrepressibly Camelia smiled at her lenient accuser in -the glass. At this point of the colloquy a gentle tap at the door -ushered in Mary. Mary, in a dressing-gown of just the wrong shade, was -not an interesting object, and Camelia glanced over her reflection in -the mirror without turning. She continued her own train of thought, -hardly listening to Mary, though vaguely conscious that the awkward -inquiries after her comfort were rather pointless.</p> - -<p>“I thought you might want something, Camelia. I thought you looked -rather pale,†said Mary, drawing near with some timidity.</p> - -<p>“No, thanks. I should have asked Grant, you know,†replied Camelia, her -elbows still on the dressing-table. She absently watched Mary lift her -discarded gown from the floor, fold it, and lay it neatly over the back -of a chair. “Don’t mind about<a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a> picking up those things, Mary,†she -added, yawning a little, and wishing rather that Mary would go. “Grant -can do all that.â€</p> - -<p>“I like to tidy up after you.†Mary’s smile was slightly forced. “See, -Camelia, you need me to look after you—your pearl necklace under a -chair.â€</p> - -<p>“It must have caught in my bodice,†said Camelia, glancing at the -necklace as Mary laid it on the dressing-table. “That certainly was -stupid of me. Thanks, dear.†Mary still lingered.</p> - -<p>“You don’t want anything, you are sure? You feel quite well—and—happy, -Camelia?†The question was so odd that Camelia turned her head and -looked up, surprised, at Mary’s rather embarrassed countenance.</p> - -<p>“Happy?†she repeated.</p> - -<p>“Yes; I fancied you might have something to tell me.†This initiative -was certainly amazing in the reserved Mary, and Camelia stared.</p> - -<p>“Something to tell you?†Then her deliberate departure for the moonlit -<i>tête-à -tête</i> with Sir Arthur coming luminously to her mind, she began -to laugh. “Why, Mary, did you come in a congratulatory mood?â€</p> - -<p>Mary’s badly mastered nervousness melted somewhat. “Oh, Camelia—<i>may</i> -I?†her face lighted to an almost charming eagerness—a charm that our -æsthetic heroine was quick to recognize. “<i>May</i> I?â€</p> - -<p>“May you? No, you little goose,†Camelia said good-humoredly. “Upon my -word, Mary, you should have had your portrait painted at that moment; -you never looked so—significant. Are you<a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a> so anxious to get rid of me -then?†The charming look had crumbled into inextricable confusion.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Camelia, how can you?—how could you think——?â€</p> - -<p>“Now, Mary, imaginative efforts are bad for you; don’t indulge them.â€</p> - -<p>“I hoped—I only wanted——â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course, you want me to be happy; and very nice it is of you -too. Be patient, Mary; you shall congratulate me some day. I haven’t -decided <i>when</i> that shall be. I haven’t really quite decided <i>how</i> I -shall be happy—there are so many ways—the choice of a superlative is -perplexing. When I choose you need not come to me, I promise you.†-Camelia rose, stretching her arms above her head, and smiling very -kindly at her cousin.</p> - -<p>Her own words made her feel comfortable. Still smiling, she put her arm -around Mary’s neck and kissed her. “I shall tell you <i>immediately</i>. Now -run to bed, dear, for <i>you</i> look pale.†When Mary was gone, Camelia -finished undressing, and got into bed in a frame of mind much reassured -as to her own intrinsic merit.<a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE little moonlit episode had very thoroughly mended the rift within -the lute. Camelia’s seeming frankness of confessional confidence more -than atoned for every doubting qualm. Sir Arthur evidently put doubts -and distresses behind him. He allowed himself to be wholly in love. He -wondered resentfully at himself for the mixed impulses he had known, -since all were now merged in one fixed determination.</p> - -<p>The country influences of green trees and summer sky seemed to have -breathed a heretofore unrealized gentleness into his fair one. Her -playful sallies, her little audacities, delighted him now unreservedly, -for under the tantalizing shifting and shimmering of surface moods, the -translucent depths of a loyal and lovely nature, were at last fully -revealed to him.</p> - -<p>Camelia felt the resultant ardor hovering during all their constant -companionship, but she evaded it. The conquest had been so easy, was so -complete, that fitness seemed to require a compensatory dallying. The -atmosphere of adoration, submissive in its certainty of ultimate -success, felt as flatteringly around her as the warm sweetness of a -summer breeze. Conquest was delightful, so was dallying, so was her own -indecision; that was the most<a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a> delightful part of all. She felt, too, in -the loving warmth that encompassed her, a consolation, a refuge from -cold and rugged depreciation.</p> - -<p>Perior had not reappeared since the musical <i>mêlée</i>, and, while enjoying -the sunny harbor where she rocked so peacefully, Camelia was conscious -that thoughts about that rough, that unsympathetic sea outside -preoccupied her amidst the kinder waters. Her gaiety was therefore a -little forced, absent-minded, in a sense a mask; her gentler mood was -the result of inner cogitations, so involved at times as to give to her -manner a dreamy sweetness. Her moral snubbing, though she rejected it as -undeserved, subdued her.</p> - -<p>Lady Henge’s vanity was of no petty or immovable order. Far from -antagonizing, Perior’s judgment had aroused in her an anxious -self-doubt, an anxious respect for her candid critic. Despite Camelia’s -sympathy—for Camelia stuck to her colors, entrenched herself behind a -staunch fidelity to a false position, listened with absorption to -frequent renderings of the “Thalassa,†thoughtfully discussed its -iconoclastic merits, the high value of its full flavored modernity, and -felt a certain ethical elevation from these painful sacrifices to the -only constancy permitted her—despite this steady sympathy, Lady Henge -perversely longed for a further expression of unsympathetic opinion from -the ruthless Perior. And one morning she told Camelia that she had -written to him, had asked him to fulfil his promise, to bring some music -of his choosing that might, with his aid, be useful to her.</p> - -<p>“I had hoped to see him every day,†she owned,<a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a> and Camelia realized the -power of a negative attitude—how flat beside it, how feeble, was her -exaggeratedly affirmative one. All her pretty conciliations were as -nothing to Lady Henge beside the stinging interest of Perior’s dislike.</p> - -<p>“I think he may help me about so many things, I so often feel a -helplessness in self-expression; the idea is there—but the form! the -form! ah, my dear, art, after all, is form.†(This piece of information -was certainly bitter to our martyrized heroine.)</p> - -<p>“As you said, his severity may, to a certain extent, be conservatism, -academic narrowness, but I have always heard of him as widely -appreciative.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia could answer for the width of appreciation that her resentment -had falsified on the unlucky night of the first performance; she -remembered now, with a little flush, that her saddling of him with -tastes not his own must have seemed to him the culmination of spiteful -pettiness. And then he had not rejoined—had not defended himself, even -against that intimation of academics opposed to his dearly loved -Schumann. Camelia could soothe herself with an “I don’t care! He -deserved it. He was horrid;†but all the same the memory brought a -hotness to her cheeks. She felt very angry, too, with Lady Henge, and, -while smiling pleasantly, found some satisfaction in various cynical -mental comments on the weighty intricacy of her cap, and the vast -stupidity of her self-absorption.</p> - -<p>“Do you know, my dear, that phrase,†and Lady Henge struck it out -demonstratively from the piano near which she stood; “that phrase does -sound a little weak.†Weak! Camelia could have capped<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> the criticism -very pungently. With a good deal of disgust at a situation which had so -neatly turned the tables upon her, she said, “Mr. Perior may tell you -so; I really can’t.†Her fate evidently was to support Lady Henge by a -fraternity in inferior taste; and to be branded with inferior taste, -even in Lady Henge’s eyes, was certainly rather galling. She had not -bargained for it at all, nor dreamed that Lady Henge’s complacency would -go down like a ninepin before Perior’s brutal missile. Her little -perjury had not been in the least worth while.</p> - -<p>Perior, having the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, arrived next -morning with an impressive roll of music, and Camelia laughed, with some -acidity it must be confessed, as she heard in the drawing-room the -convincing energy of his demonstrations. Fragments of the poor <i>poème -symphonique</i>, panting from their cruel dissection, reached her ears -while she strolled about the lawns with Sir Arthur.</p> - -<p>She foresaw that Lady Henge would prove a humble convert, and that she -herself, if not to be convicted of gross insincerity, must remain -gibbeted in a stubborn unconversion.</p> - -<p>“Your mother is very patient,†she said, as, from the distant piano, the -dogged repetition of a phrase emphasized its feeble absurdity. “Mr. -Perior as mentor is in his element.â€</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur laughed with a good-humored recollection of his own political -rebuff at Perior’s hands.</p> - -<p>“He is uncompromisingly honest. If you ask for his advice he’ll give it -to you.â€</p> - -<p>“Give it to you unasked sometimes,†said Camelia.<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a></p> - -<p>Sir Arthur had told her all about that lost cause, and all about his -plans for the future. There was a very delightful plan for the very near -future; the next session would decide the fate of the Factory Bill that -went by her lover’s name, and Camelia, under her attentive quietness, -felt a heaving sigh of ambition gather. Sir Arthur’s grave eagerness -showed that after his winning of herself, his political campaign filled -the chief place in his hopes and thoughts. Her interest delighted him, -and the intelligence of her comments.</p> - -<p>He had himself an almost reverent belief in the bill, and Camelia’s -sympathetic affirmatives seemed to chime deliciously with his own deep, -active pity for the dim, toiling masses the bill was to reach and -succor. Such a common object was a sanctification; he could hardly, he -felt, have loved a woman who did not feel his own deep pity. They talked -now of the coming struggle, of the rather dubious success of the second -reading that might yet be enhanced for the third.</p> - -<p>“And do you know,†he said, “Perior, positively Perior, approves; he is -buckling on his armor for the final fray. An individuality like that -counts, you know. A few leaders in the <i>Friday</i> would rally many -waverers.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia flushed suddenly when he said this; it delighted her sense of -proprietorship in Perior to hear his praise—to hear that for others, -too, he counted. And yet a touch of pain came with the delight, -reminding her that under present conditions the delight was very -generous, and proprietorship very unassured.<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a></p> - -<p>How he evaded it! Yes, he certainly was horrid; but her breath came -quickly, and with a deft persistence she kept Sir Arthur still talking -of him, finding in his answers to her questions on his youth glimpses of -Perior’s.</p> - -<p>“Always generous, always intolerant, always tripping into ditches while -star-gazing,†said Sir Arthur; “he has an exaggerated strain in him; it -must be that Irish ancestress. He feels everything more acutely than -thicker-skinned mortals, sees everything, the good and the bad, -magnified—a trifle grotesquely. But it is a noble nature;†and he went -on, as they walked back and forth over the lawn, Perior’s pianoforte -exposition, firmly insistent, coming to their ears at broken intervals: -“Perior is staunch on individualism, as you know; believes in the -hygienic value to the race of the combat—a savage creed, I tell him; -but he has amended it; he is not one jot afraid of seeming inconsistent; -he owns to the scientific logic of our attitude. I was afraid he would -accuse us of socialistic methods, tyrannical kindness, State -intervention,†and so from Perior Sir Arthur went back to the -all-absorbing topic of the bill; he could allow the bill to absorb him. -For all Camelia’s evasions and smiling warnings to patience, he was -deliciously sure of the ultimate end of all. He could afford to be -patient with the luminous sympathy of her eyes upon him, afford to talk -of the unfortunate women-workers whose long hours the kind tyranny of -the bill would restrict, while this woman listened with such a sweet -chiming of pity.</p> - -<p>“If you could only count on a fair following<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a> among the Liberals,†-Camelia said, phrasing his keenest anxiety, “horrid egotists! They all -have factories, I suppose. Mr. Rodrigg may wrest your dubious majority -from you; he is the lion in your path, isn’t he? and he has a whole town -of factories. What chance has a moral conviction against a town of -factories? And he is such a bull-dog; I did wrong to dignify him by the -leonine simile.â€</p> - -<p>“Such a clever chap, too,†said Sir Arthur; “bull-dog cleverness, I -mean.â€</p> - -<p>“And bull-dogs are so dear,†Camelia said, as a small brindled member of -the race, his head haloed by a ferociously bristling collar, came -bounding to them over the lawn. “Dear, precious beastie,†she put her -hand on the dog’s head as he stood on his hind-legs to greet her, “we -must indeed find another epithet for Mr. Rodrigg, not that I dislike -him, you know. He shares some of your opinions,†she added rather -roguishly.</p> - -<p>“Not one, I fear.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, one,†she insisted. Sir Arthur’s eyes dwelt on her charming look; -it carried him into vagueness as he asked—</p> - -<p>“What one?†not caring at all for Mr. Rodrigg’s community of taste, and -smiling at her loveliness.</p> - -<p>“I think he is rather fond of me,†Camelia owned. Sir Arthur could -afford a generous laugh.</p> - -<p>“Poor old Rodrigg! He has then a vulnerable point in his armor?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, yes. I don’t know that it amounts to a weakness. I fear I -couldn’t wheedle him. But, you might convince him, and I might -help,—<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>and, he is coming down next week.†She laughed out at his look -of surprise. “That is news, isn’t it?â€</p> - -<p>In her very heart of hearts Camelia was rather complacently convinced -that Mr. Rodrigg’s fondness <i>did</i> amount to a weakness. Mr. Rodrigg’s -devotion was in our young lady’s fastidious opinion his one redeeming -quality. She had kindly, but thoroughly, she thought, nipped in the bud -certain too aspiring attempts; but the man was all the more her friend.</p> - -<p>His devotion was built upon a fine hopelessness that really dignified -him.</p> - -<p>She was an Egeria who hovered above him, gently smiling at his -earthiness. Yes, she was kind; for Mr. Rodrigg was a most important -person—emphatically, personally important just now, it seemed; and -though Camelia’s thoughts of him were merely humorously tolerant, she -felt quite sure of a wealth of unreturned friendship, ready to transmute -itself into golden action at her bidding. She could but pride herself a -little upon her intellectual influence over her unpresumptuous Numa, and -thought that she could, through that dignified influence alone, by all -means wheedle him, if wheedling became necessary. Sir Arthur would -hardly approve of these personal methods, and therefore he need not know -of the little game that might win his cause; a perfectly innocent game, -she assured herself, since it hurt no one and helped Sir Arthur; and if -Mr. Rodrigg were to be convinced, Sir Arthur must fancy himself sole -winner.</p> - -<p>He did not seem to recognize the possibility, for<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a> after his pause of -surprise he laughed again, saying, “Is he coming on <i>my</i> account?â€</p> - -<p>“Not on <i>his</i>, I am sure!â€</p> - -<p>“You know, it won’t do any good,†he smiled fondly at her, as one smiles -at the folly of a loved woman; “Rodrigg is too deeply pledged, has his -whole party behind him. I could no more convince him, even in these -enchanted premises, than in the dry precincts of the House. Political -conversions are very rare.â€</p> - -<p>“But you <i>may</i> convert him,†Camelia urged. “I will give you every -opportunity.â€</p> - -<p>“And it is rather unfair, you know.†Sir Arthur paused in their -strolling to look at her face, half shadowed in the sunlight by the brim -of her white hat. “He perhaps imagines that he is coming for purposes -far removed from the political.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no, no. I tell you, dear Sir Arthur, that—well—since you must -have it—I refused him. He hasn’t a hope; I pinched the last pangs out -of him a long time ago. In fact, I let him see that I found his audacity -rather funny than piteous. I have laughed him into most submissive -platonics. He will come, because he really is my friend, and really -likes me; and I want him to come, because he must like you.â€</p> - -<p>“Camelia!†Sir Arthur had used her name more than once of late, and she -let it pass with a half-merry, half-menacing little glance.</p> - -<p>“You dear little schemer,†he added. Though spoken in tenderest teasing, -Camelia was just enough conscious of a certain applicability to say with -some quickness—<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a></p> - -<p>“Not <i>really</i>. You know I’m not. I only want to help you—legitimately, -I would not lift my little finger to win your cause if you did not want -me to.â€</p> - -<p>“Really, I know you’re not!†Sir Arthur’s voice retained the teasing -quality, but the tenderness had deepened; Camelia was listening all the -while to those dogged passages from the piano. They ceased now, and a -certain gravity and determination of look that had succeeded Sir -Arthur’s last words quite justified a sudden retreat.</p> - -<p>“I must go and make Mr. Perior stop to lunch. One only gets him out of -his lair by force and wheedling! I wheedle <i>him</i>!†She left Sir Arthur -rather disconsolately cut short, and ran off to the house, her own words -ringing reassuringly in her ears. Yes, she could wheedle him. Despite -unreason, stupid unreason, despite rebellious crossness and pretended -indifference, she had the mastery. He cared so much; that was the -fundamental fact that upheld Camelia’s assurance; he cared enough to be -very angry. He would try to hide his anger of course. Her heart had -beaten rather quickly when Sir Arthur’s face took on that look of -resolve—she was not ready, not quite sure, not yet, but flight from his -purpose had been only a secondary impulse. She must see Perior. She ran -through the morning-room and met him coming down the stairs, and panting -a little, laughing a little, she leaned against the banisters and -opposed his passage.</p> - -<p>“Well, have you taught her how bad it is?â€</p> - -<p>“I think I have,†said Perior, looking over Camelia’s head at the open -doorway. She stood aside to let him join her.<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a></p> - -<p>“What have you to teach me this morning—<i>caballero de la triste -figura</i>?†she said as he came down the stairs and stood beside her.</p> - -<p>“I don’t propose to teach you anything. I am not responsible for you.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia had not analyzed his probable mood incorrectly; he was angry, -and he was trying to hide his anger, fearing for his self-control. But -more than that—though this the acute Camelia had never quite -divined—he was feeling very unhappy. That he was angry she saw, -however, with a little thrill of triumph running through her veins. -Smiling an even smile she said, slipping her hand through his arm—</p> - -<p>“Ah! but you <i>are</i> responsible. Come into the morning-room.â€</p> - -<p>“Is Lady Paton there?†Perior asked gloomily.</p> - -<p>“Yes.†Camelia had seen her mother and Mary walking safely away into the -garden with Gwendolen Holt and Lady Tramley. She threw open the door and -ushered him in.<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">P</span>ERIOR surveyed the emptiness; it hardly surprised him, and well -understanding her determination to wheedle him, he felt an added -strength of determination not to be wheedled.</p> - -<p>“What have you got to say, now that you’ve got me here?†he asked, -putting down his music and looking at her.</p> - -<p>“You bandersnatch!†Camelia still held his arm. “I am sure you look like -a bandersnatch; a biting, snarling creature. You have a truly -<i>snatching</i> way of speaking.â€</p> - -<p>“What have you got to say, Camelia?†Perior repeated, withdrawing his -arm from the circling clasp upon it.</p> - -<p>“I have got to say that you must stay to lunch.â€</p> - -<p>“Well, I can’t do that.â€</p> - -<p>“Then you may sit down and talk to me a little—scold me if you like; do -you feel like scolding me?â€</p> - -<p>“I have never scolded you, Camelia,†said Perior, knowing that before -her lightness his solemnity showed to disadvantage; but he would be -nothing but solemn, ludicrously solemn if necessary.</p> - -<p>“You were never sure I deserved it, then,†said Camelia, stooping to -gather up her dog for a swift kiss, and laughing over his round head at -Perior<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>’s stiffness; “else you would have done your duty, I am sure—you -never forget your duty.â€</p> - -<p>“Thanks; your recognition is flattering.â€</p> - -<p>“There, my pet, go—poor Sir Arthur is lonely, go to him,†said Camelia, -opening the window for Siegfried’s exit, “you know your sarcasm doesn’t -impress me one bit—not one bit,†she added.</p> - -<p>“I don’t fancy that anything I could say would impress you,†Perior -replied, eyeing her little manÅ“uvres, “and since I have seen -Siegfried receive his kiss, I really must go,†and at this Perior took -up his music with decision; to see him assuming indifference so badly -was delightful to Camelia.</p> - -<p>“<i>Why</i> were you so rude to poor Lady Henge the other evening?†she -demanded, couching her lance and preparing for the shock of encounter; -“you were hideously rude, you know.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know.†Perior still eyed her, his departure effectually checked.</p> - -<p>“Then, why were you?â€</p> - -<p>“Because you lied.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, what an ugly word!†cried Camelia lightly, though with a little -chill, for the unpleasant sincerity of Perior’s look she felt to be more -than she had bargained for. “What a big, ungainly word to fling at poor -little me! You should eschew such gross elementary forms of speech, -Alceste; really, they are not becoming.â€</p> - -<p>“I hate lies,†said Perior tersely, thinking, as he spoke, that by the -logic of the words he should hate Camelia too—for what was she but -unmitigated falseness personified? He had lost his nervousness, now that -the moment for plain speaking had arrived.<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a></p> - -<p>“And you call <i>that</i> a lie?â€</p> - -<p>“I call it a lie.†She considered him gravely.</p> - -<p>“I tried to give pleasure, you tried to give pain.â€</p> - -<p>“I tried to restore the balance.â€</p> - -<p>“I cannot think it wrong to slight the truth a little—from mere -kindness.â€</p> - -<p>“And I think it wrong to lie. And,†Perior added, his voice taking on an -added depth of indignant scorn, “you lied to Arthur; I saw you.â€</p> - -<p>“You saw!†Camelia could not repress a little gasp.</p> - -<p>“I saw that he caught your humorous and hospitable comments on his -mother’s performance, and I saw your cajolery afterwards. I am sure I -can’t imagine how you hoodwinked him. It was neatly done, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia felt herself growing pale, losing the victor’s smiling calm. -Here he was brutally voicing the very scruples she had laid to rest -after moments of most generous self-doubt—atoning moments, as she felt. -The playful game in which she would tease him into -comprehension—absolution, had been turned into an ugly punishment. The -wrinkled rose leaves of self-accusation that had disturbed her serenity -had actually—in his hands—grown into thorny branches, and he was -whipping her with them. She had never felt so at a loss, for she could -not laugh.</p> - -<p>“You would have had me pain him too!†she cried, her anger vindictively -seeking a retaliatory lash. “Well, you are a prig!—an insufferable -prig! I did nothing wrong!—except mistake your sense of humor.<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>â€</p> - -<p>This was certainly on her side a less dignified colloquy than the one -with the looking-glass; she fancied that Perior looked with some -curiosity at her anger.</p> - -<p>“Was it wrong to smile at you, then?†she said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it was wrong.†Perior had all the advantage of calm, and she was -helplessly aware that her excitement fortified his self-control.</p> - -<p>“I thought the piece funny. Was I to tell her so?â€</p> - -<p>“You should have kept still about it. You mocked your guest behind her -back and flattered her to her face. That is mean, despicable,†said -Perior, planting his slashes very effectively.</p> - -<p>“To laugh with you was like laughing to myself,†said Camelia, steadying -her lips, and wondering vaguely if victory might not yet be wrested from -this humiliation; his inflexible cruelty forced from her that half -appeal. “It was merely thinking aloud, and to tell a few kindly little -fibs—as every woman does, a hundred times a day—is not flattery.â€</p> - -<p>“To gain a person’s liking on false pretences is base; and I don’t care -how many women do it—nor how often they do it. I shan’t argue with you, -Camelia. We don’t see things alike. Follow your own path, by all means; -it will lead you to success no doubt, and for a nature like yours there -will be no bitterness in such success.â€</p> - -<p>He looked away from her now, as if, despite her immunity from it, he -felt that bitterness. He felt it, though she did not. He looked away in -the<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a> depth of his disgust and pain, conscious, though, of the golden -blur of her hair, the indistinct oval of her face, the cool vague gray -of her linen dress, as she stood still, not far from him. Camelia felt -herself trembling. She beat off his cruel injustice—but it was hurting -her—it was making her helpless.</p> - -<p>“For what success do you imply that I am scheming?†she asked, and even -while she spoke angry tears rushed to her eyes. To be misjudged was a -new sensation; a hot self-pity smarted within her.</p> - -<p>Perior did not see the tears, for he still looked away, saying in a -voice that showed how clearly cut, how definitely perceived was the -conviction, “The success of marrying a man you love little enough to lie -to. Henge could not forgive you if he knew that you had lied to him and -to his mother, yet he adores you—you have that on false pretences too. -There is the truth for you, Camelia; and, upon my soul, I am sorry for -Arthur. I pity him from the bottom of my heart.â€</p> - -<p>“How dare you! how dare you!†cried Camelia, bursting into tears. “It is -false—false—false!â€</p> - -<p>Taken aback, Perior stared blankly at her. It was the first time that he -had reduced her to weeping. “Oh, Camelia!†he stood still—he would not -approach her; he felt that since she could cry her helplessness was -fully armed, and he quite helpless; his supremacy robbed of all value.</p> - -<p>“Every word you say is false!†she said, returning his stare defiantly, -while the tears rolled down her cheeks. “I am <i>not</i> scheming to marry -him!<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a> I have not let him propose to me yet! I am not sure that I shall; -I am not sure that I shall accept him, and if I do, it will be because I -love him!â€</p> - -<p>Perior hardly believed her, and yet he was much confused, especially as -with a fresh access of sobs her face quivered in the pathetic grimace of -loveliness distorted; before that the real issue of the situation seemed -slipping away; her repudiation of the greater dishonesty effaced, for -the moment, the smaller; he had nothing to say—she probably believed in -herself; and those helpless sobs were so touching to him that, -notwithstanding his unappeased anger against her, he could have gone to -her and taken her in his arms to comfort her, at any cost—even at the -cost of seeming to ask pardon. He did not do this, however, but said, -“Don’t cry, don’t cry, Camelia; you mustn’t cry. I’m glad you feel it in -that way; I am glad you can cry over it.†He did not go to her, but his -very attitude of nervous hesitation told Camelia that he was worsted—at -least worsted enough for the practical purposes of the moment.</p> - -<p>She got out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, still feeling very -sore-hearted, very much injured; but when the tears were gone she came -up to him saying, while she looked at him with all the victorious pathos -of wet lashes and trembling lips, “You are not kind to me, Alceste.â€</p> - -<p>He moved away from her a little, but took her hands. “Because you are -naughty, Célimène.â€</p> - -<p>“I will be good. I won’t tell fibs.â€</p> - -<p>“A very commendable resolution.â€</p> - -<p>“You mock me. You won’t believe a liar.<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Don’t, please don’t speak of it again, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“Say you are sorry for having said it.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, you little rogue!†Taking her face between his hands he studied it -with a sad curiosity. “I am sorry for having <i>had</i> to say it.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, prig, prig, prig.†She smiled at him now from the narrow frame, her -own delicious smile.</p> - -<p>“And bandersnatch if you will,†said Perior, shaking her gently by the -shoulders, and putting her away with a certain resignation.</p> - -<p>“My good old bandersnatch! <i>Dear</i> old bandersnatch! After all, I need a -bandersnatch, don’t I, to keep me straight? Yes, I forgive you. I must -put up with you, and you must put up with me, fibs and all—fibs, do you -hear, not lies. Oh, ugly word!†She clasped her hands on his arm, poor -Perior! “And you will stay to lunch?â€</p> - -<p>“No, I won’t stay to lunch,†said Perior, smiling despite himself.</p> - -<p>“Why?â€</p> - -<p>“I am busy.â€</p> - -<p>“You are a prig, you know,†said Camelia, as if that summed up the -situation conclusively.<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HETHER Camelia were decided on accepting Sir Arthur or not, every one -else, under a waiting silence, considered the engagement an accomplished -fact. Poor Mr. Merriman departed disconsolately when the reality of his -utter ruin forced itself upon his unwilling understanding. Sir Harry -contemplated the hopeless situation more compliantly, oscillated for a -few days between feeble despair and jocular resignation, and then -finding it impossible to utterly tear himself away from his charmer’s -magnetic presence, he settled down to a melancholy flirtation with Mrs. -Fox-Darriel that masked his inability to retreat. Lord and Lady Tramley -went on to another visit, and the poet who wrote the virile poems and -believed in the joy of life, finding Miss Paton less sympathetic than -usual, penned a laconic, psychological verselet for her benefit, and -departed.</p> - -<p>Camelia seemed rather vague in the furtherance of hospitable projects, -and the merest trickle of visitors went through the house, affecting -very slightly the really placid routine.</p> - -<p>Lady Paton’s whole personality expanded in prettiest contentment; the -calm so far surpassed her expectations, and Camelia seemed very happy. -Lady Paton could but take for granted her happiness.<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a></p> - -<p>Camelia was living the most poetical moment of life; she made no -confidences; but Lady Paton’s trust walked in a sadly sweet dream where -her daughter’s courtship mingled with tearful memories of her own. -Charles Paton’s smile; the first fluttering consciousness that the smile -came oftenest for her; she still blushed as she remembered the moment -when he had murmured to her as they danced that she had the prettiest -throat in England; it had seemed so daring to little Miss Fairleigh, who -had read her first novel only six months before; the very memory still -had the glamour of daring. And Camelia was feeling all those tremulous -delights, with their deep undercurrent of sacred solemnity.</p> - -<p>Camelia was not demonstrative, Lady Paton had sighed over the accepted -fact, but she could trace all such natural emotions on Sir Arthur’s face -when he watched or spoke to her daughter. She already felt a maternal -tenderness for him, and his exquisite courtesy, that already implied -rights, was nothing less than filial.</p> - -<p>Lady Henge’s dignified intellectuality she found indeed rather awesome, -but she hoped by careful listening to expand her powers of -comprehension, and Lady Henge delivered her expositions of social ethics -with a pleasant faith in their tonic effect upon the suppressed mind of -her hostess—</p> - -<p>“Suppressed, repressed, Arthur, not shallow,†she said to her son, “and -you could not ask a daintier, truer gentlewoman for your wife’s mother, -dear.†Lady Henge sighed just a little—though quite resigned to the -future—for the Duchess of Amshire’s mind was neither suppressed nor -shallow,<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a> but as expansive and capable an organ as her own, and -infinitely sympathetic. Lady Elizabeth, too!—Lady Elizabeth, who had -worked at shirt-making in the slums for two weeks, and had caught -typhoid fever at it—even Camelia’s sunny charm could not efface the -thought of Lady Elizabeth’s almost providential fitness. But in spite of -inevitable regrets Lady Henge was resigned, and the two mothers got on -together very pleasantly, since moulding capability can hardly carp at a -gentle, clay-like receptivity.</p> - -<p>Mr. Rodrigg seemed the only new guest intended for any permanence of -stay. He duly arrived at the given date and hour, a punctual man, very -much aware of his own importance, and of the importance to him, and to -others, of every moment.</p> - -<p>And Mr. Rodrigg was really a very important personage and his moments -weighty with significance. And this iron-gray, middle-aged man had not -at all foolishly fallen in love with the brilliant Miss Paton. A wife so -beautiful, so capable, so charming, would be the finishing touch to his -influence; matter-of-fact motives may well have underlain Mr. Rodrigg’s -amorous determination, which Camelia thought so effectually snuffed out. -But indeed Mr. Rodrigg’s determination was far too strong to credit -hers. His self-confidence smiled kindly upon a pretty coquetry. The -exquisite grace of Camelia’s rebuff—she had almost thought it worthy of -publicity, so felicitous had been its delicate sweep round a corner -dangerous to friendship—had merely impressed Mr. Rodrigg’s -unappreciative bluntness with a reassuring conviction of trifling and -postponement.<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a></p> - -<p>The lightness of touch, the deft cleverness upon which our poor Titania -so prided herself, were surveyed in this instance by an ass’s head; the -effect she thought so prettily made was quite missed, and she herself -its only spectator.</p> - -<p>The portentousness of Arthur Henge’s presence at Enthorpe did not in the -least weigh with Mr. Rodrigg against the final choice he considered as -expressed in Lady Paton’s invitation. Miss Paton had put him off—but -she had not let him go; so Mr. Rodrigg interpreted the Egeria attitude; -she demanded patience—and she should have it. She was too clever a girl -to tolerate whining commonplaces; she would appreciate his whimsical -calm; he would not whine—he would wait and humor her.</p> - -<p>She liked to have important people about her, and Mr. Rodrigg explained -Sir Arthur very much as Camelia had explained Mr. Rodrigg. It was -platonic friendliness—quite hopeless. He realized that Camelia might -dally with his own hopes, that skill might be necessary to win her -finally, and he intended to be very skilful, to show no jealousy or -carping that might indispose her towards his future marital authority. -And Mr. Rodrigg hardly felt the fitness of jealousy. He was, he thought, -a cleverer man than Henge, a man of more intrinsic weight. Henge had a -light and pretty talent, spoke with conviction, but was not the man to -sway the world with socialism rewarmed in Tory saucepans; whereas Europe -trembled at Mr. Rodrigg’s nod, at least so Mr. Rodrigg, not -unreasonably, was convinced. The “good match†theory in explanation of -Camelia<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>’s motives only fortified his own quiet consciousness of -supremacy. He quite gave Camelia credit for an undazzled directness of -vision that would surely apprise her of the side on which her bread was -most thickly buttered. So Mr. Rodrigg arrived in an atmosphere of -blue-books and business unavoidable, though with a minor effect of a -great mind unbending to lighter mundanities. His face was typically -British; ruddy, with broad features clearly hewn; keen eyes, a tight -mouth, and an expression of sagacious toleration of things in general.</p> - -<p>Camelia met him with her prettiest air of mutual understanding that -would warrant the neatest epigrams. Her penetration of Mr. Rodrigg’s -character had never quite realized his tenacious conceit.</p> - -<p>He had been anxious, he had been hurt; but he had never imagined that -Camelia thought him hopeless. Her complacent conviction of intellectual -conquest was far indeed from his suppositions; the results of her -Italian reading had been adroitly thrown into his speech as a piece of -pretty flattery, that a great man might harmlessly permit himself -towards a wilful, easily flattered woman. So the two stupidities met -quite unconscious one of the other.</p> - -<p>Mr. Rodrigg was to stop for a fortnight at least, and as Sir Arthur had -to absent himself at intervals during the period, Camelia was all the -more content. She feared that Sir Arthur’s attitude of independence and -non-expectancy might antagonize Mr. Rodrigg. She relied upon her own -arguments, her own flattering influence. She sat up late at night -cramming the pamphlets, reports, and books with<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a> which Sir Arthur -supplied her. The resultant pallor at breakfast deepened the effect of -an intellectual atmosphere in which she wrapped herself serenely. Mr. -Rodrigg smiled, paternally almost, and with his most tolerant calm, upon -these efforts. He cut her a large slice of cold beef at the side-board -and advised her to take a glass of port; “You mustn’t tire yourself, you -know, my dear young lady.â€</p> - -<p>He rather resented Henge’s evident influence when he saw how deeply -Camelia was determined on the bill, but not really troubled by it. -Camelia’s fervor of sympathy seemed really personal; girlish -emotionalism, a futile but pretty pity quite interpreted her tenacity. -He was rather pleased that she should be on the side of the factory -women, though anxious to explain to her that the logic of his own -position need not exclude that partiality.</p> - -<p>He thought it safer, however, to argue as little as possible, and -listened attentively and pleasantly, quite willing to go this far in -humoring. Meanwhile Camelia’s delay in announcing an engagement imposed -a general silence; no one spoke of Sir Arthur as an accepted lover, and -Mr. Rodrigg might perhaps be pardoned if no such instinctive intimation -penetrated his thick self-confidence. Sir Arthur coming down for a -Saturday and Sunday in Mr. Rodrigg’s visit, and going off again on a -Monday, rather avoided an encounter.</p> - -<p>Mr. Rodrigg himself good-humoredly introduced the subject of the bill -one evening in the smoking-room, and they talked of it amicably and -impersonally<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a> for a little while. But after this talk Sir Arthur said to -Camelia—</p> - -<p>“I see very plainly where he stands. He will be firmly against me; his -reticence doesn’t conceal that.â€</p> - -<p>“Are you sure?†asked Camelia. She herself was not at all sure. In a -walk with Mr. Rodrigg that morning she had certainly observed promising -leaf-blades break the stiff soil of his non-committal attitude. Camelia -did not imagine that her own beaming smile might well allure those -vernal symptoms.</p> - -<p>“Quite sure,†said Sir Arthur, who was really getting rather tired of -Mr. Rodrigg and his utility, “and—now that I won’t see you again until -next Thursday—won’t you talk of something as far removed from the bill -as possible.â€</p> - -<p>“That would be a very uninteresting something,†said Camelia. “No, I can -think of nothing but politics just now. Whose fault is that, pray? Did -you see the report Mr. Dobson sent me this morning? You don’t want to -see it! Fie, you lukewarm reformer. Now pray be patient—we will talk of -something else on Thursday, perhaps.†So she warded him off, conscious -always of that trembling retreat when the momentous question approached -her. She was almost glad when Sir Arthur was gone again. At all events, -she would make a good fight for his cause whether or no she accepted -him.</p> - -<p>“And you are on our side too, are you not?†she said to Perior, for -Perior, more silent than ever, and revolving inner cogitations on his -own laxity, still made an almost daily visit.<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a></p> - -<p>He owned that he was on “their side.â€</p> - -<p>“And you will support us in the <i>Friday</i>.â€</p> - -<p>“I am going to do my best.â€</p> - -<p>“But not because I ask you!†laughed Camelia, who still felt a little -soreness since that uncomfortable interview where she had so much -surprised herself. She was still rather resentful, and sorry that her -tears might have implied confession. She was conscious now of a touch of -defiance behind the light smiling of her eyes as he owned that her -asking formed no compulsory element in his decision.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think that Mr. Rodrigg may be malleable?†Camelia pursued, -“Sir Arthur is to convert him, you know.â€</p> - -<p>“You or Sir Arthur?†She laughed at this. “Would it be terribly wicked -if I tried my hand at it?â€</p> - -<p>“It would be terribly useless,†Perior remarked; but Camelia looked -placidly unconvinced.</p> - -<p>“I am justified in trying, am I not?â€</p> - -<p>“That depends;†Perior was decidedly cautious.</p> - -<p>“Since I believe thoroughly in the bill; since only intellectual forces -will be brought to bear on our stodgy friend,—there is nothing of the -lobbyist in it.â€</p> - -<p>“I am sure that Henge wouldn’t like it,†said Perior, with the certain -coolness he always evinced in speaking to her of Sir Arthur.</p> - -<p>“Why not?â€</p> - -<p>“It would put him in a false position towards Rodrigg. Rodrigg will -imagine that you are bribing him.â€</p> - -<p>“<i>Bribing</i> him!†Camelia straightened herself.<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes; that the price paid for his apostasy will be your hand,†and this -indeed was exactly what Mr. Rodrigg, with some alarm, was beginning to -think.</p> - -<p>“Apostasy! If the creature won’t be sincerely convinced we don’t want -him!†cried Camelia.</p> - -<p>“Very well, you have my opinion of the matter.†Perior’s whole manner -had of late been particularly irksome to Camelia.</p> - -<p>Lady Henge meanwhile, seeing her son’s foe within the gates, most -seriously and conscientiously, and openly, made good her opportunity. -She took her mental mastery far more gravely than Camelia took hers, and -poor Mr. Rodrigg began to think that he was asked to pay a heavy price -for his hymeneal visit when Lady Henge cornered him in the drawing-room -and stupefyingly admonished him. Lady Henge’s arguments were all based -on superbly moral grounds, and levelled with severity at the iniquity of -individualistic theories, which she demonstrated to be scientifically -and ethically unsound. He at times found it very difficult to keep his -temper. But under the exquisite warmth of Camelia’s urgency his hopes -were high. He could regard with humoring half compliances this pretty -whim of his pretty Camelia. Camelia would have raged could she have -known Mr. Rodrigg’s real impressions—impressions accompanied by the -fatherly tolerance of that “pretty Camelia.<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>â€</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span>IR ARTHUR was back again on Thursday, alertly conscious of a half -promise, and he intended to put it to the test while he and Camelia rode -together in the afternoon. The party was made up: Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -Gwendolen Holt, Sir Harry, and another young man—but Camelia did not -go. The horses were already before the door, and she, fully equipped in -riding costume, engaged before her mirror on the final details of veil -and gloves, when Perior rode up; Camelia saw him through the window, and -heard him decline to join their party, as he had come for Mary. Mary was -not a good rider, nor could she be urged beyond the dullest trot, and -Perior’s refusal was no doubt on her account. Poor Alceste! Condemned to -Mary for a whole afternoon! In a rapid change of project Camelia dashed -out of her habit and into her prettiest white dress, sent down a note to -Sir Arthur pleading sudden headache, and commanding him to go without -her, saw the five depart obediently, and placidly descended to capture -Perior. Mary was getting ready; Camelia, as she passed her room, saw her -sewing a button on a glove, her habit laid in readiness on the bed. -Camelia would have liked her ride; it was only from the impulsive wish -for ten or fifteen minutes with Perior that she had sacrificed it, and -she saw<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a> with satisfaction that Mary would take quite that time.</p> - -<p>“Well, how do you do?†she said, finding him as usual in the -morning-room, “I <i>think</i> we have got him,†she added, picking up the -threads of their last conversation.</p> - -<p>“That is Rodrigg, of course,†said Perior, looking with a pleasure he -could not conceal at her charming appearance. He felt for a moment like -telling her that in that dress she was bewitchingly pretty, but checked -the impulse with some surprise at it.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I argued out the whole third clause with him yesterday,†said -Camelia, smiling her happiest smile, for she was quite conscious of -those unspoken words.</p> - -<p>“Dear me!â€</p> - -<p>“He seemed impressed—though you are not. Sit down.â€</p> - -<p>“He seemed what he was not, no doubt—I haven’t the faculty.†Perior -spoke quite good-temperedly. Indeed, Camelia’s political manÅ“uvres -did not displease him—consoled him in a sense. There was a pretty folly -about them quite touching, and her earnestness seemed to vouch for some -real feeling.</p> - -<p>“Why should you imagine that he pretends?†she asked, taking the place -beside him on the sofa and leaning forward, her arms on her knees.</p> - -<p>“The man wants to please you,†said Perior, looking at her white hands -hanging idly together. He wondered again whether egotism or a real -fondness for Arthur moved her.</p> - -<p>The long delay of the engagement excited and<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a> made him nervous. It had -usually been so easy to see through Camelia, and he did not like the -perplexity. Still, the thought that she hesitated pleased him; she would -accept Arthur, doubtlessly, but at least she would imagine that she -cared for him. Camelia had gained some moral value in his eyes from that -pause.</p> - -<p>“Why should you imagine that he pretends?†she asked, feeling -delightedly that the atmosphere was much less chilling than usual.</p> - -<p>“The man wants to please you.â€</p> - -<p>“Well, and what then?â€</p> - -<p>“He expects to marry you.â€</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!†she said with a laugh of truest sincerity.</p> - -<p>“Tell him that you are engaged to Arthur, and see.†Perior’s curiosity -made that little probe, and the eyes of both showed a mutual -self-consciousness; both thought of the last scene in the morning-room.</p> - -<p>“I can’t make the experiment yet, even to please you,†said Camelia, -satisfied that her cheeks showed no rising color. “Mr. Rodrigg is really -attached to me. He would do a great deal for me.â€</p> - -<p>“Your smile for all reward.â€</p> - -<p>“Exactly.â€</p> - -<p>“You are a goose, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>But she was pleasing him; her conceit amused him almost tenderly, and he -laughed.</p> - -<p>“You think me fatuous, no doubt,†said Camelia, laughing too.</p> - -<p>“Yes, rather fatuous. Not as clear-sighted as usual.â€</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rodrigg knows that I could never marry<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a> him,†said Camelia more -gravely; “he can only hope for my smile, and, if he helps me through, I -shall always smile.â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t credit Mr. Rodrigg with the faintest flavor of such humility.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia’s smile, confidently unconvinced, now shifted to a humorous -little grimace. “He never really hoped. As though I <i>could</i> have married -a man with a nose like that!â€</p> - -<p>“I maintain that he does so hope—despite his nose; an excellently -honest nose it is too.â€</p> - -<p>“So broad at the tip! as though he had flattened it against adverse -forces all his life. It is a plebeian trait, an inheritance from -money-getting ancestors who held theirs conscientiously to the -grindstone.â€</p> - -<p>“Mine should show the peculiarity,†and Perior rubbed it, “it has been -ground persistently.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah—a merely acquired tendency; besides, you are not going to ask me to -marry you—so you may carry your nose fearlessly.†Camelia’s eye, -despite the light audacity of her tone, fixed him with a certain alert -hardness.</p> - -<p>Perior bowed, his hand on his heart. “Thanks for the intimation. I shall -carry it quite fearlessly, I assure you.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia laughed. “But I like your nose,†said she, leaning towards him; -and, very much as a kitten gives a roguish paw-tap, she drew a finger -briskly down the feature in question.</p> - -<p>Perior grew a little red, and drew back rather sharply.</p> - -<p>“What a staid person you are,†said Camelia, quite unabashed; “you don’t -take a compliment<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a> gracefully, Alceste; not that it was a compliment, -exactly, since your nose is not at all handsome; a poor thing but to my -taste. I like its dominant ruggedness, and that nice lift in the -bridge.â€</p> - -<p>“Well, Camelia, I came to take Mary out riding, you know,†said Perior, -who still showed signs of uneasiness under her scrutiny.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know; you are so good to Mary. She is getting ready.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia contemplated Perior’s paternal relation towards Mary most -unsuspectingly, yet she really did not like it. She could not like -anything that withdrew a very important tributary from the river-like -receptivity of her existence. Mary’s narrow channel was quite unmeet for -such a complimentary contribution, and Camelia was sincerely convinced -of the mere charitableness of Perior’s attitude. Then, above all, Perior -was her own especial property; Mary might profit by him when she did not -feel the want of him, and this afternoon she wanted him—very much, as -it now struck her. To have sacrificed her ride for this bare ten minutes -had been hardly worth while. She had not looked beyond the impulse of -the moment, and the lonely hours stretched in long inconsistency before -her. She thought of them now with some surprised dismay, and her eyes, -still contemplating Perior’s nose, grew vague with conjecture. Perior -certainly, despite his latter severity, would rather spend his afternoon -with her than with Mary. He could not own to it, of course, nor would -she force him to such an issue; but it might be managed—pleasantly for -every one, for all three. Camelia’s life, so wide<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a> in its all embracing -objectivity, had little time for self-analysis, little time therefore -for putting herself in other people’s places. Her lack of sympathy was -grounded on a lack of all self-knowledge. Therefore her mind turned the -matter quickly in the direction that best suited the desire of the -moment, good and bad being to Camelia external facts that either pleased -or displeased herself, and she said without one inner compunction, -“Shall I hurry her up? And I must see that she puts her hat on properly. -Mary has an unerring instinct for the unbecoming.â€</p> - -<p>“Has she?†said Perior, in the tone that Camelia well understood as -being altogether unencouraging and perhaps disgusted. “Don’t hurry her. -I can wait.â€</p> - -<p>“See how unkindly I dress my best impulses,†said Camelia, smiling. “I -really want to help her, and to make her smart and tidy. A few touches -of my fingers about Mary’s unfurnished forehead, and her face assumes a -certain grace and prettiness. Alceste, you must not take my flippancy -<i>au grand sérieux</i>—you are in danger of becoming ridiculous, Alceste, I -warn you of it.†She had certainly succeeded in making “Alceste†smile, -and with a reassured and reassuring wave of the hand she left him, -delighted with her own ability for forcing him to swallow her -naughtinesses—for swallow them he must; she would feign nothing for -him; she would exaggerate even the defects he saw so solemnly. She was -quite sure now that she must not be left alone, and that Perior must -spend the afternoon with her. She ran upstairs quickly, conscious of -how<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a> prettily she sprang from stair to stair, of how charmingly with its -silk and muslin rustle her white dress swayed about her, conscious even -of the distinguished elegance of her white hand gliding up the hand -rail; for Camelia had always time for these æsthetic notes, and her -grace, her dress, and her hand were so many reasons for keeping Perior -to admire them. Mary was quite ready, and looking really nice; a pretty -color, and the dull fairness of her hair smoothed neatly beneath her -hat.</p> - -<p>Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed -aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the -barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that -Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of -appreciation.</p> - -<p>Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the -threshold.</p> - -<p>“Were you going with them? They are gone, dear!â€</p> - -<p>Mary turned from the mirror, her habit skirt falling from her arm; on -her face a dismal astonishment, that Camelia, absorbed in the mental -completion of her arrangement, hardly noticed.</p> - -<p>“Sir Arthur, Gwendolen, the others—you were going out with them.†She -scarcely knew why she hedged her position with this pretence of -ignorance. But Mary’s face brightened happily.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, Mr. Perior is going with me. You haven’t seen him, then. He came -for me.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia had the barrel-organ all in readiness, and prepared to roll it -forward without delay.</p> - -<p>“Oh! did he? Well, Mary, I have another plan<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a> for you this afternoon, -you will like it just as well, I know. I promised Mrs. Grier to make -that charitable round of visits to her poor people with her this -afternoon. We were to go to the almshouses, and I have a basket of -sweets for the children in Copley, and now I must give up going because -of this dreadful headache, and knowing that nothing would please you -more——.â€</p> - -<p>It was quite true that Camelia had made the appointment with Mrs. Grier, -but on agreeing to go out riding with Sir Arthur, she had intended to -ride to Mrs. Grier’s house and make charming apologies—of which Sir -Arthur’s tyrannous monopoly would bear the brunt. By her present plan -both Mary and Mrs. Grier would be pleased. She congratulated herself on -her thoughtful dexterity. Mary liked Mrs. Grier so much, liked -almshouses and poor children, and especially liked the distributing of -goodies among them; Mary gained everything by the little shuffle, and -she was not at all prepared for a certain stiffening and hardening in -her cousin’s expression. “It is a lovely basket, and tea and curates -galore,†she added, turning on the final roulade of the barrel-organ, -rather wondering, for the coldness of Mary’s look was apparent, though -Camelia did not divine the underlying confusion.</p> - -<p>Mary was well trained in self-abnegation, but she turned her eyes away -without replying for a moment: “Could you not send word to Mrs. Grier?†-she asked.</p> - -<p>Camelia felt quite a shock of surprise at the tone, and a sense of -injury that hardened her in advance against possible opposition.<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, it is too late, my dear—she would be terribly disappointed—and -the children—and the tea prepared for me—the people invited. Why, -Mary, don’t you want to go?â€</p> - -<p>“I wanted the ride,†said Mary in a low voice; and growing very red she -added, “I am afraid Mr. Perior will think me rude.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, I will make your excuses!†Camelia, in all the impetus of her -desire, was much vexed by this ungrateful doggedness.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Perior and I could ride over and explain,†Mary added.</p> - -<p>Camelia had never met in her cousin such opposition, and a certain -dryness mingled with the real grievance in her voice as she said—</p> - -<p>“Is your heart so set on this ride, Mary? Mr. Perior will take you out -again, and you know that the pleasure is always rather one-sided, since -he particularly likes a good gallop across country. It isn’t quite like -you, I think, to disappoint a friend like Mrs. Grier—you are so fond of -Mrs. Grier, I thought.â€</p> - -<p>During this speech Mary’s face grew crimson. Setting her lips, she began -quickly to draw off her gloves; Camelia felt suddenly a sense of -discomfort.</p> - -<p>“You will enjoy it, I am sure, Mary.â€</p> - -<p>Mary made no reply, and silently unbuttoned her coat.</p> - -<p>“I beg of you, Mary, not to go if you are going to feel aggrieved about -it. I do not see what I am to do. I thought it would be quite a treat -for you.â€</p> - -<p>“Thanks, Camelia.<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“You will go, then?â€</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she -could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the -unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She -lingered, however.</p> - -<p>“You are right to keep on that straw hat—it is very becoming to you. -Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make -conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table. -Shall I order the dog-cart for you?â€</p> - -<p>“Thanks very much, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“Mary, you make me feel—horridly!â€</p> - -<p>Camelia could not check that impulse. “Do you <i>mind</i>? You see that I -can’t get out of it; you see that it wouldn’t do—don’t you? I hope you -don’t really <i>mind</i>.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless—very -ungrateful.†The conventional humility rasped Camelia’s discontent. “And -you will tell Mr. Perior?—you will explain?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, dear.â€</p> - -<p>Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left -her with the assurance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly. -But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the -stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had -been decidedly spoiled by the candle’s unmanageable smoking and -guttering. Mary’s decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for -feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a> petty -falsities for which Perior would have scorned her.</p> - -<p>Remembering that to account comfortably for Mary’s absence she must lie -to him, she came to a sudden standstill outside the door of the -morning-room. How badly she had managed everything! She did not want to -lie to him. Why had not Mary been delighted to go—as she should have -been? Only the thought of Mary’s general disagreeableness fortified her -a little.</p> - -<p>Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor, -as she entered.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Camelia,†he said disappointedly.</p> - -<p>“Only Camelia.†She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing -red.</p> - -<p>“Where is Mary?â€</p> - -<p>“I have come to make Mary’s excuses. She can’t go—is so sorry.†With an -effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that -to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the -matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her -credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching.</p> - -<p>“Can’t go?†he repeated staring. “Why she sent me word that she would be -ready in twenty minutes.â€</p> - -<p>“She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone—†-(it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), “but couldn’t -because of my headache—I have a horrible headache. I would have put her -off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round -of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children,<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a> and afterwards -tea and curates galore—†Camelia realized that with a confused -uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. “Mary likes tea -and likes curates,†she went on, pushed even further by that sense of -confusion—she had never told her old friend so many lies, “and the -curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a -choice among them.†Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny -for suspicion, yet Perior still stared.</p> - -<p>“What a vacuous look!†laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been -forced to cross quite so many Rubicons.</p> - -<p>“I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself—as usual,†he said -slowly.</p> - -<p>“Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against -half-a-dozen curates—reinforced by tea and sandwiches?â€</p> - -<p>“Mary likes our rides immensely—and I never saw any signs of a fondness -for curates.â€</p> - -<p>“No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the -Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined.â€</p> - -<p>Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, “I don’t -think she is looking over well—you know her father died of -consumption.â€</p> - -<p>“Don’t; he was my uncle!†Camelia exclaimed. “Still, my chest is as -sound as a drum.†She gave it a reassuring thump.</p> - -<p>“That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary’s?â€</p> - -<p>She looked at him candidly.</p> - -<p>“You foolish, fussy old person! Mary is solidly,<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a> stolidly well; who -could associate the lilies and languors of illness with Mary? You are -trying to poetize Mary’s prose to worry me, but you can’t rhyme it, I -assure you.â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about that!†Perior was again, for a moment, silent. “I -don’t think Mary has a very gay time of it,†he said, speaking with a -half nervous resolution, as though he had often wished to speak and kept -back the words. “She doesn’t go out much with you in London, does she?â€</p> - -<p>Camelia did not like his tone, but she replied with lightness, “Not -much, Mary is a home-keeping body. She is not exactly fitted for worldly -gaieties, and she understands it perfectly.â€</p> - -<p>“How trying for Mary‗the nervousness was quite gone now—once he had -broached a delicate subject Perior could handle it with little -compunction.</p> - -<p>“Mary is very happy, if you please. She adores me, and is devoted to -Mamma. Mamma is certainly nicer to her than I am—that is an affair of -temperament, for Mary does bore me tremendously—I think she knows that -she does, but she adores me, since I don’t deserve it—the way of the -world—a horrid place—I don’t deny it.â€</p> - -<p>“Happy Mary! allowed to adore your effulgence—but at a distance—since -she bores you, and knows she does!†And over his collar Camelia could -observe that Perior’s neck had grown red. She joined him at the window, -and said, looking up at his face—</p> - -<p>“Why do you force me to such speeches? I am not responsible for the -inequalities of nature—<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>though I recognize them so cold-bloodedly. The -contrast does not hurt her, for she is a good, contented little soul, -and then—for nature does give compensations—she has no keen -susceptibilities;†she locked her hands on his shoulder, and smiling at -him, “Come, you know that I am fond of Mary. You should have seen how -prettily I arranged her hair to-day—it would have softened your heart -towards me. Come, we are not going to quarrel again.â€</p> - -<p>Perior’s eye turned on her, certainly softened in expression, “By no -means, I hope,†and he smiled a little, “especially as I must be -off—since I have missed my ride.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia’s face at this unlooked-for consummation took on an expression -of sincerest dismay.</p> - -<p>“Going! you will leave me all alone! They have all gone!â€</p> - -<p>Perior laughed, looking at her now with the same touch of irrepressible -pleasure she could usually count on arousing.</p> - -<p>“Poor little baby! and it has a headache, too?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, it has; please stay with it.â€</p> - -<p>She was quite sure that he wanted to stay; indeed, Camelia’s certainty -of Perior’s fundamental fondness for her was an article of faith -untouched by doubt.</p> - -<p>“Very well, you want to show off your dress, I see.†Perior’s smile in -its humoring coyness was charming; Camelia felt that she quite adored -him when he so smiled at her. “A very pretty dress it is; I have been -taking it in.â€</p> - -<p>“And we will have tea in the garden,†said<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a> Camelia, in tones of happy -satisfaction, “and you will see how good I am—when you are good to me. -And I’ll tell you all about the people who are coming—for I must have -more of them—droves of them; in batches, artistic batches, ‘smart’ -batches, intellectual batches, political batches. You and I will look at -them.â€</p> - -<p>“Thanks; you don’t limit me to a batch then?â€</p> - -<p>They were still standing near the window, and she kept a hand on his -shoulder, and looked at him now with the gravity that made her face so -strange.</p> - -<p>“No, dear Alceste, you know I don’t.â€</p> - -<p>He returned her look, smiling with a little constraint.</p> - -<p>“We must be more together,†Camelia went on, “we must take up our -studying. No, Mr. Rodrigg, I can’t walk with you this morning, I am -reading the Agamemnon with Mr. Perior.†Camelia’s eyes, mouth, the -delicately long lines of her cheek, quivered with the half malicious, -half tender smile that tilted every curve and every shadow from calm to -roguery.</p> - -<p>“How Mr. Rodrigg will hate me, to be sure,†said Perior, who at that -moment felt that he would like to kiss his bunch of primroses—an -illusion of dewiness possessed him.</p> - -<p>“And now for tea under the copper beech. And I will read to you. What -shall I read? It will be quite like old days!â€</p> - -<p>“When we were young together,†said Perior, smiling at her so fondly -that she felt deliciously reassured as to everything.</p> - -<p>The gods always helped a young lady who helped<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a> herself. Such had been -Camelia’s experience in life, even when she helped herself to other -people’s belongings.</p> - -<p>At all events, with hardly a qualm of conscience, Camelia enjoyed the -afternoon she had wrested from poor Mary.</p> - -<p>The tea-table was duly installed under the wide shade of the -copper-beech. Perior carried out an armful of books and reviews from -which to choose. They drank their tea and ate their bread and butter, -and Camelia read aloud from the <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>. And it cannot -be denied that Perior, sitting in the cool green shadow, listening to -the perfect French accent, looking at the white figure sprinkled with -the pale shifting gold that filtered through the leaves above them, -enjoyed himself a great deal more than he would have done with Mary. -Truly at times the way of transgressors is very easy.<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>UT retribution followed Camelia’s manÅ“uvre. On the advent of Mr. -Rodrigg, very red and hot after a long country walk with Lord Haversham -(who also had axes to grind), Perior said good-bye, remounted his horse, -and rode off. It was six o’clock, a warmly rosy evening. The hot gold -was gone, but in the sunset influences there was a certain oppression. -Perior yawned and rode slowly along the strip of turf that bordered the -dusty road. But though he felt physically very indolent, his mind was -delightfully alert, weaving busily, with a sense of freedom and -joyousness, a web of hopeful imaginings, swinging the illusive, -intangible filaments from point to point of the afternoon’s experience. -Nothing, in his estimation, could raise Camelia much above the level to -which that cluster of frivolous lies had sunk her; his very heart ached -when he thought of them—especially of the lie to Arthur; but the tears -of last week, though his reason denied their influence, had in reality -touched, surprised, and softened him, and made him hopeful. And now came -the smiles, the sincerity, the sweetness of this afternoon; he could not -distrust them. The idealist impulse—the master mood of his nature, -though reined in so often by bitter experience, began to evolve an ell -from the<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a> supposititious inch of excellence. The possibility of moral -worth; the implication of some real rectitude of soul, that her truth to -him seemed to justify; the formative power of a real affection for -Arthur: so Perior wove his spider web, working as the spider does, from -the merest foothold, and bridging chasms with a shining thread of trust.</p> - -<p>Yet alas! for Camelia—that afternoon had certainly been a bungling -piece of mismanagement, a covetous snatching at the present, a foolhardy -forgetting of the future.</p> - -<p>Perior met Mary returning in the dog-cart. He had not forgotten Mary, -nor his suspicions of self-sacrifice. He turned his horse’s head again -and proposed to ride back with her. Yes, he had plenty of time; and in -assuring her of it he smiled his kindest smile, and the pony and the -horse fell into a walk. The hours under the copper-beech, with Camelia’s -white dress, and Camelia’s shining head to look at, had seemed -delightfully cool and pleasant, yet the autumn afternoon had been a hot -one, and Mary’s face was flushed, tired, and to her own knowledge, even -a little tremulous.</p> - -<p>“Did you have a nice afternoon?†he asked her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, very, thanks,†the habit of submissive gratitude was too strong to -be mastered at the first moment, though she added, “Camelia told you how -<i>sorry</i> I was?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, but I am still wounded. I did not think you would have deserted me -for the babies of Copley.â€</p> - -<p>It was rather useless to attempt humor with Mary, for even he could -interpret as alarmed and<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a> distressed the look of her face as it turned -to him.</p> - -<p>“Oh! but I did not want to go!†she exclaimed; “you know that! Camelia -wished it—she had a headache, and said Mrs. Grier expected her, so, -though I was quite ready for our ride, looking forward to it so much, I -had to go; but I didn’t want to—indeed I was dreadfully disappointed—†-And then suddenly the sense of injury, of resentment, of dismay at -herself that she should wish to display that resentment—should wish to -retaliate for humiliations too deep for display, getting altogether the -better of her, two large tears—and Mary had been swallowing tears all -the afternoon—rolled suddenly down her cheeks and splashed upon her -dusty gloves.</p> - -<p>“Why, Mary! <i>Mary!</i>†said Perior, aghast.</p> - -<p>She searched for her handkerchief in hasty confusion. “How silly I am! I -can’t help it; it has been so hot, I am so tired.â€</p> - -<p>“My poor child!†But Perior was more stricken than the sympathy of his -tone made manifest. His pity sprang comprehendingly to Mary, but a -deeper emotion underlay it. It was as if Mary had thrust that dusty -dog-skin glove right through his beautiful, fragile spider web, and as -he was dashed from his illusion his thoughts gathered themselves in -quick bitter avengefulness.</p> - -<p>“You were ready? dressed, you say?†he was already sure of Camelia’s -falseness, but he wished to define it, to see just how much she had -lied, to see just how far went her heartlessness.</p> - -<p>“Yes,†Mary could not restrain the plaintive<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a> note, though she was -drying her eyes in a sort of terror over her weakness.</p> - -<p>“And Camelia forced you to go?â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t think that!†Mary had thought it, but the words spoken by him -shocked her. “She did not know how much I had set my heart on the ride, -and it would have been a pity had Mrs. Grier been disappointed. That is -what Camelia thought of—†and Mary quite believed Camelia as far as -that went; but the cruel manner of discharging her duty! the deep injury -of the forces brought to bear! The memory of them rose irrepressibly, -poignantly.</p> - -<p>“How considerate of Camelia!†Perior’s anger made any careful analysis -of Camelia’s motives impossible. She had shirked an irksome duty, and -kept him to entertain her laziness. The latter fact did not in the least -mollify him; it was of a piece with her grasping selfishness, Mary’s -pleasure not weighing a feather’s weight against the momentary wish. She -had gone to “hurry†Mary, and on her return from the cousinly little -errand, had given him the impression of Mary’s uninfluenced change of -plan—even implying curates as its cause! Liar! The word almost choked -him as he kept it down, for he did not want Mary to know her a liar.</p> - -<p>“She went to your room to ask you to go?†he pursued, choosing a safe -question.</p> - -<p>But his persistence aroused in Mary a certain dim suspicion.</p> - -<p>“Yes,†she said; “she was surprised to see me dressed. She did not know -I was going with you.†The very force of her inner resentment—a hating<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a> -resentment, as she felt with terror—made her grasp at an at least -outward loyalty. But hardly had she spoken the words when the suspicion, -definite, tingling with probability, leaped upon her. She looked quickly -at Perior. He was white to the lips. This revelation fairly silenced -him. He put his horse to the trot, and the dog-cart, hastening its pace, -kept beside him.</p> - -<p>Mary could hardly have spoken. Her mind was in a whirl of broken, -distracted thoughts, that only grew to coherence when the wave-like -conviction of Camelia’s mean robbery broke over her.</p> - -<p>Perior’s scorning rage meanwhile hurried forward to wreak itself on -Camelia; he was conscious only of its scorching.</p> - -<p>They reached the park gates in silence; then Mary was able to say, “Are -you coming in?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will come in for a moment.â€</p> - -<p>“You—you won’t say anything about—my silliness?â€</p> - -<p>“My dear Mary, I must speak to Camelia; but you have accused her of -nothing, nor shall she think you have. I will come for you to-morrow,†-he added as he helped her down from the dog-cart at the door; “we will -have our ride. Don’t be persuaded out of it either. Let other people do -their own charities. It won’t harm them.â€</p> - -<p>Lady Paton was in the hall, a cool, gentle embodiment of the evening. -“Mary brought you back?—You are going to dine, Michael?†she asked.</p> - -<p>“No; I only want to see Camelia for a moment.â€</p> - -<p>“I have just come from her. She is with Mr.<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a> Rodrigg, talking politics,†-and Lady Paton’s smile implied the softest pride in Camelia’s prowess in -that pursuit. “She says you have had an old-time afternoon, reading -together. You must take up your reading again, Michael—for the time -that she is left to us.â€</p> - -<p>Mary, going slowly up the stairs, bent her head as she heard, “Yes: he -had stayed with Camelia all the afternoon.†He did not care to ride with -her—no, for all his kindness, the pleasure of the rides was poisoned -forever. That was the thought that, at the sight of him, had cut her to -the quick, bringing the tears to her eyes. More than Camelia’s lie, -Camelia’s cruelty in dealing her that humiliation, burned. When she -thought of it the blackness of her own heart terrified her. She felt -that she hated Camelia, and when she reached her room, she bolted the -door and fell on her bed in an agony of weeping.</p> - -<p>Camelia perhaps counted a little too confidently upon Mary’s “adoration†-for her. To Mary, Camelia had always seemed the bright personification -of beauty, cleverness, joy. She had wondered at her, rather than admired -her. Her attitude of mind had been as that of a child staring at the -unattainable moon, shining silvery-gold, and sailing far above in a wide -clear sky.</p> - -<p>She had seldom been conscious in the past of any slight or injury. Her -most constant feeling was one of quiet duty. Camelia’s little kindnesses -surprised her; her unkindnesses she took as a matter of course. But now, -in this dreadful clash of ill-matched interests, her life against -Camelia’s game, all the sense of<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a> duty, of gratitude, of admiration, -went down in black shipwreck. She found that they had been flimsy -things, after all, that under their peaceful surface there had been for -many weeks a lava-like heaving of resentment. And the worst terror was -to see her life bereft of all supports—to see it unblessed, all hatred -and despair. For even at the moment she could judge herself, measure how -much she had lost in losing her blind humility—that at least gave calm -and a certain self-respect—could accuse herself of injustice. Camelia -had lied; but then Camelia could never have divined the rash folly of -Mary’s secret—must never divine it; and the cruel humiliation of that -one blighting intimation of Perior’s charity hurt more than the lie; and -Camelia’s ignorance of the hurt she had inflicted only made it ache the -more.<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>EANWHILE Perior marched off to the garden. He passed through the -morning-room where Mrs. Fox-Darriel was writing.</p> - -<p>“So you didn’t get your ride either?†said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, who had her -own reasons—and not at all complex ones—for disliking Mr. Perior. “It -<i>was</i> rather hot.â€</p> - -<p>Perior in his indifference did not even divine the suspicion that saw in -his arrival, and Camelia’s defection and amusing headache, a -portentousness threatening to the object she had set her heart upon.</p> - -<p>Perior replied shortly, and it was with very little love that she -watched him walk over the lawn. Camelia really was a fool, and who knew -how far her folly might not go.</p> - -<p>Camelia was still under the copper-beech, and still talking to Mr. -Rodrigg. Perior perforce acknowledged her innocence of flirtatious -methods. Her earnest pose—elbows on the arm of her chair, hands -clasped, head gravely intent—denoted the seriousness with which she -took her rôle.</p> - -<p>Mr. Rodrigg’s smile might have warned her. He balanced a teaspoon neatly -on his cup, and looked from it to her, vastly unimpressed as to the real -purport of the conversation.<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a></p> - -<p>Perior’s mood was too miserable, too savage, to allow him more than a -mere dart of cynical amusement at her folly. Camelia turned her head, -surprised at seeing him. Smiling a complacent little smile she patted -the chair beside her.</p> - -<p>“So you came back after all.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes.†The nipped monosyllable, like a sudden <i>douche</i> of icy water, -told her that since he had left her their relations had changed, and -changed very much for the worse. Her conjectures sprang immediately to -Mary. Bother Mary! what had she said? But at the thought of what she -might have said Camelia knew that her heart was shaking. Her look, on a -first impulse, would have been entreating, but in the presence of a -third person it grew cold in answer to his, and she turned again to Mr. -Rodrigg.</p> - -<p>“Go, on, please; I want your answer. I have still that one fallacy to -demolish, you know.â€</p> - -<p>Mr. Rodrigg observed Perior affably; he was a really important opponent. -“Miss Paton wishes, I believe, to institute a sort of eighteenth century -rôle for women in politics,†he said, “the rôle that obtained in France -during that ominous century. She expects to rule England through her -<i>causeries</i>.â€</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I fancy that England would be very prettily ruled!†said -Camelia, laughing.</p> - -<p>Perior switched the dust on his boots and made no reply.</p> - -<p>“You have been reading, I hear,†Mr. Rodrigg continued, seizing -gratefully the chance of escaping from the bill, “a very interesting -number of the<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a> <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>. I looked at it a day or two -since: the serial romance is quite a new departure in style. There is -certainly new leaven working in French literature. The revolt from -naturalism is very significant, very interesting, though some of the -extremes of opposition, such as symbolism, tend to become as unhealthy.â€</p> - -<p>“Symbolism, mysticism, in the modern naturalistic French writer, is -merely the final form of decadence,†Camelia observed with some -sententiousness, feeling Perior’s silent presence as an impulsion -towards artificiality in tone and manner, “the irridescent stage of -decay—pardon me for being nasty—but they are so nasty! I have had -quite enough of the <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>—so to business, Mr. -Rodrigg.†But though Camelia was quite willing to ignore the new-comer, -Mr. Rodrigg insisted on dragging him into the running, until at last, -perceiving a most unencouraging unwillingness, he rose and left him to -the <i>tête-à -tête</i> for which he had evidently returned, going off to the -house very good-humoredly. Perior’s position was altogether unique, and -not one of Camelia’s lovers gave his intimacy a thought.</p> - -<p>As Mr. Rodrigg’s wide back disappeared through the morning-room windows -Camelia turned her head to Perior.</p> - -<p>“Well,†she said, leaning back in her chair and putting her finger-tips -together with a pleasantly judicial air, “what have you to say? You look -very glum.â€</p> - -<p>“I met Mary, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! Did she have a good afternoon?<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“No; I fancy it was as dull to her as it would have been to you.â€</p> - -<p>“Impossible. Mary loves such things; besides, I do not find them dull.â€</p> - -<p>Perior looked at her.</p> - -<p>“What a liar you are,†he said. If hate and scorn could wither, Camelia -felt they would then have withered her; she quite recognized them in his -tone.</p> - -<p>But she was able to say with apparent calm—not crediting the endurance -of those unkind sentiments towards her, “indeed; you have called me that -before.â€</p> - -<p>“Will you deny,†said Perior, looking at her with his most icy -steadiness—Camelia keeping her eyes on his, and feeling that for the -moment the best thing she could do was to hold firmly to their calm and -luminous directness of expression—“will you deny that you went up to -ask Mary to take your place? that you found her ready to go with me? -that you pretended not to know that I had come for her?—she let that -out in excusing you from my disgust!—didn’t suspect you!—that to me -you pretended she had gone to Mrs. Grier’s of her own accord?â€</p> - -<p>The withering had begun to operate. Camelia felt his outward and her -inner press of feeling vanquishing the mild inquiry of her look. She -dropped her eyes. “Will you tell me why you take the trouble to debase -yourself—for such a trifle?â€</p> - -<p>Camelia gazed at the grass. She had cried when he accused her unjustly; -but now that her own<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a> hurrying, searching thoughts could find no -loop-hole for denial she felt no wish to cry. She was not touched, but -silenced, quelled. The enormity of her misdeeds made her thoughtful, now -that they were put so plainly before her. She felt herself contemplating -the sum of lies with an almost impersonal curiosity.</p> - -<p>“Camelia!†The odd pitch of his voice, sharp with a sudden, -uncontrollable emotion, made her look up.</p> - -<p>He rose, paused, looking back at her. “You are breaking my heart,†he -said. He had not intended to say it, nor known the truth that now came -imperatively to his lips. How she had hurt him, after all! He felt that -he was almost appealing to her, that indignation, scorn, hatred of her -baseness, were as nothing compared with that appeal—not to hurt him; -and he grew very white. An answering pang shot through Camelia’s -heart—whether pain, pity, or triumph she could not have told; but she -said quickly, her eyes rounded in unfamiliar solemnity, still on his—</p> - -<p>“Breaking your heart?â€</p> - -<p>“I care for you,†said Perior; “I only ask for a mere cranny, where a -friendly tenderness might find foothold—one ray of sincerity, of -honor—to make me feel that my fondness for you is not a—a -contemptible, a weakening folly. It’s as if you dashed me down on the -rocks—just as I fancy I’ve found something to hold on by!†he spoke -brokenly, clutching and unclutching his hands on his riding cane. “And I -have to watch you dragging yourself through the dustiest meannesses;<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a> -would I care if it was another woman!—no—let her be contemptible, -ugly, puny, I could give it a laugh—one can only laugh; but you! to be -fond of you! to watch you growing more and more greedy, soulless; a -liar, a flatterer! Oh, it makes me sick!â€</p> - -<p>Camelia had again lowered her eyelids, but her eyes stared, startled at -the grass. A creeping coldness went through the roots of her hair; she -knew that her face was pale. For quite a long time there was perfect -silence.</p> - -<p>“To rob that poor child of her little pleasure,†Perior said at last, -“to lie to her—to me; and for what? What use had you for me? Were you -so anxious to read me the <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>? <i>Why</i> did you lie?â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,†said Camelia feebly.</p> - -<p>“<i>You don’t know?</i>†he repeated.</p> - -<p>“No—I thought Mary would not mind. I thought she would like to go.â€</p> - -<p>“And you left me intending to ask her?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes.â€</p> - -<p>“Telling me you were going to hurry her?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes.â€</p> - -<p>“Pretending to her that you did not know I had come for her?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes.†There was an impulse struggling in Camelia’s heart—frightening -her—but worse than fright, the thought of not freeing it. “One ray of -sincerity.†Mary had been noble enough not to tell him—she must be -noble enough to tell.</p> - -<p>“More than that—†she added, feeling her very breath leave her.<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a></p> - -<p>“More!â€</p> - -<p>“Yes; I let Mary think you would rather stay with me;—that you didn’t -care to ride with her——â€</p> - -<p>“<i>Camelia!</i>†They were in full view of the house, but his hand fell -heavily upon her shoulder; and so he stood for a long moment, too much -stupefied by the confession to find another word.</p> - -<p>But Camelia took a long breath of recovery; sighed with it, and felt the -blood come back gratefully to her heart.</p> - -<p>“But why?—why?—why?†Perior said at last, in a voice from which anger -seemed to have ebbed despairingly away, leaving only an immense and -wondering sadness, “<i>Why</i>, Camelia?â€</p> - -<p>A faint, appealing little sparkle lit her face as she glanced up at him; -that weight gone, all the buoyancy of her nature rose, ready to win -smiles and rewarding looks of caressing encouragement.</p> - -<p>“I wanted to read you the <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>.â€</p> - -<p>He stared at her, baffled and miserable.</p> - -<p>“And though I was a viper—it was true, wasn’t it? You <i>would</i> rather -stay with me.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, no doubt I would,†said Perior with a gloom half dazed.</p> - -<p>“And you see I did want you so much! Mary could not have wanted you -nearly so much! Why, I gave up my ride to stay with you! I had no -headache!†she announced the fact quite joyously; “I simply thought -suddenly how nice it would be to spend the afternoon with you—like old -days—when we were young together! I really thought<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a> Mary would prefer -Mrs. Grier—really I did! And once embarked on a fib—for I did not want -her to think that I cared so much to have you—I had to go on—they all -came one after the other,†said Camelia, dismally now, “and even when I -saw how disappointed she was I hardened my heart in its selfishness—a -perfect devil, of course; yes, I see quite well that I was a devil. So -there is the truth for you. Really the truth. More than <i>one ray of -sincerity</i>, is it not? And I need not have told you, since good old Mary -was such a trump. There! I have lain down under your feet—and you may -scrub your boots on me if you want to!â€</p> - -<p>“Alas, Camelia!†said Perior. He sat down again. Her confession had -indeed forced upon him a certain resignation. For some moments he did -not speak. “I believe I am the only person in the world to whom you -would humble yourself like this,†he said at last. “I am a convenient -father-confessor for you. You find yourself more comfortable after -dumping your load of sins on me. It’s a corner in your psychology I’ve -never quite understood—another little twist of egotism my mind is too -blunt to penetrate. I am not worth while deceiving—is that it?†and as -her eyes rested on his in mute, but unmistakable pain, he added, the -note of resignation deepened, “You do not repent, that is evident. You -confess; but it is very much as if I particularly hated dirty -finger-nails, and to please my fastidiousness you washed yours.â€</p> - -<p>“I might have hidden them,†Camelia murmured, glancing down at the -translucent pink and white of those <i>objets d’art</i>.<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes, you might; that is your advantage. The speck of dirt worried you, -knowing my taste. The matter to you is just about on that level of -seriousness. You are not sorry for Mary; you are merely preening -yourself for me. It is that; your heartlessness, your selfishness, your -hard indifference to other people’s feelings that makes me despair of -you. For I do despair of you.â€</p> - -<p>“Am I so heartless, so selfish, so hard?â€</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you are.â€</p> - -<p>“And it breaks your heart?â€</p> - -<p>Perior laughed shortly.</p> - -<p>“Ah; you find compensation in that! I shall survive, Camelia. I have -managed to survive a great many disagreeable experiences.â€</p> - -<p>“And I am one. Don’t you feel a little more kindly towards me? Are you -not a little flattered by the realization that my misdeeds arose -entirely from my affection for you?†Camelia smiled sadly, adding, “It’s -quite true.â€</p> - -<p>“You want to monopolize me, as you monopolize everything, Camelia. If -there was a cat that did not devote itself exclusively to you, you would -woo the cat. In this case I am the cat.â€</p> - -<p>“Dear cat!†she stretched out her hand and put it on his arm. “May I -stroke you, cat?â€</p> - -<p>“No, thanks. You shall not enthral me.†He rose as he spoke. “Good-bye.â€</p> - -<p>“Good-bye? Will you not stay to dine?â€</p> - -<p>“No; I am in no dining humor.â€</p> - -<p>“Haven’t you forgiven me—absolved me—one little bit?â€</p> - -<p>“Not one little bit, Camelia.<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>â€</p> - -<p>His farewell look she felt to be steeled against her in its -resoluteness, though weak in its long dwelling. She knew that when he -was gone the resoluteness would remain with him; the weakness would -leave him with his departure from her presence. She enthralled him by -the mere fact of being before him, baffling and exquisite; therefore he -was leaving her. There was an air of finality in his very way of turning -from her in silence. She watched him walk away over the lawn, and sat on -in the dusk. She was a little dazed, and an evening dreaminess veiled -from her the poignancy of her own fear. She evaded it, too, by the -thought: he cares so much, so much. Then, too, what difference did it -make? She could always wrap herself, in case of a shivering emergency, -in that cloak of carelessness; but the fact of his caring so very much -kept her now from shivering. When she went into the house at last she -found Mrs. Fox-Darriel still alone in the morning-room.</p> - -<p>“My dear Camelia,†she said, looking round at her young friend, “when -next you submit to being shaken by Mr. Perior, I really would choose a -more secluded spot. The whole house might have been staring at you; and -I can assure you that the spectacle you offered was highly ludicrous. A -rabbit in an eagle’s claws.â€</p> - -<p>“And, really, if I choose to be whipped up and down the drive by Mr. -Perior, I shall do it, Frances, notwithstanding your disapproval.†-Camelia was in no temper for smarting advice.</p> - -<p>“The man is insufferable,†said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, “<i>il porte sa tête -comme un saint sacrement</i>; provincial<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a> apostolics. Your flattering wish -to please him is not at all in character.â€</p> - -<p>“Your knowledge of my character, Frances, is very restricted,†Camelia -replied, walking away to her room.<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">C</span>AMELIA during the next few days was conscious of an expectant pause. -There was a page to be turned. She kept her own hand from it; for a day -or two, at least, she would not stir a finger; and if Perior chose to -turn it, the turning bound her to nothing—would probably reveal mere -blankness, whereon he might inscribe an affectionate dedication for her -new life. In that case the new chapter would be hymeneal; indeed, it -seemed inevitable that she should marry Arthur Henge; the waiting volume -seemed inevitably that of her married life.</p> - -<p>But her thoughts were not with Arthur. They fixed themselves -persistently on Perior. Let him come—write the friendly dedication, -certify, by his blessing, to the sincerity and wisdom of her choice; or -else, was it not possible that he might dash the volume out of her -hands? No doubt she would pick it up again. Still, to see him dash it -down would be eventful. Therefore, she waited, more breathlessly than -she quite realized.</p> - -<p>The last act of the drama had left her with no spite at all against -Mary—its chief but insignificant factor. She was not resentful on the -score of Mary’s revelations; on the other hand, Mary’s charitable -reticence did not move her to gratitude.<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a> After all, it was a very -explicable reticence; her own confession to Perior had lent it the -kindest glamour. For Mary to have told Perior all would have been a -humiliating plea for his negative; and the negative he could not have -given with sincerity. Mary had felt that. No; Camelia’s analysis -disowned any obligation; but neither was she conscious of the least -anger. A mean revengefulness was not in her nature, she was as easy -towards Mary as towards herself; she quite saw that to Mary she must -have seemed horrid, and that perfectly atoned for the whines in which -poor Mary had probably indulged. She was sure the whines had not been -spiteful. She could imagine Mary injured, but not at all spiteful; and -on their first meeting after the portentous dressing-room scene, her -eyes rested in blankest serenity upon her cousin’s flushed and miserable -face.</p> - -<p>She felt serenity and blankness to be tactful kindnesses, and they were -very easy. The thought of Mary hardly stirred her deep, still absorption -in the purely dual problem, for, after Mary’s ride—and Camelia missed -him then—Perior did not come again.</p> - -<p>The trial of strength in silence, they the two opponents facing one -another for the test, filled her days with an excited sense of contest. -It was not made more complex by outer jars. Mr. Rodrigg was unavoidably -called away for a fortnight, and Sir Arthur might still be evaded, -though Lady Henge’s brow had grown gloomy. Camelia rather enjoyed the -grave inquiry in the looks bent upon her by her future mamma (oh yes, -almost without<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a> doubt, future mamma); but she did not intend to brighten -them by the announcement of that fact until her own good time. Lady -Henge’s gloom and Arthur’s patience touched only the outer rings of her -consciousness. For Perior did not come. At the end of the first week her -patience was out-worn; the detachment of mere contemplation became -impossible. She essayed a flag of truce. Let it be peace, or, at all -events, more close, more keenly realized warfare.</p> - -<p>“Are you never coming to see me again?†she wrote. “Please do; I will be -good.â€</p> - -<p>Perior laughed over the document. It was merely the case of the cat -again dignified by its persistent absence. His reply was even more -laconic. “Can’t come. Try to be good without me.†The priggishness of -this pleased him, and would probably amuse her. He did not want to hurt -her. Neither did he intend that she should hurt him. She probably -guessed that.</p> - -<p>The note gave her a mingled thrill, anger and pleasure. That he should -not come showed more than the priggish intent to punish; that pedagogic -mask did not hide his fear; and that he should fear meant much. He -wanted to punish her, yes; and that he could succeed was very -intolerable; but that was his only strength, held to amidst a weakness -he would give her no chance to exploit. His cowardice was complimentary, -but since she was helpless against it Camelia was angry with her cat. -Strength, after all, is largely a matter of situation, and to stand in -the street vainly cajoling one’s pet on the house-top gives one all the -emotions of<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a> acknowledged inferiority. To turn her back and walk away -was the natural impulse of Camelia’s exasperated helplessness; she hoped -that the cat would watch her, and feel badly as she turned the corner, -for she determined to delay no longer decisions of far more importance, -as she assured herself, than the ridiculous dwelling on such a trifling -matter as a recalcitrant cat. The acceptance of Arthur Henge could be no -longer evaded after this fortnight of evasions, each turn and twist -leading her more inevitably to the centre of the labyrinth. Sir Arthur -could hardly have a doubt of the final answer, though its postponement -and her son’s attitude of smiling patience might bring the gloom to Lady -Henge’s forehead.</p> - -<p>“I do not like to see you played with, Arthur,†she confessed; and her -look said as much to Camelia, who, in her absolute security, only -frolicked the more in her leafy circles.</p> - -<p>“I enjoy it, mother,†Sir Arthur assured her, “it’s a pretty game; she -enjoys it and so do I. She is cutting up a surprise cake, and I am sure -of her giving me the slice with the ring in it.â€</p> - -<p>“A rather undignified game, Arthur,†said Lady Henge in a deep tone of -aggrievement, and Sir Arthur was sorry that Camelia, for the moment, had -effaced that first good impression; but he would not see that he was -aggrieved. He knew that he sat in the heart of the dear labyrinth, and -Camelia’s peeps at him through the hedges, her slow advances and swift -retreats, were all charming, and not too bewildering when one was -trained to them.<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a></p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel, however, was both aggrieved and impatient. Her long -visit bored her badly, and Camelia’s smiling impenetrability irritated -her. Her impatience almost descended to grossness.</p> - -<p>“What a hostess you will make, Camelia, at Laversley Castle. I see you -on that background of Grinling Gibbons and Titian. To be almost the -richest, probably the cleverest, certainly the prettiest woman in -England. What a future! An unending golden vista—widening. And for a -base of operations, Laversley. Such tapestries, my dear, such -porcelains, such a library and park. All in the hollow of your hand.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia stretched it out. “Yes,†she said, surveying its capabilities, -“I have only to close it.â€</p> - -<p>“You will close it, of course.â€</p> - -<p>“No doubt,†said Camelia blandly, a blandness that snubbed and did not -satisfy her friend’s grossness.</p> - -<p>But under the blandness something struggled. Must she close the hand? -Would no power outside her hold open and unstained by greed that pretty -palm? The absurdity of the accusation gave her the melancholy comfort of -an only half reassuring smile. Sir Arthur’s excellence, not his -millions, had turned the scale; yet the accusation, for all its folly, -cut. And Perior did not come. He too joined forces with fate, made the -closing of the hand inevitable. She defied him with the sustaining -thought, “Sir Arthur is best, best in all. I close my hand on his heart -because no better heart could be offered me.<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>â€</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> - -<p>A week had passed since Perior had received the first pleading note from -Enthorpe, and one afternoon, when he was busy in his laboratory, another -arrived, more a command than a supplication.</p> - -<p>“Come at once. I must see you. I am very unhappy.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia indeed was very unhappy. She could hardly recognize or define -the unusualness of the unfamiliar sensation, and her ignorance helped to -hurt her, make her more bewildered under it. She had accepted Sir Arthur -that morning, hurried by no impulse, but conscious as she walked with -him in the garden of an ill-tempered recklessness, of a fate more easily -accepted than evaded uselessly. If he would have it—if every one would -have it, including herself, of course, let it be so. She said yes with -almost a sigh of exhausted energy, smiled with lifted brows over Sir -Arthur’s ensuing rapture, and then wondered that under the lightness -with which she braved the decisive moment a sudden sickness of fear, of -sorrow, should seize her. Reality this, then. No more choice. No more -playing. The game ended. She was not being led into the Garden of Eden, -but out of it, and a new world, a world bleak, leaden, a sunless -immensity of dreariness<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a> stretched before her. She was frightened, and -the lesser feelings of the next hour were dazed by her effort to dismiss -this fear. She knew that her mother’s tearful, speechless joy, Lady -Henge’s elevated approbation, Mary’s gasping efforts after fitting -phrases, Frances’ cool, close-lipped little smile of satisfaction, and -the background of congratulatory faces were all very irritating, and -that she herself was unreasonably angry with them all.</p> - -<p>She was glad to find herself alone in the library with Sir Arthur, even -though strangely helpless before his joyous possessorship. His arm was -about her, and she could hear Lady Henge thundering on the piano in the -drawing-room.</p> - -<p>“The dear mater is improvising an epithalamium,†said Arthur, with a -laugh. To Camelia it seemed cynically in keeping with her jarred and -jangled mood that her marriage should be interpreted by this pretentious -music. It symbolized so much. Her own flimsiness and falseness, the -immense distance from anything like perfect union. She turned her -thought to the attainable pleasures of the future, tried to shut her -soul on the lamenting ideal that Lady Henge’s music mocked, and her mind -rested for a moment on the reassuring certainty of her own appreciation -of Sir Arthur’s excellence. Strangely enough, though his possessorship -frightened, his arm about her waist consoled her; a warm sense of his -kindness and stability held her from inner terrors; she was glad to have -him there; she foresaw in solitude an on-coming and chilly stupor. She -felt it well to sit beside him, protected from her own fear by his -devoted nearness. “There<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a> now, you are smiling,†said Sir Arthur; “you -seemed sad, as though you were conscious of responsibility—and didn’t -like it.†When he spoke of responsibility Camelia felt more keenly that -she had received an injury from fate. The “Yes†that had been spoken -only a few hours before had belonged to the game, was it quite fair that -this solemnity should result? Yet why not take it gaily? Force it into a -dancing ring of happy lightness?</p> - -<p>“Responsibility? Oh no, you can’t saddle me with that!†she said, -returning his look, and smiling still more easily as she felt how much -his handsome face pleased her; its very expression, an unaccented, -humorous gaiety, worn for her sake, was a homage, a warrant of most -chivalrous comprehension. “You alone are responsible‗and following her -mental picture of the game of hide-and-seek in a Watteau landscape—“You -caught me—that was all!â€</p> - -<p>“That was all!†he repeated; “and you were difficult to catch. Now that -you are caught I shall keep you.â€</p> - -<p>“No, I am not sad,†Camelia pursued, “I only feel as if I had grown up -suddenly.â€</p> - -<p>“No, don’t grow up. I must keep you always my laughing child.â€</p> - -<p>“Lady Henge wouldn’t approve of that!†said Camelia, yielding to a -closer enfolding, but facilitating it by no gracious droopings.</p> - -<p>“Ah, mother loves you,†said Sir Arthur, with a touch of added pride in -his capture.</p> - -<p>“Does she?†Camelia’s brows lifted a little; the enfolding continuing -she was conscious enough<a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a> of a dart of irritation to wish to add, “I -don’t love her!†but after a kiss he released her and she checked the -naughty impulse, merely adding, with some perversity, keeping him now at -arm’s length though she abandoned her hand for the purpose, “Would you -have dared to love me had she not?â€</p> - -<p>“Camelia, you know that I did.†The perversity had grieved him a little. -His clear brown eyes, that always reminded her of a dog’s in their -widely opened sincerity, dwelt on her, questioning her intention. “She -did not know you, that was all.â€</p> - -<p>“Nor did you, quite.†Camelia laughed at him gently, and put her hand on -his shoulder, half as a reward for the pang, half to still keep him -away.</p> - -<p>“No, not quite,†Sir Arthur confessed, “though even my ignorance loved -you. But you let me know you at last.â€</p> - -<p>“But what <i>do</i> you know?†Camelia persisted.</p> - -<p>“I know my laughing child.â€</p> - -<p>“Her faults the faults of a child?â€</p> - -<p>“Has she faults?â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, blinded man!â€</p> - -<p>“The faults of a child, then,†he assented.</p> - -<p>When he had left her, for he was to spend the day in London, there was a -lull after the stress of change. Camelia found herself in a solitude -wherein she might sit and meditate. Every one seemed to fall away from -her, and when she was left alone she was sorry for it, though it was she -who had withdrawn, not they. Lady Henge had talked to her for -half-an-hour, her arm affectionately, but heavily lying about her -shoulders, seeming in the massive embrace to claim her with a kindness -that<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a> knew itself as wiser than mere maternal emotionalism. The low -tones of her voice were impressive, and Camelia would have submitted to -the newly assumed manner of guardianship, of confidential admonition, -with a very ill grace, had not Lady Henge been now so truly indifferent -to her.</p> - -<p>Mary had been very tiresome, following her at a distance, wanting to -kiss her and cry. Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s silent complacency was unendurable. -Camelia knew that in the new epoch her friend saw only a tightly-closed -fist, and this symbol affected her own imagination until she could have -shaken Mrs. Fox-Darriel for having suggested it.</p> - -<p>Then her mother had fallen upon her breast and wept. Camelia was ashamed -of herself for seeing in the great lovingness a Scriptural exaggeration; -and being ashamed of herself she was only the more anxious to get rid of -the maternal clinging. She ended by locking herself in her own room, -only to find that she had locked herself in with a melancholy that had -been stepping silently beside her since the morning. She would not look -this companion in the face, however. She was alone with it at last; but -she feverishly avoided its fixed eyes, and eagerly busied herself with -trivialities, a dramatic sense of courage animating all her actions. She -emptied and rearranged her wardrobes and boxes, folded ribbons with -intensest exactitude, introduced a new plan in the bestowal of her -gloves and handkerchiefs, and even found herself unpicking a summer hat -with a fictitious eagerness that implied an imperative want of that -particular hat in a new trimming. When the hat was quite demolished she -put it away,<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a> and polished her finger-nails, and, lastly, spent a -fatiguing half-hour before the looking-glass in essays at new ways of -hair-dressing. None were satisfactory, and with arms aching from their -long uplifting, she at last swept the shining tresses into their -accustomed lines, unlocked the door, and emerged deliberately, but with -a sense of flight.</p> - -<p>Every one had gone. The guests to golf at the Havershams; Mary, Lady -Paton, and Lady Henge for a long drive. They had all respected the -sensitive requirements of her new position. She was to be left alone, -and as Camelia walked from room to room, the big house was desolate.</p> - -<p>She nourished a sense of resentment, of injury, for it seemed to thrust -away the chilly stupor of fear, fear of that new presence walking with -her, waiting for her recognition. The loneliness, the melancholy, to -which she could only feign blindness, were almost unendurable. The tears -rose to her eyes more than once, and her thoughts circled nearer and -nearer to Perior’s great unkindness. It was when the melancholy seemed -suddenly to lay an imperative hand upon her that she flew to the -writing-table and wrote the note. She looked at the clock as she heard -the groom departing on horseback. Perior might easily arrive at six, and -at the thought her spirits rose with a great soaring bound, and laughed -down at the cold enemy. When he arrived she would see what would happen. -She reined back her imagination from any plan.</p> - -<p>According to his manner, she would tell immediately, or delay telling -until a favorable moment. Perhaps when he knew he would say that his -heart<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a> was completely broken, but the thought of his unhappiness only -seemed to send her spirits into a higher ecstasy of joyousness. She felt -them bubble-like, floating in illusion, but the relief of the unthinking -hour—she seemed to live in it only, to breathe only its -expectancy—buoyed her above the clouds. In the long drawing-room, where -the firelight made the autumnal landscape outside, its distant hills -purpling with chilly evening, a mere picture, framed for the contrast in -her rosy mood, she danced, trying over new steps. She had always loved -her dancing, loved to feel herself so lovely, her loveliness set to such -musical motion, the words of the song. She hummed the sad, dead beauty -of a pavane, pacing it with stately pleasure; the gracious pathos of an -old gavotte; and, feeling herself a brook, her steps slid into the -flowing ripple of the courante. Perior had always loved these exquisite -old dances. She would dance for him, of course. That thought had been -growing, and the gavotte, the courante, the pavane becoming rehearsals. -Yes, she would dance for him—at first. Flushed, panting a little from -the long preparation, she ran upstairs to put on a white dress, a new -one made for dancing, with sleeves looped over bare arms, flowing sash, -and skirt like a flower-bell. She lingered on each detail. She must be -beautiful for Alceste; dear Alceste, poor, poor Alceste; how unhappy he -would be—when he knew. And suppose he should not come. The thought went -through her like a dagger as she held a row of pearls against her -throat. Over them she looked with terror-stricken eyes at the whiteness -of her beauty—useless beauty? Ah, she could not believe<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a> it, and she -clasped the pearls on a breast that heaved with the great sigh of her -negation. She could not believe it. He must come. And when she reentered -the drawing-room the sound of a horse’s hoofs outside set the time to -the full throb of an ecstasied affirmation.</p> - -<p>A delicious flood of contentment went through her. She stood smiling in -the dark yet luminous room, where only the firelight shone along the -polished oak of floor and wainscoting, half unconsciously emphasizing -her sense of the moment’s drama by pressing her hands on her heart. Of -course he had come. How could he not come if she really wanted him? Dear -Alceste. In a moment he had entered. The firelight, as she stood before -him, seemed to shine through her pearly glimmering. She looked -sprite-like, a transparent fairy. Her dress, her attitude, her eyes, the -hovering expectancy. Perior, too, was immediately conscious of drama, -and felt as immediately an impulse to flight; but he came forward, a -quick look of calm arming his sturdy opposition to the atmosphere of -exaggerated meanings.</p> - -<p>“Well, here I am,†he said, in a manner intended by its commonplace to -rebuff the significance, whatever it might be, of eyes, dress, and -attitude. Camelia took his hand, joyously entering once more into the -dear, enchanted fairy-land—the old sense of a game, only a more -delightful, a more exciting game than ever. She could almost have -whirled him into the circle—a mad dancing whirl round and round the -room. How astonished he would have been! Solemn, staid old Alceste!<a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes, here you are. At last,†she said. “How shamefully you have -punished me this time!â€</p> - -<p>She laughed, but Perior sighed.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t been punishing you,†he said, walking away to the fireplace. -Camelia followed him and watched him hold out his hand to the warmth.</p> - -<p>“Is it so cold?†she asked.</p> - -<p>“Very chilly; the wind catches one on that mile along the common. My -hands are half-numbed.†Prettily, as she leaned in her illumined -whiteness beside him, she took his hands between her own and rubbed them -briskly.</p> - -<p>“You wrote that you were unhappy,†said Perior, looking down at the -daintily imprisoned hands; “what is the matter?â€</p> - -<p>“The telling will keep. I am happier now.â€</p> - -<p>“Did you get me here on false pretences?†He smiled as he now looked at -her, and the smile forgave her in advance.</p> - -<p>“No, no. I needed you very much; really I did. I am growing melancholy; -and I was all alone. I hate being alone.â€</p> - -<p>“There, that will do. They are quite warm now; thanks very much. Where -are the others?â€</p> - -<p>“The others? They are away,†said Camelia vaguely.</p> - -<p>“Rodrigg?â€</p> - -<p>“He comes back to-night, I think.â€</p> - -<p>“And Henge?†Perior asked it with a little hesitation. Of late he had -wondered much about Arthur and Camelia. There was an effort in the -unconscious aloofness of his voice.</p> - -<p>“In London too.†Camelia looked clearly at him.<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a> No, she would not tell -him now. The happy half-hour she must guard for them both. Her oblivion, -his ignorance, would make a fairy-land. Let him think even that she had -sent Arthur away finally. Arthur had no place in fairy-land.</p> - -<p>“All the others are out,†she repeated, “golfing, calling, driving. But -are you not glad to see me, even if I seem happier than strict -consistency requires?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am glad to see you.†Perior’s eyes showed the half-yielding, -half-defiance of his perplexity. “But tell me, what is the matter? Don’t -be so mysterious.â€</p> - -<p>“But tell me,†she returned, stepping backward, her skirt held out for -displayal, “is not my dress pretty?â€</p> - -<p>“Very pretty.†Perior leaned back against the mantelpiece with an air of -resignation. “Very exquisite.â€</p> - -<p>“Shall I dance for you?â€</p> - -<p>“By all means; since the dress was put on for that, I summoned for that. -Isn’t it so?â€</p> - -<p>She made no reply, her smile lingering as she turned from him, and -showing in its fixedness a certain gravity. He was satisfied that -conjecture as to her meaning, her plan in all this, only wearied him, -yet sorry that he had come. Under the weariness he was resentfully aware -of excitement. And what of Arthur? Camelia’s whole manner subtly -suggested that Arthur no longer counted. The note might be explained as -an after-throb of doubt, or at least of dreariness, in a world -momentarily without big issues. If she had refused Arthur definitely?<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> -The thought, as his eyes followed Camelia’s exquisite steps and slides, -shook some careful balancing of self-control. He felt stripped of a -shield, unpleasantly exposed to a dangerous moment. Camelia was dancing -quite silently, yet the air, to Perior’s musical brain, seemed full of -melody, and she the soundless embodiment of music made visible—so -lovely, so dear to him; so dear in spite of everything. She was like a -white flower, tilting, bending in the wind. She skimmed like a swallow, -ran with rippled steps like a brook, flitted with light, languid -balancings, a butterfly hovering on extended wings. Her slender body, -like a fountain, rose and fell in a continuity of changing loveliness. -Her golden head shone in the dusk.</p> - -<p>Perior watched her, half-dreaming, half-dazzled. The long moments of -acute, delicious contemplation drifted by as peacefully, as stilly as -falling rose-petals, muffling all outer jars and murmurs, blurring the -past, the future, making the present enchanted.</p> - -<p>When she was far off his heart beat for her return, and when the -swaying, hovering whiteness came near he shrank from the nearness. The -unexpected sweeping turn that caught her away suddenly into the -half-visionary distance stabbed him through with a pang of relief and -disappointment.</p> - -<p>He was entranced, half-mesmerized, conscious only of his delight in her, -when her circling at last grew slower, the musical beat of the -recovering tilt faltered. She came on a sliding, wavering step, and sank -like the softest sigh before him, folded together in her wing-like -whiteness.</p> - -<p>“You enchanting creature,†Perior murmured.<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a> He bent over her—he would -have lifted her—taking her hands, but Camelia herself rose between his -arms, and inevitably they closed about her. It was so natural, so -fitting in all its strangeness, that to Camelia the slow circling of the -dance seemed still to carry her round and round, unbroken by the crash -of a great revelation. She closed her eyes, hardly wondering at her -perfect happiness, and from the last revolving mists the reality dawned -sweetly upon her—the only reality. She had danced out of the game; it -lay far behind her. Through it she had blundered on a mistake, but her -mind put that swiftly aside. The mistake mattered nothing, the last act -merely of the game—a reckless, angered act. She thought now that the -game would hardly have been begun if only Perior had put his arms around -her, claimed and reclaimed her foolishness, long ago. Of course she -loved him. It needed but that to let her know.</p> - -<p>But to Perior the moment, after its irresistible impulse, was merely one -of shame and self-disgust. He held her, for she was enchanting, and she -had enchanted him. Disloyalty to his friend did not forbid that -satisfaction. That she meant to marry Arthur was now impossible. She had -tossed him aside, dissatisfied; he could not pity Arthur for his escape, -nor credit Camelia with disinterestedness. She was bored, disappointed, -reckless in a wish for excitement. He analyzed her present mood -brutally—the mood of a vain child, made audacious by childhood -intimacy, her appetite for conquest whetted by his apparent -indifference; he had not known that she would pay such a price for<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a> -conquest. It was an ugly revelation of Camelia, but the revelation of -himself was uglier. He at least pretended to self-respect. The folly of -her coquetry hardly surprised him; his own yielding to it did; yet in -the very midst of his self-disgust he fulfilled it to the uttermost by -stooping his head to her upturned face, blind to its intrinsic -innocence, and kissing her lips. As he kissed her he knew that for angry -weeks and months he had longed to kiss her, the unrecognized longing -wrestling with his pride, with his finer fondness for her—the firm, -grave fondness of years, with even his loyalty to Henge. That barrier -gone, the longing rushed over the others. Among the wrecks his -humiliation overwhelmed him:—a girl he loved, but a girl he would not -woo, had wooing been of avail!—in it he was able to be generous.</p> - -<p>The moment had not been long. He released her. Feeling most ungentle, he -yet put her away gently by the whole thrust of his arm. Leaning on the -mantel-shelf, his face averted from hers, he said: “Too enchanting, -Camelia. I have forgotten myself,†and he added, “Forgive me.â€</p> - -<p>“But <i>I</i> did it!†Camelia’s tone was one of most dauntless joyousness. -She was necessarily as sure of his love as of her own, surer of its -long-enduring priority. But his love feared—that was natural: dared not -hope for hers—too natural. She could not bear to have him put her away -in even a momentary doubt of her sincerity. Clasping both arms about his -neck she said quite childishly, in her great unconsciousness of his -thoughts about her—<a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a></p> - -<p>“Why would you never say you were fond of me? Why would you never say -you loved me? Say it now—say that you love me.â€</p> - -<p>His bewilderment at her audacity stung him to anger, and in -self-defence, for her sake too as well as for his own, almost to -brutality. “Ah, I love you enough to kiss you, Camelia,†he said; “you -are only fit for that. There,†he unlocked the clasping arms, “go away.†-The unmistakable sternness of his face struck her with pained -perplexity. He would not meet her eyes; he turned from her, looking -wretched. A flashing thought revealed the possibility of tempted -loyalty. Did he think her bound? Divine the engagement? He could not -have heard of it already. She saw, her heart throbbing at the -half-truth, half-falseness of the unbecoming vision, how she must appear -to him in that distorting illumination. Free in her own eyes, she -hesitated on a lie that would release him from his doubts. But as she -stood looking at him, smiling, a little sternly too, at the test, the -door burst open with unpleasant suddenness, and Mr. Rodrigg, bull-like -in his vehemence, charged into the room.<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">C</span>AMELIA felt, in the glaring pause Mr. Rodrigg made before Perior’s -baffling presence, that she herself was the red scarf he sought. Her -mind, alert in self-defence, even in this stress of joy and terror, -divined some unknown danger. Mr. Rodrigg had faded into complete -insignificance, put away with the other toys; she looked coldly at him, -as at a dusty jack-in-the-box, protruding its fatuousness in a grown-up -world. Yet she felt the necessity for self-command and quick -intelligence. Something ominous shone in Mr. Rodrigg’s eye. The lid must -be pressed down firmly, fastened securely; she was sure of her complete -control over the silly plaything, but an extinguishing dexterity might -be requisite.</p> - -<p>“Well, Mr. Rodrigg,†she said; and her tone fully implied the -undesirability of his presence.</p> - -<p>“Can I see you alone, Miss Paton?â€</p> - -<p>Mr. Rodrigg’s voice was offensively strident. Camelia looked at Perior, -who, from under lowering brows, bent ungracious eyes on Mr. Rodrigg’s -flushed insistency.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think you can—at present.†She did not want to vex Mr. -Rodrigg—she spoke not unkindly; but Mr. Rodrigg was dense, coarsely -dense, or else coarsely angry. Angry with her;<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a> Camelia had time by now -to wonder at that, and to feel less amicable with the greater need for -feigning amiability.</p> - -<p>He closed the door with decision. “Then I will speak before Mr. Perior. -As a family friend, Mr. Perior will not be amiss between us. He is a -witness of the whole affair. I appeal to Mr. Perior. Miss Paton, I have -just met Lady Henge. She tells me that you accepted her son this -morning.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia grew white. Though Perior spoke no word, his stillness equalling -hers, she felt a fixed stare turned upon her. Unforeseen catastrophe! -She had hoped to glide noiselessly from the cardboard stage, to pack up -and send away the useless, even though misused puppets; and now the -whole scenery, heavy too, fell crushingly upon her, pinning her in the -very centre of the stage. There she was held—the mimic properties were -stone-like—there she was held in the full glare of the footlights; and -he was staring at her.</p> - -<p>She drew herself together and clasped her hands behind her back. Her -little head, with the intent resoluteness of its look, had never been -more beautiful. Even Perior, in the frozen fury of his stupefaction, was -aware of that. The mute, white cameo on the dim, rosy background gazing -with not a tremor at its own perfidy, stamped itself ineffaceably on his -memory as a Medusa type of splendid, pernicious courage. For one brief -moment she wondered swiftly—and her thoughts flew like sharp flames—if -a round, clear lie would save her, save her in Perior’s eyes, for she -saw herself as he saw her, was conscious only of him, and cared not a -button<a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a> for Mr. Rodrigg, the ugly raven merely who had croaked out the -truth. The uselessness, the hopelessness of a lie, and too—in justice -to her struggling better self be it added—shame for its smirch between -her and him on the very threshold of true life—this hopelessness, this -shame nerved her to the perilous truth-telling. Better his scorn for the -moment, than a scorn delayed, but sure to find her out. Could she not -explain—confess—on his breast, with tears? She did not look at Perior. -Keeping fixed eyes on Mr. Rodrigg, an unpleasant but necessary medium -for the communication, “Yes, Mr. Rodrigg, I did,†she said.</p> - -<p>Perior at her side gave a short laugh, a cruel laugh. The moment was -horrid; let it be hurried on, and Mr. Rodrigg, tool of the avenging -gods, hurried out.</p> - -<p>“Have you anything to say, Mr. Rodrigg?†she asked, conscious of hating -Mr. Rodrigg, and, even at that moment, of a shoot of emphasized -irritation with his nose, which caught the firelight bluntly.</p> - -<p>“May I ask you, Miss Paton, if during these past weeks, you have always -had that intention?†he inquired, speaking with some thickness of -utterance.</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Rodrigg, you may not ask me that,†she returned.</p> - -<p>The revelation of the man’s hopes was no longer to be evaded; she drank -down the bitter draught perforce, her eyes on that squarely luminous -nose-tip.</p> - -<p>During the pause that followed Mr. Rodrigg’s eyes travelled up and down -her with mingled scorn, wrath, and humiliation.</p> - -<p>“Allow me to congratulate you,†he said at last,<a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a> most venomously, “and -to take my leave of you, Miss Paton. I have not understood, I perceive, -the part I was supposed to play here.â€</p> - -<p>And Camelia was left alone with Perior. With an impression as of strong -boxings on the ears she could only cry out “Odious vulgarian!†She -tingled all over with a sense of insult.</p> - -<p>“I, too, will bid you good-evening, Camelia,†said Perior. He could have -taken her by the throat, but in the necessary restraint of that desire -his glance, only, seized her as if it would throttle her.</p> - -<p>“No! no!†she caught his arm, all thought of Mr. Rodrigg and his slaps -burnt from her. “Listen to me—you don’t understand! Wait! I can explain -everything! everything—so that you must forgive me!â€</p> - -<p>“I do understand,†said Perior, who stood still, scorning, as she felt, -to touch and cast her off. “You are engaged to Arthur. You are -disgraced—and I am disgraced.â€</p> - -<p>“Through me, then! You were ignorant! But wait—only listen—I am -engaged to him; but I love you—don’t be too angry—for really I love -you—only you—Oh! you must believe me!â€</p> - -<p>He retreated before her clasped imploring hands, she almost crying, -following, indifferent to the indignity of her protesting supplication. -“Indeed, I love you!†she reiterated, her chin quivering a little as the -cruelty of his withdrawal brought the tears to her eyes.</p> - -<p>Perior took the clasped hands by the wrists and held her off. “You love -me?—and you love him too?‗she shook her head helplessly. “No; you<a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a> -have accepted him, not loving him, and you dared,‗the cruelty was now -physical, as his clench tightened on her wrists—“you <i>dared</i> turn to -me, to debase me with yourself, you false, you miserable creature!â€</p> - -<p>Under the double hurt she closed her eyes. “But why—but why did I -turn?†she almost sobbed.</p> - -<p>“You ask me why? Can I tell what folly, what vanity prompted you? Those -are mild words.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh!—how you hurt me!†she breathed; the feminine sensitiveness was a -refuge—a reproach. He released her wrists. “Because I love you,†she -said, and standing still before him she looked at him through tears. -“You may be angry, despise me, but I only want to tell you everything. -You are so brutal. It was a mistake—I did not know—not till this -evening. I accepted him because you would not prevent me—because you -didn’t come—nor seem to care, and—yes, because I was -bad—ambitious—vain—like other women—and I did like him—respect him. -But now!‗the appealing monotone, broken by little gasps, wailed up at -the inflexibility of his face—“it isn’t folly, it isn’t vanity—or why -should I sacrifice everything for you, as I do—Oh! as I do!â€</p> - -<p>“Sacrifice everything for me? Go away!â€</p> - -<p>“Oh!—how can you!†She broke into sobs—“how can you be so cruel to -me—when you love me!â€</p> - -<p>“Love you!â€</p> - -<p>“You cannot deny it! You know that you love me—dearest Alceste!‗her -arms encircled his neck.<a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a></p> - -<p>Perior plucked them off. “Love you?†he repeated, looking her in the -face. “By Heaven I don’t!â€</p> - -<p>And with the negative he cast her away and left her.<a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>UT he did love her. That was the worst of it, as he told himself -through the night that followed. His love and his disgrace pursued him. -Disgraced, though cruel enough to clearly see her as the temptress, -disgraced by the weakness of his yielding to a moment of enchantment, -disgraced by having given her the right to reproach him—the woman he -loved, but the woman only fit to kiss. He was innocent of real -disloyalty, and her perfidy might well exonerate his ignorance; but even -Camelia’s perfidy could not excuse that kiss. He met the morning jaded, -from torturing hours. When the first passion of his rage against her had -died away the thought of her astounding declaration, her reiterated -devotion, chilled him with the new fear of final yielding. Camelia, -imagining herself in love with him, became an ominously alluring figure. -She could claim him only through his weakness, but his dishonor gave her -power. He accepted the morbid accusation, scourged himself with it, and -the thought of her power urged him to escape. She was only fit to kiss, -that was the final verdict. To marry such a woman meant a permanent -disablement of all that was best in life. The kiss could not bind him to -that atonement. It was she, rather, who owed him an infinity of<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a> -reparation. He determined to treat himself to a trip through Italy, and, -alone with the beauty of the past, to shake his soul free from the -choking entanglement of the present. He felt sick, battered, bereft of -all security; and through everything throbbed the worst hurt of -all—that Camelia should have proved herself worthless so utterly.</p> - -<p>Early in the afternoon of a day spent in hurried preparations for -departure, he heard a horse’s hoofs outside, and looking from the -library window he saw Arthur Henge dismounting.</p> - -<p>Perior felt the blood rush to his head. The first impulse of his thought -was to see in Arthur the righteously angered friend come to heap upon -him the shame of his discovered betrayal. He would of course bear the -responsibility as the chiefly false and traitorous. The woman would -shield herself; it was the right of her weakness, and his deep, -unreasonable loyalty to Camelia, a loyalty paternal in its force and -helplessness, accepted the vicarious position, rushed over and confused -every self-asserting instinct. It was with almost the illusion of guilt -that he stood upright, waiting. Then, this last straw he snatched at, -despising it, as he heard Arthur’s step in the hall; was it possible -that he had discovered nothing?—possible that he had come to announce -his engagement?—possible that Camelia, in the bewilderment of her -rejection, had returned to a doubly false, a dastardly allegiance? The -irony of such a supposition did not make it by any means impossible. But -one look at Arthur’s face dismissed the tragic-comic surmise.</p> - -<p>It was a face of stiffened gloom, a face difficult<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a> for the moment to -interpret. Camelia had told the truth, then. Told more than the truth? -Buttressed her falseness with his act of folly?</p> - -<p>Perior expected nothing less than this craven insincerity. To shield her -he must bare his breast for Arthur’s shafts. Arthur might as well know -that he loved her, but Camelia should never know it, so Perior grimly -promised himself as he met his friend’s look with some of the sternness -necessitated by his pitch of unpleasant resolution.</p> - -<p>But Henge’s first words proved that Camelia, at all events, had not been -cowardly.</p> - -<p>“Perior—she has broken our engagement! She accepted me yesterday—and -to-day she has broken our engagement!†and the quick change of -expression on Perior’s face moving him too much, he dropped into a -chair, and leaning his arms on the table, bowed his head upon his hands.</p> - -<p>Perior’s first feeling was a crumbling sense of baseness. The lie -between him and his unfortunate friend scorched him, and his recognition -of Camelia’s courage was swept away by the realization of her cruelty, -by the avenging consciousness that owing to her he feared to meet his -friend’s eyes.</p> - -<p>He kept silent, studying the surrendered reticence of the bent head.</p> - -<p>“She accepted me yesterday, Perior.†Henge repeated it helplessly.</p> - -<p>Perior put his hand on his shoulder. “My dear Henge,†he said.</p> - -<p>Arthur looked up. “I don’t know why I should come to you with it. I am -broken. I could cry like a baby. I love that child, Perior! You saw her<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a> -yesterday; yes, that is why I came. She accepted me yesterday, you know. -Did she say anything to you about it?—when you saw her? You see‗he -smiled miserably—“I want you to turn the knife in my wound.â€</p> - -<p>“I heard it,†said Perior, feeling that a rigid adherence to perhaps -deceptive truth was all that was left to him.</p> - -<p>“But she gave you no reason to think that she had changed her mind?â€</p> - -<p>“What has Camelia said to you, Arthur? One may interpret it -differently,†said Perior, detesting himself.</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur’s face resumed the blankness of its helpless wonder.</p> - -<p>“I got back this morning and she sent for me. I found her white, woeful, -resolute. She said, ‘I made a mistake. I can’t marry you. I am unworthy -of you.’ That to me, Perior! to me! and only yesterday! Oh!—I could -have sworn she cared for me! I don’t blame her; don’t think it. It was -all pity—a fancied tenderness; the shock of realization showed her the -difference. She can’t love me. She unworthy! The courage—the cruelty -even, were worthy; but she repeated that again and again.â€</p> - -<p>“Was that all she said?†Perior asked presently.</p> - -<p>“All? Oh no, that was only the beginning. I tortured her for an hour -with pleadings and protestations. With her it was mere repetition. She -did not love me; she felt it as soon as she had accepted me. She told me -that she sent for you—<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>not for counsel, but to see if her misery was -not mere morbid fancy; she said that Rodrigg—the brute!—rushed in upon -her with implied accusations; to me she confessed—dearest -creature—that she had been foolishly hopeful, foolishly confident in -her eagerness for my cause. She heaped blame upon herself. She called -herself mean, and weak, and shallow—Ah! as if I did not understand the -added nobility! I have not one hard thought of her, not a touch of the -jilted lover’s bitterness. It is my misfortune to see too well the -worthiness of the woman I have lost.â€</p> - -<p>“It is the best thing that could happen to you, Arthur.†Perior, -standing silently beside his friend, absorbed in the contemplation of -this pitifully noble idealization, could now defy his own pain, shake -from himself the clogging sense of shame, and speak from the fulness of -his deep conviction.</p> - -<p>“You mean better than marrying an unloving woman,†said Sir Arthur; but -he had flushed with the effort to misunderstand. Some lack in Perior’s -feeling for Camelia he had always felt. He shrank now from confronting -it.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I mean that and more,†Perior went on, feeling it good to -speak—good for him and good for Arthur—good to shape the hard truth in -hard words, yet with an inconsistency in his resolution, since he wished -Arthur to recognize her unworthiness, yet would have given his life to -keep from him the one supremely blasting instance which he and Camelia -alone knew.</p> - -<p>“She is not worthy of you. I hope that in saying it she felt its truth, -for truth it is.<a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Don’t, Perior—†Sir Arthur had risen. “You pain me.â€</p> - -<p>“But you must listen, my dear boy—and it has pained me. I have been -fond of Camelia—I am fond of her, but I am never with her that she does -not pain me. She pains every one who is unlucky enough to care about -her; that is her destiny—and theirs.â€</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur’s face through a dawning bewilderment now caught a flashing -supposition that whitened it, and kept him silent.</p> - -<p>“From the first, Arthur, I regretted your depth of feeling for her,†-said Perior, after the slight involuntary pause with which he recognized -in his friend’s face his own unconscious revelation. They now stood on -as truthful a ground as he could ever hope for. Arthur had guessed what -Camelia should never know. He could speak from a certain equality of -misfortune—for had not Camelia hurt them both? “In accepting you she -did you one wrong, she would have done you a greater had she married -you. She is not fit to be your wife. You wouldn’t have held her up. Most -men don’t mind ethical shortcomings in their wives—lying, and -meannesses, and the exploiting of other people—they forgive very ugly -faults in a pretty woman; but you would mind. It isn’t as a pretty woman -that you love Camelia, nor even as a clever one, so you would -mind—badly. Don’t look white; there is nothing gross, vulgar, in -Camelia’s wrongness. As your wife she would have been faithful, useful, -kind, no doubt; there would be no stupidities to complain of. She is a -charming creature—don’t I know it! But, Arthur, she is false, -voraciously selfish, hard as a stone.<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>â€</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur had the look of a man who sees a nightmare, long forgotten as -darkest delusion, assuming before his eyes the shape and hue of reality; -he retreated before the obsession. “Don’t, Perior—I cannot listen. I -love her. You are embittered—harsh. Your rigorous conscience is -distorting. You misjudge her.â€</p> - -<p>“No, no, Arthur. I judge her.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah!—not before me, then! I love her,†Sir Arthur repeated. “Good-bye, -Perior. I came to say good-bye. We are going, you know.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes—So am I.â€</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur’s eyes dwelt upon him for a compassionate, a magnanimous -moment. “You are? Ah! I understand.â€</p> - -<p>“More or less?†said Perior, with a spiritless smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, more—more than you can say.â€</p> - -<p>Perior let him go on that supposition. Arthur understood that Camelia -had hurt him. That, after all, was sufficient; left his friend’s mind -without rancor for his galling truth-telling. And, as Perior walked back -into the library, he heaved a long sigh of relief. The Rubicon was -crossed. In so speaking to Arthur he had fortified himself. The truth, -so spoken, was an eternal barrier between him and Camelia. The barrier -was a plain necessity; for Perior was conscious that a possible thrill -lurked for him in the contemplation of Camelia’s last move. Its reckless -disregard of consequences proclaimed a sincerity to which he had done -injustice yesterday. She believed she loved him; she gave up all for his -subjection. Yes, the thrill required suppression.<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a> He must abide in the -firm reality of the words spoken to Arthur—“hard, false, voraciously -selfish;†yes, she might love him, but her love could be no more than a -perplexing combination of these ineradicable qualities.</p> - -<p>The short autumn day drew to a close. From the library window the -evening grayness dimmed the nearest group of larches, golden through all -their erect delicacy. The sad sunset made a mere whiteness in the west. -Perior had been at his writing-table for over an hour, diligently -strangling harassing thoughts, a pipe between his teeth, a consolatory -cat at his elbow, when, in a tone of commonplace that rang oddly in his -ears, “Miss Paton, sir,†was announced by the solemn old retainer.</p> - -<p>Perior wheeled round, and stumbled to his feet; the papers he held fell -in a sprawling heap upon the floor, and the dozing cat jumped down and -took nervous refuge under a chair.</p> - -<p>Camelia, following old Lane with dexterous determination, saw the -astonished commotion and found it encouraging. She was determined but -not desperate. Even without encouragement she fancied that she could -have held her own, sustained as she was by her inner conviction, and -while Lane went out and closed the door, she was even able to cast a -reassuring smile at the cat, whose widened eyes shone at her from under -the chair edge.</p> - -<p>The door safely shut, she turned a steady look upon Perior’s rough head, -silhouetted in monotone on the pale landscape outside. She herself faced -the light. She had walked, and her face showed an exquisite freshness, -an imperative youth and energy.<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a> In the austere room the sudden rose and -white of cheeks and lips and brow, the lustre of her eyes, the pale gold -of her hair, dazzled.</p> - -<p>Fixing Perior with this steady look, she said: “He has been here.â€</p> - -<p>“Henge? yes,†said Perior. Even in the shock of his dismayed confusion -he felt with thankfulness a strong throb of an unswerving energy quite -fit to match hers. He could look at her, dazzled, but not wavering, and, -stooping from the successful encounter of eyes, he picked up the fallen -papers, pushed them into shape, and laid them on the table coolly -enough.</p> - -<p>“You have heard what has happened, then?†Camelia was in nowise -disconcerted by these superficialities.</p> - -<p>“Yes.â€</p> - -<p>“Did you tell him why I broke my engagement?â€</p> - -<p>Perior looked again, and very firmly, at the rose and white and gold.</p> - -<p>“He gave me the reason you had given him. That was sufficient, wasn’t -it?â€</p> - -<p>“Sufficient for him, yes. I gave him only half the truth—I should not -have minded, you know, had you given him the whole.â€</p> - -<p>“I should have minded.â€</p> - -<p>“You? Why should you mind? It was my fault—the whole truth could tell -him nothing less than that,†said Camelia quickly.</p> - -<p>“I appreciate your generosity‗Perior laughed a little—“that really is -generous.†It really was. He put another mark against himself; but a -perception<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a> of his own past injustice did not weaken him.</p> - -<p>“You know why,†she said, and her eyes were now solemn; “you know that I -don’t care about myself any longer—so long as you care. That is all -that makes any difference—now. So you might have told him had you -wished.â€</p> - -<p>“I didn’t want to;†Perior leaned back against the writing-table, -feeling a certain shrinking. Camelia’s power took on new attributes. He -could but recognize a baleful nobility in her self-immolation. After -all, the falseness of yesterday had held a great sincerity—though the -sincerity might only be a morbid folly. He had hardly the excuse of -blindness. With a renewed pang of self-disgust he saw that his more -subtle falseness to her was a weapon in her hand. She had not turned it -against him. Perhaps she did not realize her need. He was glad, by -lowering himself, to lift her.</p> - -<p>She had come forward into the fuller light, and her face, more clearly -revealed, showed the stress that Arthur had seen as a resolute woe. In a -pause at a little distance from him, in the very tension of her face, -Perior saw that she stooped to no weak appeal; it was an intelligent -demand, rather, that he should recognize and do her justice.</p> - -<p>“I know how angry you are with me,†she said, after the slight pause in -which they studied one another. “You believe that I have acted badly; -and so I have. I see it too. I entrapped you, made you feel false to -him, made you feel that you betrayed him. But if you <i>understood</i>. You -have never really understood. You have taken<a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a> the shell of me—the -merely external silliness—so seriously.â€</p> - -<p>Perior could wonder at his own firmness before her. He was filled with -compunction for the pitiful certainty of success—once his stubborn -disbelief were convinced—that spoke through her gravity. He loved her, -and knew that he loved her, against his reason, against his will, -against his heart even, yet heard himself saying, sure of the kindness -of his cruelty—for any prolongation of her security was cruel—</p> - -<p>“I hope never to take a merely external silliness seriously, Camelia. -Let me think of this as one. You should not have come, it can only hurt -you, and me. We had best not see each other again until you have -outgrown, shall we say, your present shell?†Yes, he could rely on the -decisive clear-sightedness that had made him speak the truth, once for -all, to Arthur and to himself. He felt secure in his moral antagonism; -the ascetic admonishment of his voice gratified even a sense of humor, -quite at his own expense, which he perceived in the rigor of his -righteousness. But Camelia made no retreat before that rigor, though the -color left her face, as if he had struck her; her eyes betrayed no -confusion, but a keenness, a steadiness, almost scornful.</p> - -<p>“You think it <i>that</i>?†Perior was not sorry to tell her and himself what -he did think.</p> - -<p>“I think it just that. A phase of your varied existence; a curious -experience to sound. You have set your heart on being in love with -me—since that was an experience most amusingly improbable.<a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a> I am -another toy to grasp since the last disappointed.â€</p> - -<p>“You are dull,†said Camelia. She looked down, clasping her hands behind -her. “You are not sincere. It pleases you to blind yourself with your -preconceived idea of me. Your self-righteousness would not like to own -itself mistaken in believing anything but the worst of me.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! hasn’t it for years been struggling to see only the best of you!†-cried Perior; “I don’t deserve that, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“You see the best now; why won’t you believe in it?â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t say I see the worst—by no means; even there is something that -surprises me, that makes me confess, gladly, that I have misjudged you; -but I can only believe that yesterday, in the impulsive reaction against -your false position—you did not love Arthur—the fact frightened you; I -am glad of that, too; but in the melting illusion you thought of me as -something solid to cling to, and now you are determined to keep on -clinging, deceiving yourself with an impossible mirage of fidelity, -devotion, and self-forgetting, which you’ll never reach, Camelia -—never, never.†Camelia contemplated him.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you believed that, or something even less pathetic; that accounts -for your cruelty—the cruelty of your last words yesterday—so false as -I knew them; but I understood them, saw all you thought, though your -wrath, your injury, your impatience to punish—how fond you are of -punishing!—wouldn’t let me explain. You did not believe that I loved -you—<i>loved</i> you. You do not believe it now. You<a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a> can’t believe that I, -who could have anybody, should choose you. It looks to you like an -aberration. You are afraid of being hurt by believing, afraid I’ll treat -you as I treated him, afraid that you will be another toy—that was what -cut yesterday. You were being played with—I saw you thought it. But I -do love you; you will have to believe it. I do—choose you.†Her head -raised, she was looking at him with the clear command of this inflexible -choice. The sublimity of confidence was touching. Perior, grimly -conscious of its illusory foothold over chasms, could afford a certain -chivalry, could at least restrain the brutality of a push into the void. -He didn’t like the idea of Camelia, his smiling Camelia, really scared, -tumbling from her pinnacles into the abyss where rocky facts awaited -her.</p> - -<p>“I am sensible to the compliment‗the mild irony of his tone was a -warning of insecurity—“though you will own that it is, in some senses, -a dubious one; but it’s very kind in you, who could have anybody, to -stoop to a nobody. My obscurity is gilded by the preference; it will -console, illuminate my solitude.†She flushed, interrupting him with a -quick, sharp—</p> - -<p>“I didn’t intend that! You know it! You are cruel, yes, and mean; for -only my sincerity gives you the power to wound me. You <i>are</i> a somebody; -though the whole world were blind, I can see; that is why I love you. Do -you believe me when I tell you that I love you?†Camelia did not come -closer as she asked it, but her poised expectancy of look seemed to -claim him. Perior folded his arms and stared at her. “I would rather -not,†he said.<a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a></p> - -<p>“Why?‗her voice at last showed a tremor. “You debase me by your -incredulity. If I do not love you—what did yesterday mean?—what does -<i>this</i> mean? It is my only excuse.â€</p> - -<p>“Excuse?‗in this nearing antagonism his voice flamed up at the sudden -outlet—“Excuse? There was no excuse—for yesterday.†Saved from the -direct brutality of refusing her love, the memory of Arthur’s betrayed -trust rose hot within him. Arthur’s sincerity shone in its noble -unconsciousness of the falseness of friend and sweetheart, one falseness -forced, one willing and frivolous; his grief was mocked by her -indifference.</p> - -<p>“Nothing can excuse that,†he said. “What right had you to accept him? -What right had you to keep me in ignorance? Why did you not break with -him before turning to me? By Heaven, Camelia! even knowing you as I do I -cannot understand how you did it! I could hardly look him in the face -when he was here, the thought of it sickened me so.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, that was horrible,†said Camelia.</p> - -<p>“Horrible?†Perior repeated. Her judicial tone exasperated him. He -walked away to the window repeating, “Horrible!†as though exclaiming at -inadequacy.</p> - -<p>“But have I not atoned?†Camelia asked.</p> - -<p>“Atoned?†he stared round at her.</p> - -<p>“I have set him free. I have owned myself unworthy. I did not know you -cared for me when I accepted him, or, at least, I did not know I cared -for you—so much.â€</p> - -<p>Perior continued to look at her for a silent<a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a> moment, contemplating the -monstrousness, yet strangely intuitive truth of her amendment. He let it -pass, feeling rather helpless before it.</p> - -<p>“So that is the way you pave the way to penitence? You atone to the -broken toys by walking over them? No, Camelia, no, nothing atones, -either to him or to me, for that unspoken lie.†He came back to her, -feeling the need to face her for the solemn moment of the contest.</p> - -<p>Camelia was speaking hurriedly at last, losing a little her sustaining -calm—“And had I told you?—Had I said at once that I was engaged to -him?—Would that have helped us?—Could you have said, then, that you -loved me? You would have been too angry—for his sake—to say it, when I -had told you that in one day I had accepted and meant to reject -him‗the questions came eagerly.</p> - -<p>He looked at her face, strong with its still unshaken certainty, white, -delicate, insistent. Loving it and her, his eyes held hers intently, and -he asked, “Did I say I loved you?â€</p> - -<p>A serene dignity rose to meet his look. “You did not <i>say</i> it, perhaps. -You said you did <i>not</i> love me,†she added, with a little smile.</p> - -<p>“I was base—and I spoke basely. I said that I loved you enough to kiss -you. You may scorn me for it.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah!†she said quickly, “that was because you did not believe that I -loved you! You are exonerated.â€</p> - -<p>“Not even then. But if you do love me—choose me, as you say; if I do -love you—which I have not said—and will not say, will not say even to -exculpate<a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a> my folly of last night—even then, Camelia! I would not marry -a woman whom I despise.â€</p> - -<p>“Despise?†she repeated. Her voice was a toneless echo of his. She -weighed the word, and found it heavy, as he saw. Her eyes dwelt on his -mutely, and there dawned slowly in them the terror of the eternal -negative that rose between her and him.</p> - -<p>“You are not good enough for me, Camelia,†said Perior.</p> - -<p>“Because of yesterday!†she gasped. “You can’t forgive that!â€</p> - -<p>“Not only that, Camelia—I do not love you.â€</p> - -<p>She stood silent, gazing. His heart bled for her. To tell the saving -lie, he had faced a jibing self-scorn; yet he continued to face it -inflexibly.</p> - -<p>“I could not live with you. I think you would kill me. I said to poor -Arthur this afternoon what I believe of you—that you are selfish, and -false, and hard as a stone. I could not love a woman of whom I could -think—of whom I had been forced to say—that.â€</p> - -<p>Compunctions rained upon him—sharp arrows. Her mute, white face -appealed—if only to the long devotion, the long tenderness of years.</p> - -<p>The crucial moment was past, and the upwelling tenderness, devotion, -called to him to hurry her away from it, and support her under his own -most necessary cruelty.</p> - -<p>His voice broke in a stammer as he said, taking her hands—“How can I -tell you how I hate myself for saying this?—it is hideous—it is mean -to say.â€</p> - -<p>And Camelia said nothing, seemed merely to<a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a> await, in a frozen stupor, -another blow. He could not see in her now the lying jilt of yesterday.</p> - -<p>“Don’t think of me again as I’ve been this afternoon. Forget it, won’t -you?†he urged; “I am going away to-morrow—and—you will get over it, -be able to see me again—some day, as the good old friend who never -wanted to be cruel—no, I swear it, Camelia. You must go now; you will -let me order the trap? You will let me drive you home?â€</p> - -<p>She had drawn her hands away; in the dim room her eyes met his—bereft, -astonished.</p> - -<p>“You will let me drive you?†Perior repeated with some confusion.</p> - -<p>“No, I will walk,†she said, hardly audibly.</p> - -<p>“The five miles back? It is too far—too late.†He looked away from her, -too much touched by those astonished eyes.</p> - -<p>“No—I will walk.†Then, as he stood still, rather at a loss—</p> - -<p>“You are going to-morrow?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes.â€</p> - -<p>“Because of me?â€</p> - -<p>“Ah—that pleases you!†he said, with a smile a little forced.</p> - -<p>“Pleases me!†The sharpness of her voice cut him, made him feel gross in -his unkindness.</p> - -<p>“It does not please me, but it is the best thing under the -circumstances. Now, Camelia, you must go. I will walk with you. We won’t -speak of this at all—will pretend it never happened. You must forgive -my folly of last night, and get over this touching folly of yours. Come, -we won’t talk of it any more,†he repeated, drawing her hand through<a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a> -his arm, holding it with a clasp consolatory and entreating.</p> - -<p>She did not follow him. “No! no!†she said, half-choked, drawing away -the hand. Then, suddenly, with a great sob, turning to him, she flung -herself upon his breast, clung to him, her hands clutching his -shoulders—</p> - -<p>“Oh! don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! I can’t bear it!†she cried, -shuddering. “I will be good! Oh, I <i>will</i> be good! Give me time, just -wait—and see—†The words were half lost, as with hidden face she wept. -“You are so cruel, so unjust—give me time and see how I will please -you—how you will love me. You must love me—you must—you must.â€</p> - -<p>“Camelia! Camelia!†Perior was shocked, shaken as well. The deep note of -his own voice warned him in its pity, and amazement, and distress, of -the dangerous emotion that seized him. To yield again to an emotion, -even though a higher one than last night’s—to yield with those thoughts -of hers—those spoken thoughts—never, never.</p> - -<p>He tried to hold her off; her sobs made her helpless, but with arms -outstretched—blindly, as he remembered to have seen a crying, stumbling -child, she turned to him—it was too pitiful—as she might have turned -to her mother. How repulse the broken creature? He could but take the -outstretched hands, let her come to him again; she did not put her arms -around him; there was no claim; only a clinging, her face hidden, as she -sobbed, “Don’t leave me! Don’t! I love you! I adore you!<a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“My poor child!â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, your poor child! Be sorry for me, be kind—only a child. I -did not mean to deserve that—torture, you—despising! I never <i>meant</i> -anything—so wrong. Only a silly, a selfish, a frivolous child—won’t -you see it?—never caring for the toys I played with—never caring for -anything but you, <i>really</i>. Can’t you see it now, as I do? I have grown -up, I have put away those things. Can’t you forgive me?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. Great heavens! I am not such a prig, such a fool! I have -always hoped——â€</p> - -<p>“That you could allow yourself to love me! Ah, say it! say it!†She -looked up, lifting her face to his.</p> - -<p>“To be fond of you, Camelia,†said Perior. “I can’t say more than that!â€</p> - -<p>“Because you won’t believe in me! Can’t believe in me! And I can’t live -without you to help me! Haven’t you seen, all along, that you were the -only one I cared about? Half my little naughtinesses were only to -provoke you, to make you angry, to see that you cared enough to be -angry. All the rest—the worldliness—the using of people—yes, yes, I -own to it!—but no one was better than I! Why should I have been good -when no one else is? When all are playing the same game, and most people -only fit to play with? Why should I have been better than they?â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, Camelia, but—my wife would have to be.â€</p> - -<p>“She <i>will</i> be.â€</p> - -<p>“Don’t make me hurt you—don’t be so cruel to yourself.<a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“She will be,†Camelia repeated.</p> - -<p>“I beg of you—I implore you, Camelia.†He hardened his face to meet her -look, searching, eager, pitiful.</p> - -<p>“How could I say this unless I believed you loved me—had always loved -me? Don’t speak; don’t say no; don’t send me away. You are angry. You -have the right to be; but, ah! if you only knew what I feel for you.â€</p> - -<p>“Don’t tell me, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“But I must. I love everything about you—I always have. When you were -near me I saw every gesture you made, heard every word you spoke, knew -every thought you had about me. I love your little ways—I know them -all; that wag of your foot when you are angry, the look of your teeth -when you smile, your hands, your face, your dear rough hair——â€</p> - -<p>Perior had turned from red to white, and still looking at him, shaking -her head a little, she finished very simply on a long sigh—</p> - -<p>“I can’t live without you. I <i>can’t</i>.â€</p> - -<p>“Camelia, I can’t marry you,†he said; and then, taking breath in the -ensuing silence, “You are mistaken. I don’t love you. I have your -welfare at my heart; I wish you all happiness, all good. I am sorry, -terribly sorry for you; but I do not love you. You must believe me. I do -not love you. I will not marry you.—God forgive me for the lie,†he -said to himself; “but no, no, no, I can<i>not</i> marry her, poor impulsive, -wilful, half noble, half pitiful child, a thousand times no.†The strong -rebellion of his very soul steadied him. He could<a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a> yield without a -tremor to his pity, could take her hands and hold them in a clasp -convincingly paternal and pitying.</p> - -<p>Camelia closed her eyes, drawing in a long breath, too sharp in its -accepted bitterness for the break of a sob. Her face, with this tragedy -of still woe upon it, was almost unrecognizable. Until now it had been a -face of triumph. Defeat—and that at last she recognized defeat he -saw—changed its very lines; the iron entered her soul, and something -left her face for ever. For a long time she did not speak, and her voice -seemed dimmed, as though spoken from a great distance, when she said, -her eyes still closed, “Then you never loved me!â€</p> - -<p>“Never,†said Perior, who, encompassed by the saving lie, could freely -breathe in the tonic atmosphere of his resolute pain.</p> - -<p>“But—you are fond of me?†said Camelia; and as she spoke, from under -the solemn pressure of her eyelids, pressed down as on a dead hope, -great tears came slowly.</p> - -<p>“Great Heaven! Fond of you? <i>Fond</i> of you? Yes—yes, my dear Camelia.†-He leaned forward and kissed her forehead above the closed eyes.</p> - -<p>“Ah!†she murmured, “I was so sure you loved me!†More than its rigid -misery, the humble bewilderment on her face, as of a creature stricken -helpless, and not comprehending its pain, hurt him, warned him that -every moment made it more difficult to keep down the fluttering of a -longing he would not, must never satisfy. He seemed to crush a harsh -hand on its delicate wings as he said—<a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a></p> - -<p>“And now you will go. You will let me walk home with you?â€</p> - -<p>She shook her head. “No, no.â€</p> - -<p>She went towards the door, her hand still in his.</p> - -<p>“You should not go alone. I beg of you, dear, to let me come.â€</p> - -<p>“I would rather go alone.â€</p> - -<p>They were in the hall, and she had not looked at him again. She put her -hand out to the door and then she paused. Perior had also paused.</p> - -<p>“Will you kiss me good-bye?†she said.</p> - -<p>“Will I? O Camelia!†At that moment he felt himself to be more false -than he had been during all the scene with her, for as he kissed her the -fluttering wings beat upward with the exultant throb of a released -desire. And she did not know. She believed him. All her hope was -stricken in the dust. And yet they clung together—lovers; he ashamed of -his knowledge; she pathetic, tragic, in her chastened, her humiliated, -trust and ignorance.<a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel was walking across the hall on her way to the staircase -when Camelia entered. She had not seen Camelia since the morning’s -catastrophe, a catastrophe as yet unannounced, but plainly discernible -in the departure of the Henges, in Lady Paton’s retirement, Camelia’s -disappearance, and Mary’s heavy silence. Mary herself hardly knew as -yet, could only suspect, with a sickening droop of disappointment -following a hope, unreasonable perhaps, but delicious while it so -briefly lasted.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel plied her with profitless questions during tea-time; -she only knew that Sir Arthur had ridden away, that Lady Henge had -followed with the boxes, that Aunt Angelica was in her room, and that -Camelia had gone out. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was not disposed to let Camelia -off easily; and now, undeterred by the almost vacant stare her young -hostess bent upon her, she rushed at her imperatively.</p> - -<p>“You look quite half mad, Camelia! What is the matter? The Henges are -gone, she as gloomy as a hearse. I have not seen your mother since -breakfast. Has a thunderbolt struck the house? You accepted Arthur Henge -yesterday, and to-day you give him his <i>congé</i>. Is it possible?<a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>â€</p> - -<p>Camelia’s hand waved her aside. What did this chattering, rattling -creature want of her? She belonged to a dim primeval age, the age of -yesterday, before the cataclysm had changed everything.</p> - -<p>“No; you are not going to get rid of me like that!†Mrs. Fox-Darriel -followed her swiftly up the stairs. “That would be a little too bad, to -leave me, all curiosity, frying in my own ignorance. Now, Camelia, let -me have the whole truth of it. What has happened?†She confronted her in -her room.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have broken my engagement.â€</p> - -<p>“Why? great heavens, why?â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t love him. Please go, Frances.â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel crossed her arms and surveyed her friend in an -exasperated silence.</p> - -<p>“Was that so necessary?†she asked presently, while Camelia, sitting in -a low chair half turned from her, unbuttoned her muddy boots and -gaiters.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it was. I wish you would go away.â€</p> - -<p>“You know what every one will think—you know what <i>I</i> think!—that you -accepted him to prove you could throw him over. You try him on to show -that you can fit him, and then kick him away, precisely as you kick away -that muddy boot. It is an unheard-of thing. It is distinctly nasty.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia leaned back with closed eyes, hardly hearing, certainly not -caring for the words, though their sound was an importunate jangling at -her ears, wearisome, irritating.</p> - -<p>“As for the egregious folly of it! well, my dear, you may have plans -into which I am not initiated, but the day will come, I think, in which -you will<a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a> own that you have behaved like a horrid little fool.†Mrs. -Fox-Darriel moved towards the door, not caring to outstay her climax, -yet urged to an addenda by the exasperating, almost slumbering -indifference of Camelia’s face. “I will go. You want to finish your cry. -Have you been walking about the lanes crying? I am off to the Dormers -to-morrow; I only stayed on here because of you; my occupation now is -decidedly gone.â€</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,†said Camelia.</p> - -<p>When she was alone she rose and bolted the door. Her ten miles had tired -her physically, and she sank back into her chair, her stockinged feet -stretched out, her muddy skirts clinging damply about her ankles.</p> - -<p>Yes, let the whole truth surge over her, and find her unresisting.</p> - -<p>He did not love her; had never loved her. He despised her. The -remembrance of his scorn crept over her like a gnawing flame. The shame -of last night’s dancing, of his reluctant embrace, that she had courted, -came upon her in an awful revelation; and the wilful, desperate passion -of to-day, sure of the hidden treasure he withheld from her in -punishment only—a child pounding at a locked door. And the room was -empty; there had been no treasure. She had forced him to open to her the -dreadful vacancy. His sad friendship, smarting still from its momentary -debasement, had sheltered her from the keenest pang; it was as if he had -held her hand as, together, they went into that vacant room; now, alone, -the realization of her own abasement stunned her. But she loved him. It -had not<a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a> been for her love that he had scorned her, though -misinterpreting it so cruelly. She had made it impossible that she -should ever retrieve herself, or that he should ever see the truth; her -falseness had blinded him to her only worth, yet even now the -consciousness of that worth held her from utter loss of self-respect, -the consciousness of the intrinsic nobility of her devotion, rejected -alas! seen with darkest disfigurements, but standing upright and -unashamed at the centre of her life. This great love was like an -over-soul, a nobler self looking with sad eyes at the prostrate, the -utterly confounded Camelia.</p> - -<p>Then came throbs of loneliness and terror. He was going away! She sprang -up under the knife-like thrust of the thought. Oh! if at least he had -believed her! If at least he had seen tragedy, not a poor, silly farce, -the only noble thing in her life distorted to a wretched folly. Only -outwardly had she been a child screaming for an unattainable toy. She -walked up and down the room, her hands wrung together, until a quivering -weakness of fatigue came over her, and she flung herself face downwards -on the bed.</p> - -<p>Sobs came with the despairing posture. Her whole body shook with them.</p> - -<p>A tiny, timid knock at the door broke in on the miserable satisfaction -of woe expressed.</p> - -<p>Camelia held back her weeping and listened silently.</p> - -<p>“Camelia,†said her mother’s voice, a voice tremulous with tears, “may I -not see you, my darling?â€</p> - -<p>In her agonizing self-absorption Camelia heard the<a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a> words with a -resentment made fierce by sympathy crushed down.</p> - -<p>“No,†she said, steadying her voice, for her mother must not think her -weeping in regret over her act of repudiation, “you can’t.â€</p> - -<p>“Please, my child ‗Lady Paton evidently began to sob, and Camelia, -wrapping herself in a sense of necessary and therefore justified -brutality, again buried her head in the pillow. Yes, she was a brute, of -course, but—how silly of her mother to stand there crying! How -tactless, at least; for Camelia at once hated herself for the other -word. What did she expect? She seemed nearly as remote as Frances—not -quite, for she could see Frances and repulse her with complete -indifference, and she could not meet her mother indifferently. There -would be the pain, the irritation of feigning.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be cruel, dear.†The words reached her dimly through the pillow. -Cruel! Camelia smiled bitterly. <i>She</i> did not know. The apparent cause -for grief was slight indeed; the real one was locked forever in her -heart, so let them think her cruel.</p> - -<p>The hopeless little click of the door-knob showed that her mother’s hand -had been appealingly laid upon it. Her slow footstep passed along the -hall. Camelia lay in her damp, hot pillow, her eyes closed. “Yes I am a -brute,†she said to herself; and then, thinking of Perior, her tears -flowed again.<a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>RS. JEDSLEY’S visit of curiosity and condolence was of a surprisingly -consolatory nature. As an old friend, Mrs. Jedsley permitted herself the -curiosity; but even from an old friend Lady Paton had not expected a -true-ringing generosity of judgment.</p> - -<p>“I came, my dear—yes, because I wanted to know. My ears are buzzing -with the talk of it—true or false, who can tell? Not even you, I fancy; -but I have my own opinion,†said Mrs. Jedsley. “I understand Camelia -pretty well; but vulgarly, schemingly cruel—rubbish! rubbish!—so I -say!â€</p> - -<p>That the saying had been at all necessary made poor Lady Paton more -white, yet Mrs. Jedsley’s denunciation was so sincere that she took her -hands, saying, “How can they! It was a mistake. She found she did not -love him. <i>He</i> understands.†Sir Arthur’s parting words had haloed her -daughter for her during these difficult days.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, he is a very fine fellow, and idealizes her tremendously,†-said Mrs. Jedsley, with strict justice. “It was, of course, a great -shame for her not to have made up her mind long ago—a great shame to -have accepted him‗Mrs. Jedsley shore off Camelia’s beams -relentlessly—“and a great pity, my dear, that the engagement should -have been<a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a> announced, since a few hours of silence might have shifted -the matter, and no one the wiser. But of course we were all as ready as -dry kindling for the match—it spread like wildfire—a fine crackling! -and then, in a day, a fine cackling! Lady Haversham came running down to -me post-haste to say it was off—to wonder, to exult. Of course she is -an adherent of the Duchess’s, and Lady Elizabeth has her chance again. -But yes, yes, I know the child—a vain child, a selfish child; ah! it -pains you; one must face that truth to see beyond it—to others; but not -vulgarly cruel. She would not play with the man for months to give -herself the feline fun of crunching him at the end of it all. She was -playing with herself rather, only half in earnest. The engagement -brought her to her senses—held her still; she couldn’t dance, so she -thought. Indeed, it’s the first time I’ve respected Camelia. I do -respect a person who has the courage to retrieve a false step. It is -quite a good enough match to turn a girl into a schemer. At least she -has proved she’s not that.â€</p> - -<p>“No! no! My daughter!â€</p> - -<p>“Quite true; your daughter; that does count, after all. No, she can’t be -accused of husband-hunting.†Mrs. Jedsley laughed dryly. “Now, the -question of course remains, who <i>is</i> she in love with?†and she fixed on -her friend a gaze so keenly interrogative that it certainly suggested -tinder ready to flash alight of itself. “Not our Parliamentary big-wig, -Mr. Rodrigg? Oh no!â€</p> - -<p>“No, indeed.†Lady Paton’s head-shake might have damped the most arduous -conjecture. “He<a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a> went away, you know—very angrily, it seems, and most -discourteously, for I did not even see him. He behaved very badly, -Michael told me. Michael himself is gone; you knew that too? He just -stopped to see me on his way to the station.â€</p> - -<p>“Mr. Perior—yes.†Mrs. Jedsley looked ruminative; even to her quickly -jumping mind that long leap of inference did not suggest itself except -in one connection.</p> - -<p>Poor Mr. Perior! Had Camelia been giving the mitten right and left? -Buffeting back into hopelessness each suitor who advanced, encouraged by -another’s failure? Had Mr. Perior really been foolish enough to run his -head into that trap?</p> - -<p>“Now that the comedy is over, the chief confidant packs up—he quite -filled that rôle, didn’t he?†she said. “And our fine jingling lady, -Mrs. Fox-Darriel? Has she, too, folded her tents and stolen away?—not -silently, I’ll be bound. She had staked something on the match.â€</p> - -<p>“She is gone. She spoke unkindly to me of Camelia. I do not like her. I -could say nothing, it was so——â€</p> - -<p>“So neatly done. She implied, merely; you would have accepted inferences -by recognizing them. I can hear her!â€</p> - -<p>“She felt for me. Camelia had gone too far—it didn’t look well; a girl -must not overstep certain limits; one could make too much of a -reputation for audacity; Camelia’s charm had been to be audacious, -without seeming so. And the sad affair of Mr. Rodrigg—Camelia should -not have stooped, and to no purpose; people turned on one so horridly.<a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a> -Poor Sir Arthur would lose his bill as well as his sweetheart, now that -Camelia had meddled so disastrously. Oh! she was most unkind.†Lady -Paton evidently remembered the unkindness—her voice was a curious echo.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Jedsley ruminated energetically all the way back to the village, -as, her skirts raised in either hand, she marched with heavy-booted -splashes through the mud. Near the village she overtook Mary, bending as -she walked, an umbrella uncomfortably wedged under one arm, several -parcels encumbering her.</p> - -<p>“My dear, why walk in this weather?†Mrs. Jedsley herself walked in all -weathers, but for Mary, with a pleasant equine background, the necessity -was not obvious; she joined her with the ejaculation.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I like walking, Mrs. Jedsley,†said Mary. “Aunt Angelica always -tells me to have the pony-cart, but it seems hardly worth while for this -little distance.â€</p> - -<p>“A good mile. Where are you bound for?â€</p> - -<p>“I want to see Mrs. Brown; Kitty was rather troublesome in Sunday-school -last Sunday.â€</p> - -<p>“And how nicely you manage that class. It is a credit to you. Camelia -now laughs at it.†Mary said nothing to this, and Mrs. Jedsley added, -“Not that she has much heart for laughing at anything just now from what -I hear. That is the very encouraging feature of the whole case. It is -ridiculous to speak of her as setting feathers in her cap with a light -heart. She really feels this sad affair.<a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Yes,†said Mary, looking ahead with a rather rigid settling of her -features.</p> - -<p>“One might perhaps say affairs,†Mrs. Jedsley added, for she could not -keep those restless conjectures to herself; out they galloped. “It has -been a general <i>débâcle</i>. Mr. Rodrigg gone in a fury—breathing flame; -Sir Arthur flung from his triumph—and, poor Mr. Perior. Now I really -did not expect it of Mr. Perior; I thought he knew her so well—yet, for -eyes that can see it’s very evident, isn’t it?â€</p> - -<p>Mary looked down, making no reply.</p> - -<p>“Evidently she has a charm the most metallic male heart can’t withstand; -a case of molten iron with Mr. Perior—in that condition I can imagine -him irresistible to some women. But such a reasonable man; -well-seasoned, and her friend for years. Oh! it’s a great pity that he -let her melt him; no one knows now what shape his despair will cool to?â€</p> - -<p>Mary, her head bent persistently downward, stared at the muddy road.</p> - -<p>“That she was very fond of him there is no denying,†Mrs. Jedsley -pursued, “but I should have seen that as the most hopeless part of the -matter. A girl like Camelia doesn’t marry the middle-aged mentor of her -youth. But fond of him she is. I have watched her. Her eyes were always -sliding round to him. He made a standard to her; she might jibe at it, -but she liked to see it standing there—and to hang a wreath on it now -and then. Upon my word, Mary!†and Mrs. Jedsley, stopping short in a -mud-puddle, turned triumphant eyes on Mary’s impassive face, “I -shouldn’t be surprised if <i>that</i> were the real matter with her. She is -really<a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a> fond of him; his tumble hurts her more than the other’s. She -misses her sign-post pointing steadily at friendship. She is sorry to -lose her friend.â€</p> - -<p>Mary after a little pause said, “Yes.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes! You think so too!†cried Mrs. Jedsley delightedly. “You have -opportunities, of course——â€</p> - -<p>“Oh no! No, indeed, Mrs. Jedsley—I only think, only imagine——â€</p> - -<p>“You have thought and imagined what I have. And that we are right I -don’t doubt. The double catastrophe accounts very fully for her low -spirits—and I really respect her for them, though that the catastrophe -should have occurred makes it only just that she should suffer. But Mr. -Perior was foolish. Ah yes! in her defence I must say that!â€</p> - -<p>Mary was saying nothing, standing mutely at the parting of the roads -until her companion should have done. She was well prepared for Mrs. -Jedsley’s unconscious darts.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s parting look and parting words still rankled in her -heavy heart; the look, one of pity; the words: “She has refused the -other too! And him she would have liked to keep dangling! She enjoys an -interminable sense of drama when he is by; her life is bereft without -it. But the man was mad to think that she would take him,†and the look -had added that the man was a fool not to see and be contented with the -minor fact Mary would have been so willing to supply. Mary had felt -withered; her nerves scorched to apathy, since that look.</p> - -<p>“You must come in and have tea with me, my dear,†said Mrs. Jedsley, “it -will put strength into<a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a> you for your talk with Mrs. Brown. Come and have -a cup with me—and you know my hot scones; we will talk this over. Your -aunt doesn’t suspect it, poor dear!â€</p> - -<p>“No, Mrs. Jedsley, thanks—I can’t come, and no, aunt does not -know—must not know; it would make her feel very unhappy! she is so fond -of Mr. Perior; she doesn’t suspect it,†Mary spoke with sudden -insistence—“and then, it may be pure imagination on my part,†she -added, flushing before Mrs. Jedsley’s smiling and complacent head-shake. -“It would be unfair to <i>them</i>—would it not?—to Camelia I -mean—and——â€</p> - -<p>“And Mr. Perior; quite true, my dear. We must be as quiet as mice about -it. Unfair, as you say. We must not hang out his heart for the daws to -peck at. Poor man! You won’t come in to tea?â€</p> - -<p>“Thanks, no. I must be home early.†Mary hurried away. She bit her lips -hard, staring before her at the wet browns and grays of the lane, dingy, -drab, like her life; narrow, dull, chill with on-coming winter, and -leading—the lane led to the churchyard. Mary’s thoughts followed it to -that destination, and suddenly the hot tears rolled down her cheeks, and -hard sobs shook her as she walked.<a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HESE days were very lonely for Lady Paton. The house was empty, and one -could not call companionship Camelia’s mute, white presence.</p> - -<p>Camelia read all day in the library, where only Siegfried was made -welcome, or rode for hours about the wintry country. To all timid -questions, as to future plans, she only answered by a coldly decisive, -“I don’t know.†When her mother put her arms around her, Camelia stood -impassive in their circling love, locked in her own frozen mood of -despairing humiliation.</p> - -<p>One day when in her room she had broken down her outward endurance by an -impulsive cry of woe, and stood sobbing, her face in her hands, her -mother came in, made courageous by pity.</p> - -<p>“My dearest child, tell me—what is it? You are breaking your heart and -mine. Do you love him? Tell me, darling. Is it some hidden scruple? some -fancy? Let me send for him,†poor Lady Paton’s thoughts dwelt longingly -on amorous remedies.</p> - -<p>“Love him? Sir Arthur? Are you mad, mother?†Camelia lifted a stern -face. “He doesn’t enter my mind. He is nothing to me—simply nothing.â€</p> - -<p>“But, Camelia—you are miserable——â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! I have a right to that dreary liberty.<a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“And—Oh don’t be angry, dearest—is there no one else?â€</p> - -<p>“No one else?†Camelia repeated it angrily indeed;—that her mother -should give this stupid wrench to her heart was intolerable. “Of course -there is no one else! How can you be so tiresome, mother. There—don’t -cry. I am simply sick of everything—myself included, that is all that -is the matter with me. Please don’t cry!†for sympathetic tears were -coming into her own eyes, and above all things, she dreaded a breaking -down of reserves, a weakened dignity that might bring her to a sobbing, -maudlin confession, that would burn her afterwards, and follow her -everywhere in the larger pity of her mother’s eyes.</p> - -<p>Lady Paton, her handkerchief at her lips, pressed back her grief, saying -in a broken entreaty, “But, Camelia—why? How long will it last? You -were always such a happy creature.â€</p> - -<p>“How can I tell?†Camelia gave a little laugh that carried her over the -vanquished sob to a certain calmness; leaning back against the -mantelpiece she added, smiling drearily, “Don’t worry, mother; don’t -<i>you</i> be miserable.â€</p> - -<p>Lady Paton looked at her with eyes in which Camelia felt the unconscious -dignity of an inarticulate reproof.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my child!†she said, “my child! Am I not your mother? Is not your -happiness my only happiness?—your sorrow my last and greatest sorrow? -You forget me, dear, in your own grief. You shut me out—because you -don’t love me—as I love you;—it is that that hurts the most.<a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>â€</p> - -<p>Camelia stood looking at her. Her artistic sensibility was decidedly -impressed by this unexpected revelation of character. How well her -mother’s white hair and cap looked on the pale greens of the room; the -exquisite face, and the more exquisite soul looking from it. How well -she had spoken; how truly too. Yes, her own worthlessness clung to her; -she, so far inferior in moral worth, made this sweet, fragile creature -unhappy; she was everything to her mother, the light that shone through -and sustained the white petals of her flower-like being; and her mother -was to her only a pretty detail. Camelia analyzed it all very -completely, and resting on an achieved self-disgust she said, gravely -contemplating her, “It is a great shame, mother. That is the way of this -wretched world. The good people are always making beauty for the bad -ones. You shouldn’t let that lovely, but most irrational maternal -instinct dominate you; see me as I am, a horrid creature.†She paused, -and all thoughts of artistic effects, all poetical and scientific -appreciations, were blotted out in a flame-like leap of memory—“false, -selfish, hard as a stone,†she said.</p> - -<p>“Don’t say it, dear—you could not say it if it were so.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes!—one can, if one has a devilish clearness of perception about -everything. I am horrid—and I know that I am horrid. And you are very -lovely. There.†And kissing her, Camelia pushed her gently to the door.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, however, more than artistic sensibilities had been touched. -Camelia shrank as quickly as before from any demonstration that seemed -to look<a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a> too closely at her heart, but she herself would make advances. -She was only gentle, now, towards her mother; she never failed to kiss -or caress her when they met. A cheerful coldness seemed at once her -surest refuge and most becoming medium for an affection that could allow -itself no warmer and more dangerous avowals. It was a colorless, still -affection, held, as it were, from development, only felt by Lady Paton -as a more careful kindness, and by Camelia as a new necessity for -incurring no further self-reproach.</p> - -<p>Poor Lady Paton, devouring her heart in sorrowful conjecture and -helpless sympathy, had no thought but of her child; but by her side, -Mary, the silent witness of her grief and anxiety, might have claimed, -from disengaged eyes, a foreboding attention. Since the day of her -stolen ride Mary had effaced herself in a shadowy taciturnity. She -watched Camelia, and avoided her. Her absorption in every household duty -became minutely forced. She slipped early to bed after a day of -self-imposed labor. Work and its ensuing weariness, were the only -sedatives for intolerable pain; she deadened herself with the drug. The -weather was bad, and Lady Paton too depressed to rouse herself to her -usual benignant activity. Mary took upon herself her Aunt’s abandoned -occupations. She went every day to read to the paralyzed girl at the -Manor Farm. She made the weekly round of visits through the wet village -streets; consulted with the well-worked rector; kept an eye upon the -school and almshouses. Mary was not particularly popular in the village. -Her kindness was rather flat and flavorless; Jane<a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a> Hicks at the farm -complained to her mother that Miss Fairleigh’s reading was “so dull -like; one didn’t seem to get anything from it.â€</p> - -<p>Jane never forgot the one visit Miss Paton made her, nor how Camelia had -sat beside her and kept her laughing the whole hour. Camelia, seeing the -effect she made, had promised to return some day, but events had -interfered, she now was in no mood for laughing, and Jane was always -eager to question Mary about Camelia’s doings, and to sigh with the -pleasant reminiscence of her “pretty ways.†Mary’s virtues were all -peculiarly unremunerative, they sought, and obtained, no reward.</p> - -<p>Towards the beginning of December Camelia’s despair threw itself into -action. The rankling sense of Perior’s scorn at first stupefied, and at -last roused her. Before him she had felt her powerlessness. His rocky -negative had broken her. He would not change—not a thought of his -changing stirred her deep hopelessness; but she herself might -change—merit at least a friendship unflawed—cast off crueller -accusations.</p> - -<p>She must be good, she must struggle from the shell; she must realize, -however feebly, his ideal. He would never love her—that delusion of her -vanity he had killed forever; but he might be fond of her without a -compunction.</p> - -<p>Towards this comparatively humble attainment Camelia strove. How to be -good was the question. Of course she would never tell lies any -more—unless necessary lies of self-defence, in protection of her dear, -her dreadful secret—Camelia could address it by both names; the love -that sustained and must<a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a> lift her life, even he should never see again. -After all, it was easy enough to tell the truth when one cared no more -for any of the things gained by falseness. That was hardly a step -upward. Some other mode of development must be found; Camelia pondered -this necessity, and one day during a walk past Perior’s model cottages -the thought came. She, too, would build cottages, beautiful cottages, -more beautiful than his! She almost laughed at the delicious, teasing, -old friendliness of that addenda.</p> - -<p>The Patons’ estate boasted only very commonplace residences for its -laborers, and delightful visions of co-operative farming, of idealized -laboring conditions flashed joyously through Camelia’s mind. Vast fields -of study opened alluringly, and, immediately in the foreground, these -idyllic cottages. They bloomed with trellised flowers on the gray -December landscape as she walked. The wall-papers were chosen by the -time she reached home. She burst upon her mother in the firelit -drawing-room at tea-time with an enthusiasm that made Lady Paton’s heart -jump.</p> - -<p>“Mother! Such an idea! I am going to build.â€</p> - -<p>Mary, who was toasting a muffin to hotter crispness before the fire, -turned a thin, flushed face at the announcement.</p> - -<p>“Build what, dear?†asked Lady Paton; while Mary, certain in one moment -of what Camelia was going to build, and why, silently put the -ameliorated muffin on the little plate by her aunt’s side.</p> - -<p>“Cottages. Model cottages. Beautiful cottages—really beautiful, you -know—Elizabethan; beams,<a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a> white plaster, latticed windows, deep -window-seats, and the latest modernity in drains and bath-tubs.â€</p> - -<p>“Like Michael’s, you mean,†said Lady Paton, a little bewildered; “his -are not Elizabethan, but the drains and bath-tubs are very good, I -believe.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia’s face changed when her mother spoke of “Michael;†and Mary, -watching as usual, compressed her lips tightly. The cottages were to be -built for him—with him! Ah! he would come back. Camelia would keep -him—for building cottages, for adoring her; while she, Mary, would be -thrust further and further away.</p> - -<p>“Yes, like his, only better than his. My tenants shall be the best -housed of the county.†Camelia threw herself into an easy-chair, and -fixed her eyes thoughtfully upon the fire.</p> - -<p>“It will be very expensive, dear.â€</p> - -<p>“Never mind; we’ll economize.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia had not so looked or spoken for weeks, and Lady Paton smiled a -happy acquiescence.</p> - -<p>Camelia took the cup of tea her cousin offered her without looking away -from the fire, where she saw the cottages charmingly pictured, and she -and Perior looking at them—friends.</p> - -<p>“Your boots are wet, dear, are they not?†asked Lady Paton; “it has been -raining.â€</p> - -<p>“They are wet, I think. Mary, just ring, will you? Grant must take them -off down here. I am too tired, too comfortable, to go upstairs.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia sighed as though the fundamental heaviness of her mood rose -through the seeming light-heartedness of tone; sighed, and yet the -relief of<a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a> getting outside herself was filling her with an exhilarating -energy.</p> - -<p>As she drank her tea, ate a muffin, Mary browning it nicely for -her—“How cosy to have tea by ourselves,†said Camelia, “and toast our -own muffins!‗she talked as she had not talked for a long time. Her -mind ran quickly, escaping its miserable thraldom, from point to point -of the project.</p> - -<p>She pushed aside the tea-things to make with spoons and saucers a plan -of the new scheme.</p> - -<p>“That high bit of land, you know, with the beech woods behind it; I’ll -have six of the cottages, with big gardens; and what a view from the -front windows. I will furnish them, too. I must see an architect at -once: I’ll go up to town for that, and talk it over with Lady Tramley. -Where is her last letter, I wonder? I remember her asking me for some -date; but that doesn’t matter. She wanted me to go out, and of course I -won’t.†Camelia sprang up to rumple over the leaves of the blotter, the -drawers of the writing-desk. “Where is the letter? In the library, I -wonder?â€</p> - -<p>“There is a whole pile, dear, in the small cabinet. You did not care to -look at them. I think they had better be gone over.â€</p> - -<p>“No; here is hers. I don’t care about the others. I don’t want to hear -anything about any one,†Camelia added with some bitterness, as she -dropped into her chair again and held out her foot to Grant, who had -come in with the shoes. “Yes; she asks me for next week.â€</p> - -<p>“If you won’t go out, dear, it may be rather annoying for her.<a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Oh! she can get out of things herself while I am with her,†said -Camelia easily, as her eyes skimmed over the letter.</p> - -<p>The new impulse was too strong to be thwarted by the slightest delay. -That evening Camelia sent off a bulky letter to Lady Tramley, much -astonishing that good friend by her absolute ignoring of important facts -in recent history. Sir Arthur was not so much as hinted at. The whole -letter bristled with cottages, and Camelia’s earnestness panted on every -page.</p> - -<p>“She is going in for philanthropy, I suppose,†Lady Tramley conjectured, -shaking her head with a patient smile over the small, flowing -handwriting—Camelia hated untidy scrawls. “Let us help her. Camelia is -sure to do something interesting in the way of cottages. She’ll carry -them through like a London season.â€</p> - -<p>Lady Tramley, as may be gathered from these remarks, was one of -Camelia’s admirers, though not a blind or bigoted one. She shook her -head on many occasions, but Camelia’s defects were not serious matters -to her gay philosophy, and Camelia’s qualities in this frivolous world, -where nothing should be peered at too closely, were attractively -sparkling. As a successful hostess Lady Tramley prized the charming Miss -Paton.</p> - -<p>“Now mind,†Camelia said on arriving at her friend’s house, “I am not -going to be shown to any one. I am in a monastic frame of mind, and must -be kept unspotted from the world. No dances or dinners, if you please,†-and she fixed her with eyes really grave.<a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a></p> - -<p>“Very well.†Lady Tramley acquiesced as to a humorous and pretty whim. -“My doors are closed while you are here—as on a retreat. But when will -the season of penance be over? We are all expiating with you, remember.â€</p> - -<p>“Do I imply penance? Is that the habit my retirement wears?â€</p> - -<p>“People give you credit for all sorts of niceties of feeling.†Lady -Tramley smiled her significant little smile, a smile not lavished on the -nothings of intercourse, and Camelia, taking her by the shoulders, shook -her softly.</p> - -<p>“No; sly as you are you get nothing out of me, and give me credit for -nothing, please, not even for curiosity as to what people <i>do</i> say of -me.â€</p> - -<p>“You know, dear, he is to meet, I fear, a second disaster as -unmerited——â€</p> - -<p>Camelia had sat down to the tea-tray brought to refresh her after her -journey. She looked up from the filling of her cup to meet in a glance -the delicate directness of Lady Tramley’s look.</p> - -<p>“Jack knows the ropes, of course, and I thought you ought to know -too—and be sorry.†In her heart Lady Tramley hoped for an expansion of -sorrow that would carry Camelia past her moment of inexplicable folly.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry. The bill, you mean.†Camelia folded a slice of bread and -butter, adding “Idiots.â€</p> - -<p>“Idiots indeed. It won’t be carried, I am afraid. There is a split in -the Government, and Mr. Rodrigg has developed a really spiteful -acrimony. I always hated that man.<a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! I loathe him!†said Camelia. She thought with a pang of -self-reproach of an unopened letter among the rejected pile—a letter -for Mr. Rodrigg. She had not cared to read his shuffling excuses. His -vanity, bulwarked by the strangely apt events succeeding his -discomfiture, might well renew hope. He might imagine these events the -result of remorse, and that, brought to a timely realization of her -folly, his fair one would consent to bury the hatchet and allow his firm -hand to tame her finally. All this Camelia had conjectured very rightly -on looking at the fat envelope. She had restrained the direct rebuff of -returning the unopened letter, but she had neither answered nor cared to -read it, and could well imagine that Mr. Rodrigg’s cumulative -humiliation would urge him to his only possible vengeance. The “I loathe -him†was spoken with a most feeling intensity of tone.</p> - -<p>“Yes.†Lady Tramley’s affirmative was meaning, and Camelia looked up -alertly. “Lady Henge told me.â€</p> - -<p>“You know everything, I believe,†cried Camelia. “Well, I am in good -hands.â€</p> - -<p>“I understand—your idea in it. But how unwise. How you mistook the -man.â€</p> - -<p>“Rather! Ass that I am!â€</p> - -<p>“You looked for superlative chivalry, if you come to think of it.â€</p> - -<p>“No, for sincerity; common honesty. I thought I could convince him. I -didn’t want chivalry without conviction. What did Lady Henge say of me?†-Camelia added bluntly.</p> - -<p>Lady Tramley replied very frankly, “She said<a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a> you were a shallow jilt. I -quite agreed with her inwardly—though I shamelessly defended you.â€</p> - -<p>“If I say that I agree with you both it will only savor of ostentatious -humility—so I refrain. But, Lady Tramley, it was not the breaking of -our engagement that was shallow—that I will say. And so the bill is -doomed. Can we do nothing? Shear no Samson in the lobbies? Mr. Rodrigg, -of course, offers no hirsute possibilities.â€</p> - -<p>“Not a hair. Your Mr. Perior will be disappointed. He came back from the -Continent, you know, and put his shoulder to the wheel.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia stirred her tea evenly. Her nerves, as she felt with pride, were -very reliable.</p> - -<p>“<i>Our</i> Mr. Perior then, is he not?†she asked, while her thoughts flew -past Sir Arthur to nestle pityingly to Perior. His useless valiancy -embittered her against the world of unconvinced opponents. Idiots -indeed! But she could not see him yet; even her nerves were not yet -tempered to a meeting. She had no comfortable background against which -to present herself; when she did, the background must be so unfamiliar -that for neither of them could there be the confusion of a hinted -memory.</p> - -<p>“Ours, by all means,†said Lady Tramley. “I only effaced myself before -the paramount claim.—Not quite doomed. There is still the final fight, -and it is to be heralded by a thunderous article in the <i>Friday</i>. Mr. -Perior only goes down sword in hand.<a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>â€</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span>O he was in London. Camelia, sitting at home in the library, could -think of the nearness with a new calm. She was preparing herself to meet -its closer approach. She was not leaving herself defenceless. She -plunged into her reading—architecture, agriculture, decoration, and -sociology. The books came down from London in heavy boxes, and she sat -encompassed by the encouraging perfume of freshly-cut leaves.</p> - -<p>“Are you happy, dear?†her mother asked her. She would come in with her -usual air of deprecatory gentleness, and bend over the absorbed golden -head that did not turn at her entrance. On this day the absorption wore -a look of eager interest that seemed to justify the question.</p> - -<p>Camelia finished her sentence, smiling, however, as she put her hand on -her mother’s without looking up. Her mind, indeed, was soothed, -comparatively comfortable.</p> - -<p>“No rude questions, Mamma!â€</p> - -<p>“You understand all these solemn books?†Over her daughter’s shoulder, -where she leaned, Lady Paton looked respectfully at the heavy volume.</p> - -<p>“I am beginning to understand that whatever one does in philanthropy is -wrong from the point<a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a> of view of some authority!†Camelia said, -stretching herself on a long yawn, and then gently pinching her mother’s -chin, while the smile dwelt upon her appreciatively, “As usual I find -that the only thing to do in this world is to do just as one likes.â€</p> - -<p>“If one can,†said Lady Paton, with a half sad playfulness.</p> - -<p>“If one can;†the words woke in Camelia a painfully personal -affirmative, and with the wave of self-pity that swept through her -mingled a sense of her mother’s unconscious pathos. Still holding her -chin she looked up at her, “It has often been <i>can’t</i> with you, hasn’t -it?â€</p> - -<p>Lady Paton’s glance fluttered to a shy alarm and surprise at this -application.</p> - -<p>“With me, dear?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes—you have had to give up lots of things, haven’t you? to put up -with any amount of disagreeable inevitables.â€</p> - -<p>“I have had many blessings.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh! of course! You would say that over your last crust! But it has been -can’t with you, decidedly. I wonder if it was because you weren’t strong -enough to have your own way!â€</p> - -<p>“That would be a bad way, surely.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah!—not yours!â€</p> - -<p>“And perhaps I have no way at all,†Lady Paton added, and Camelia was -obliged to laugh at the subtle simplicity.</p> - -<p>“That is being too submissive. Yet—it is comfortable, no doubt. -Absolute non-resistance isn’t a bad idea. And yet, why shouldn’t one -make one’s struggle?—survive if one is fittest? Why is<a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a> not having -one’s own way as good as submitting to somebody else’s? Oh dear!†she -cried.</p> - -<p>“What is it?â€</p> - -<p>“Nothing, nothing; I am unfittest, that is all!†Camelia stared out of -the window.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, dear?â€</p> - -<p>“I mean that I can’t have my own way—I, too, can’t. And it wasn’t a bad -way either. There is the cruelty of it, the irony, the jeer! All the bad -ways are given to me, and when I turn from them, don’t want them, and -try for the <i>best</i>—I don’t get it! Isn’t it intolerable?â€</p> - -<p>To Lady Paton this was wild, bewildering, pitiful, yet she grasped -enough to say, “That would be the punishment, would it not, dear, for -the bad ways?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, the punishment. Like damnation. One has made one’s self too -ugly—the best can’t recognize one at all.â€</p> - -<p>That evening the last number of the <i>Friday Review</i> lay on the -drawing-room table. Perior had not written in it for some time, but with -the quiver of the heart any association with him now gave her, Camelia -picked up the paper and carried it to the fireside. Mary, sewing in the -lamp’s soft circle of light, looked up quickly, and her hand paused with -an outstretched thread as she saw Camelia’s literary fare.</p> - -<p>Camelia turned the pages in a half fretful search for what she felt sure -of not finding; then, abruptly, the rustling leaves came to a -standstill. There was the article, at last! a long one, on the Factory -Bill. Impossible to question the concise, laconic style;<a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a> no one else -wrote with such absolute directness, such exquisite choice, free from -all hint of phrasing.</p> - -<p>Camelia’s gray eyes kindled as she read, and her lips parted -involuntarily; she drew quick, shallow little breaths. Oh! through it -all went that fervor, that cold, bracing fervor she knew and loved.</p> - -<p>Perior’s strong feeling was at times like a clear, indignant wind, -sweeping before it cowering littlenesses. Her mind half forgot him as -she read, conscious as was her heart. For the first time the intrinsic -right of the bill was borne in upon her. She had glibly dressed its -merits, laughing at her own theatrical dexterity. She had never really -cared for any bill. Now it became the greatest, the only bill in the -world. Her ardor rushed past the unfortunate initiator, to fall at the -propagator’s feet. Ah! if she could but help now, and for his sake! Poor -Sir Arthur!</p> - -<p>Mary, who from her seat could just see, beyond the sharply held review, -the lovely line of Camelia’s cheek, the little ear, set in its delicate -closeness against the shining hair, Mary, intent on the rising color in -this bit of cheek, had quite stopped sewing. Her pale eyes widened in a -devouring significance, her lips set tightly on repressed pain. Mary, -too, had read the article.</p> - -<p>Coming to the end of it, Camelia slanted the paper downwards, and -vaguely, over the top of it, looked at the fire. Then suddenly her eyes -met Mary’s. A violent shock of self-consciousness shook her through and -through. She felt herself snatch back her secret from a precipice edge -of <a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>revelation—revelation to dull Mary, of all people. Mary, against -whom, in regard to Perior, she had long felt—not knowing that she felt -it—a strong, reasonless antagonism. She could not shake and slap her -secret, as a frightened mother slaps and shakes her rescued child; but -she could turn the terrified anger on its cause, and, in a strangely -pitched voice, she said, “What are you staring at? You look like a spy!â€</p> - -<p>Mary gave a great start. If indeed she had been slapped outright her -guilty amazement could not have been more cruel.</p> - -<p>She stammered at a repetition of “staringâ€; but no words came. Her face -was scarlet. Camelia was immediately sorry, but not one whit less angry, -more so, perhaps, since pity is often an irritating ingredient; and, -too, she felt that to any one less stupid her very outburst might have -betrayed her. She was angry with herself as well as with Mary. Mary’s -very helplessness was repulsive, and she hated to see her light blue -eyes set in that scarlet confusion.</p> - -<p>“Yes, staring;†she helped the stammering. “Is there anything you want -to find out? Do ask, then. Don’t let your eyes skulk about in that -sneaking fashion. It makes me quite sick to see you.â€</p> - -<p>Mary stood up, looking from side to side in a half-dazed way that -Camelia observed with a pitying disgust that indeed sickened her. It -reminded her of the gestures of an ugly animal wounded by a stone flung -by some cruel boy. The simile came in a flash that it did not at the -moment give her time<a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a> to complete it and see herself as stone-thrower. -She felt relief, as well as an added dismay, when Mary broke suddenly -into sobs, and stumbled out of the room, her sewing, caught in her -skirt, following her with ungainly leaps. Only then Camelia realized -that it was her own cruelty that sickened her; her irrational terror, -breaking in upon a tender, thrilling absorption, had urged her to it, -almost irresistibly; but now, the terror past, its foundationless folly -apparent, she really felt quite sick as she still sat looking at the -fire.</p> - -<p>The <i>Friday Review</i> sliding suddenly from her knees gave her a nervous -pang that tingled to her finger-tips, and when she stooped to pick it up -Perior’s personality seemed to confront her. She cowered before it. The -hot blood beat in her head. Only by degrees, as her mind faltered over -extenuations, did she quiet herself. Her hidden unhappiness—her love, -it had been like a blundering hand thrust among her heart-strings; how -could she have helped the sharp anger in which her naked anguish clothed -itself? Lastly, but with a kind of shame, Mary’s displeasing personality -made a subtle condonation; her inarticulate stupidity was almost -infuriating. Not for one moment did her secret suspect Mary’s. Her own -pain seemed already an expiation, and, in analyzing it, she could put -Mary aside, promising herself that she would atone by a “Forgive me, -Mary, I did not mean it,†the next time they met. She would even add, “I -was a devil.†Her sigh of decision left her only half comforted.<a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span>HE did not see Mary again until the next morning, and then Camelia gave -herself the satisfaction of fulfilling an uncompulsory duty. Mary’s -mask-like look of endurance met her apology with a dumb confusion that -Camelia must assume as accepting it, since she could not imagine Mary as -unforgiving.</p> - -<p>Holding Mary’s hand she repeated with some insistence, “I was devilish, -indeed I was. I don’t know what evil spirit entered me.â€</p> - -<p>Mary was acute enough to see the apology as a mere poultice on Camelia’s -bruised conscience, but she did not divine the stir of real pity that -had prompted it, nor the embarrassment that concealed itself, half -ashamed, under Camelia’s bright smile, a smile like the flourishing -finality at the end of a conventional letter.</p> - -<p>Mary only shrank more coweringly from the circling advance of pain. In -her solitude Camelia’s whip-like words and Camelia’s smile blended to -the same scorching; words, Mary thought, so true, that no apology, no -smile, could efface them. That Camelia had felt them true was a -nightmare suspicion; the instinct for the truth had at least been there, -and, like the wounded animal, Mary quaked in her warren, conscious of -insecurity. Camelia soon forgot both cruelty and apology.<a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a></p> - -<p>The news of the defeat of the bill brought her no shock, when it came -late in January. She had regretted keenly her own interference for a -long time, and found herself prepared to meet the blow with the quiet of -exhausted feeling. Camelia was not given in these days to finding -excuses for her faults, but she could see that this one had been venial, -and escape an unjust self-reproach. It was certainly irritating to have -Mrs. Jedsley rub in the undeserved sting.</p> - -<p>Coming from the library one afternoon Camelia found this lady ensconced -before the drawing-room fire, her muddy boots outstretched to the -blaze—Mrs. Jedsley’s boots were chronically muddy—a muffin in one -hand, a cup of tea in the other, her expression divided among the triple -pleasure of warmth, tea, and interesting news.</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, you’ve all had your brushes cut off, it seems,†was her -consolatory greeting.</p> - -<p>Camelia sank into a chair, languidly detesting Mrs. Jedsley’s bad taste.</p> - -<p>“You did so much for the cause, too, didn’t you?†said Mrs. Jedsley, -deterred by no delicate scruples. “Come, Camelia, confess that it has -been a tumble for you all!â€</p> - -<p>“Too evident a tumble I think to require confession.â€</p> - -<p>“And Mr. Rodrigg here for such a time! You are less clever than I -thought you—don’t be offended—I mean it in a complimentary sense. -Then, after all, it isn’t a brush you need mind losing. I never thought -much of the bill myself.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia sat coldly unresponsive, and Lady Paton<a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a> tried to smile at Mrs. -Jedsley’s remarks and to believe them purely humorous.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry for poor Michael,†she said, “I fear he has taken it to -heart.†This unconscious opening was only too gratefully seized upon by -Mrs. Jedsley, who, after a meaning glance at Mary, fixed, over her -tea-cup, sharp eyes on Camelia.</p> - -<p>“Ah!†she said, “he is a man cut out for misfortunes—they all fit him. -He is bound to fail in everything he undertakes.â€</p> - -<p>“I can’t agree with you there,†Camelia spoke acidly. “I think he -succeeds at a great many things.â€</p> - -<p>“Things he doesn’t care about, then, you may be sure of that. Fortune -follows such men like a stray dog they have no use for, while they are -looking for their own lost pet.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia drank her tea in silence, priding herself somewhat on her -forbearance, pondering, too, on the pathos of Mrs. Jedsley’s simile in -which she could only see a purely personal applicability. It was not him -the stray dog followed, but any number followed her—and it was she who -had lost her all.</p> - -<p>But would he not come back? Might she not see him again? To be with -him—brave, self-controlled, and reticent, how well worth the fuller -pain! Pain was so far preferable to these dragging mists where she -waited. She might be—she must be—developing, but she must measure -herself beside him to know just how much she had grown. It pleased her -to see herself smiling sadly upon his unwitting kindness—for since he -had thought it a folly he should think it now a folly outgrown. It -pleased<a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a> her to think that now exterior things mattered less to her than -to him; he, for all his self-defence of calm, still winced under the -whips of material circumstance; no doubt he was now tearing his heart -out over the defeat of the bill, and trying to persuade himself that he -had always expected it! She saw all material circumstance with -Buddhistic indifference. This thought dwelt pleasantly while she drank -her tea. Looking from the window she saw the winter afternoon not yet -gray, and her contemplative mood impatient of the chiming sharp and mild -which her mother and Mrs. Jedsley made, she left them to go out. First, -though, she bent over her mother and kissed her. It gave her content to -find tender demonstration becoming more and more an unforced habit.</p> - -<p>“Nice, pretty little mamma,†she whispered.</p> - -<p>In her long coat, Siegfried trotting in front of her, Camelia breasted -the tonic January wind. There was just a crispness of snow on the -ground; in the lanes thin patches of ice made walking wary. She emerged -from the shelter of the hedges on to the fine billowy stretch of common, -where the wind sang, and the sunset in the west made a wide red bar. -Siegfried’s adventurous spirit soon warmed him to an energetic gallop -through the dead fern and heather, and Camelia followed his lead, -intending to cut across to the highroad, and by its long curve return -home. It was in lifting her eyes to this road that she saw suddenly a -distant figure walking along it at a quick pace that would bring them -together at the very point she aimed for. It needed only the very first -brush of a glance to tell her that it<a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a> was Perior. For a moment joy and -fear, courage and cowardice, pride and shame, struggled within her. Her -step faltered, stopped even, and Siegfried stopping too, looked round at -her, interrogation in the prick of his ears.</p> - -<p>Camelia walked on slowly. Perior had seen and recognized her—that was -evident. Whatever might be his own press of feeling he did not hesitate. -He took off his cap and hailed her gaily, and Camelia felt that her -answering hand-wave helped to prepare the way for a meeting most -creditable to them both.</p> - -<p>He did not fear the meeting, or would not show he did, for he advanced -over the heather at a pace resolutely unembarrassed. In another moment -they were face to face, and then she could see that his repressed a -tremor, and was conscious that her own was, with the same attempt, a -little rigid in its smile. Partly to recover from this shock of seeing -her again, partly to give her time to recover from her own emotion, -Perior raised her outstretched hand to his lips. He was so determined in -his entrenched resistance to the lover he knew himself to be (the lover -whose complaints had brought him rebelliously back again, his coming a -sop angrily thrown at the uncontrollable gentleman on condition, that -satisfied so far, he would keep still), so sure was Perior, the friend, -of the bargain, that the kiss was most successfully friendly. It sealed -delicately the bond he insisted on recognizing between himself and -Camelia. His relief was great, in looking at her again, to see that she, -too, fully recognized it, and that perhaps her courage<a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a> was helped by -the fact that the mood—the astonishing mood—had passed. It would much -simplify matters if it had. He longed to be with her again, a longing -her tacit acquiescence in the old friendship could alone justify him in -satisfying. That his coming had not been indelicately ill-judged the -directness of her eyes seemed to assure him; but however much the friend -might rejoice in believing that he alone had anything to conceal, the -repressed lover, most inconsistently, felt a pang. Perior only consented -to recognize his own contentment with the safe footing upon which he -found himself.</p> - -<p>Camelia smiled at him, and he smiled at her, smiles that might have been -children kissing and “making upâ€; frank, and bravely light.</p> - -<p>“I thought you were in London,†said Camelia. “No; come back, Siegfried, -we are going no farther; for you were coming to us, I suppose, Alceste?†-She could look at him quite directly. She was not ashamed, no, -mercifully she was not ashamed, that was her jubilant thought. After the -pang of the first moment she felt the strong conviction, borne in upon -her by her own calmness, that her love for him could never shame her, -nor her confession of it. The warm power of his friendship kept her from -petty terrors. She felt, in a moment, that on her courage depended their -future relationship. To ignore the past, to make him ignore it, would be -to regain, to keep her friend.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I was going to you—of course,†said Perior, smiling, as they went -towards the road together.<a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a></p> - -<p>“I have been to Italy, you know, but I came back some time ago. I -thought I might be of use.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! I should have liked to have been of use! but I had been too badly -bitten to dare put out a finger!â€</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t put out fingers, if I were you; it isn’t safe—when, they -are so pretty.†The intimacy was almost caressing; she leaned against it -thankfully. Proud to show him that of the crying child there was not a -trace, she determined on a swift glance at the past that would put him -quite at ease.</p> - -<p>“And you are coming back? Since this dreary business of the worsted -right is over you won’t exile yourself any longer—and rob us? All your -friends will be glad to have you again!â€</p> - -<p>“Will they indeed?†his eyes sought hers for a moment, seemed to see in -them the past’s triumphant mausoleum, presented for inspection quite -magnificently.</p> - -<p>“Thanks, Camelia.†The boldness delighted him, delighted all of him -except that grumbling prisoner who, in his dungeon, felt foolishly -aggrieved. “Yes, I am coming back—since I am welcome,†he said, adding -while they went along the road, “As for the worsted right, the right -usually is worsted, in the first place. One must try to keep one’s faith -in eventual winning.â€</p> - -<p>“Tell me,†said Camelia, feeling foundations quite secure, since each -had helped the other, “Mr. Rodrigg’s opposition, that last speech of -his—the satanic eloquence of it!—you don’t think—ah! say you don’t -think me altogether responsible?<a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Would it please you—a little—to think you were?†The old rallying -smile pained her.</p> - -<p>“Ah, don’t! That has been knocked out of me—really! Don’t imply such a -monstrous perversion of vanity.â€</p> - -<p>“I retract. No, Camelia, I don’t think you <i>altogether</i> responsible. The -eloquence would always have been against us, its satanic quality was, I -fear, your doing.â€</p> - -<p>“Yet, I meant for the best—indeed I did. Say you believe that.â€</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I do believe it, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>They were nearing home when he said, “You were in London—I heard from -Lady Tramley.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, I went up on business.â€</p> - -<p>“Did you? How are Lady Paton and Mary?â€</p> - -<p>“Very well. You don’t ask about my business,‗Camelia smiled round at -him.</p> - -<p>“Very blunt in me. What was the business, Camelia?†His answering smile -made amends.</p> - -<p>Camelia placed herself against her background.</p> - -<p>“I am building model cottages! You should see how economical we have -become! <i>Your</i> glory is diminished!â€</p> - -<p>“With all my heart!†cried Perior, with a laugh of real surprise and -pleasure. “Lady Tramley did not tell me. Good for you, Célimène!â€</p> - -<p>It was delightful to bring him into the drawing-room that she had left -only an hour before. Camelia almost fancied herself perfectly happy as -she flung open the door with the announcement—</p> - -<p>“Here is Alceste, Mamma!†No nervousness was possible before her mother -and Mary; it required<a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a> no effort to act for them since she had so -successfully performed her part to him. Mrs. Jedsley was gone, but Mary -and Lady Paton sat before the fire, Mary reading aloud. She dropped the -book; Camelia’s voice, in her ears, sounded with a brazen clang of -victory, and Perior seemed to her conquered, brought captive in an old -bondage. She could hardly speak, hardly welcome him; his return crushed -every hope of his liberation, the joy of seeing him was a mere -desolation. With a settled dulness she listened to them—all three -talking and exclaiming.</p> - -<p>Perior had taken her hand, had shaken it warmly, looking at her with -kindest eyes; but now he listened to Lady Paton, and Lady Paton, of -course, after the first flood of rejoicing, condolences, and -questionings, was talking of Camelia.</p> - -<p>The resentment that had smouldered in Mary for many months seemed now to -leap, and lick her heart with little flames of hatred. How she hated -Camelia; she turned the black thought quite calmly in her mind—it was -not unfamiliar.</p> - -<p>Lady Paton was telling Perior about the cottages; she was rather proud -of Camelia’s beneficent schemes, though gently teasing her about some of -their phases: “And, Michael, she is going to make them into veritable -palaces of art. Specially designed furniture—and Japanese prints on the -walls! Now they won’t care about prints, will they?â€</p> - -<p>“They ought to, Camelia thinks,†laughed Perior, looking at Camelia, -who, hat and coat thrown aside, leaned forward in the lamplight, smiling -and radiant,<a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a> the pathos that her thinner face had gained emphasizing -its enchanting loveliness.</p> - -<p>Mary looked at her too, at the curves of the figure in the perfect black -dress, at the narrow white hands, one lying on her knee, like a flower, -with the almost exaggerated length and delicacy of the fingers; at the -profile, the frank upraised eyes, the smiling mouth, the flashing white -and gold that rose from the nun-like white and black of the dress, and -the wide cambric collar falling about her shoulders and clasping her -throat. Beautiful! Mary felt the beauty with a sort of sickening. Of -course he looked at her, had no eyes but for her. Of course he had come -back.</p> - -<p>“They must like them,†said Camelia, “I don’t see why such people should -not grow into good taste; and taste is often such a negative thing—a -mere leaving out of all ugliness. I have a lot of these prints; I picked -them up in Paris—the arcade of the Odion, Alceste—cheap things, but -excellent in their way; then a few good photographs. The rooms are to be -very bare. I should ask for all decoration a vase of flowers on the -table—I think I shall offer prizes to my cottagers for the best -arrangement of flowers.â€</p> - -<p>“A very civilizing system!†Perior still laughed, for he found the -prints and the flower-arrangements highly amusing, and he still looked -at Camelia.</p> - -<p>So that first meeting was over. It had passed so easily, with an -inevitable ease, based on long years that would not be disowned. Yet -when he had gone, Camelia was conscious of a sinking of the heart. The -exhilarating moment could not last.<a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a> Her friend had come back, fond, -gently mocking, tender, yet unimpressed, blind to the change in herself -she passionately clung to as consummated. As her love was noble, she -thought that she had grown to match it. Her self-complacency, though on -a higher plane, circled her more completely, and as the days went on, -his blindness gave her a new sense of defeat. The ease remained, a tacit -agreement to shut their eyes on a certain incident; it was done most -successfully; they were quite prepared to meet <i>tête-à -tête</i>, and the -inner wonder of each as to the other’s unconsciousness betrayed itself -only in a certain gentle formality that grew between them. That he -should come—and so often—fulfilled the only hope left her, and yet her -heart was darkened at moments by the thought that in these visits there -was an effort. She missed something of the old intimacy; it was not -quite the same—how could it be? that, after all, would have been too -big a feat of forgetfulness. He did not laugh at her, nor grow angry and -rage at her, as he had used to do, yet she could not feel that he -approved of her the more. He was fond of her—that was evident, even -though he might find this rebuilding difficult, and undertake it from a -sense of duty; but the fondness was graver than before, at least, it -made no pretence of hiding its gravity.<a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>ARY came for Camelia one morning while Perior was with her, to tell her -that Jane Hicks was dying and asking for her. Mary saw that Camelia’s -promptitude, where compunction blushed, gratified Perior, as did Jane’s -devotion; she knew that he supposed the devotion based upon some new -blossoming of thoughtful kindness in Camelia, and the ironic bitterness -of this reflection was in no way made easier to Mary as she heard -Camelia, while they all three walked to the farm, confess dejectedly to -the one visit.</p> - -<p>“I should have gone again!†Camelia repeated with sincerest -self-reproach, and Mary could see that though he assented to the -reproach her contrition lifted her in his estimation. Perior waited -below while Camelia and Mary went up together. Camelia came down -weeping; Mary’s face was quite impassive.</p> - -<p>The poor girl had died with her hand in Camelia’s, her eyes fixed on the -lovely Madonna head that bent over her with a beautiful piteousness, -like a vision at the gates of heaven. Jane closed her eyes on that -vision. She had not had one look for Mary, though her perfunctory -thanks—the winding up of the trifling duties remaining to her on -earth—had been feebly breathed out to her some hours before. Mary<a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a> saw -that she had been very unnecessary to Jane, and that the unknown -Camelia, Camelia’s one smile, the one golden hour Camelia’s beauty had -given her, made the brightness, the poetry, the symbolized radiance of -things unseen and hoped for that had remained with the dying girl during -the last months of her life. Mary was very still in walking back with -the others. Camelia sobbed, and stumbled in the heavy road, so that -Perior gave her his arm and held her, looking pityingly, more than -pityingly, at the bent head and shaking shoulders. Mary felt her own -lack of emotion to be unbecoming, but, indeed, she had none, was -conscious instead of a dislike for poor, dead Jane.</p> - -<p>For Mary was a most unhappy creature. Outside the inner circle, where -Perior and Camelia wondered about, and evaded, one another, the very -closeness of constant intercourse making blindness easy, Mary saw the -truth, that Camelia did not see, very clearly. With her preconceived and -half-mistaken ideas as to that truth, it remained one-sided. Perior -loved Camelia; loved, and had weakly crawled back to her, craving at -least the crumbs of friendship,—and that she was lavish with her crumbs -who could deny?—since all else had been refused to him. Mary spent her -days in a quivering contemplation of this fact. The bitter, sweet -consolation of the whole truth never entered her mind. Camelia loving, -and Camelia repulsed, was an imagining too monstrous for vaguest -embodiment. Camelia’s own naïve vanity would not have surpassed in -stupefaction Mary’s sensations, had such a possibility been suggested to -her. Camelia, who could have anybody, love Mr.<a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a> Perior? She would have -voiced her astonishment even more baldly. Not that Mary thought Mr. -Perior nobody. To her he was everybody; but that knowledge was her -painful joy, a perception lifting her above Camelia. Camelia judged by -the world’s gross standards, and, by those standards, she must stoop in -loving Perior.</p> - -<p>That Camelia should stoop in the world’s eyes, that Camelia should do -anything but soar, were unimaginable things. So her ignorance made her -knowledge more bitter. The man she loved, adored,—her bleached, starved -nature spreading every flower, stretching every tendril, her ideal and -her rapture towards him,—that man did not see her, even. She was no -one; a dusty little moth beating dying wings near the ground, and his -eyes were fixed on the exquisite butterfly tilting its white loveliness -in the sunshine. Under her stolid silence Mary was burning, panting. His -misery, her doom, and Camelia’s indifference,—at the thought of all -these a madness of helpless rebellion swam about her; and with a growing -sense of weakness came a growing terror of self-betrayal. For she was -dying, that was Mary’s second secret; there was even a savage pleasure -in the thought of absolute and consummated wretchedness hidden so -carefully. Hysterical sobs rose in her throat when she thought of it, -and of their blindness. The sobs were nearly choking her one day as she -sat alone in the morning-room casting up accounts.</p> - -<p>Perior had been with Camelia in the library for two hours, and he had -not come into the morning-room, though over two hours ago poor Mary had<a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a> -stationed herself there in the sorry hope of seeing him. The little -touch of abandonment stabbed more deeply than ever on this morning, when -her head was so heavy, her chest so hollow, breathing so difficult, all -her sick self so in need of pitying gentleness and sympathy; and though -no tears fell, that rising, strangling sob was in her throat. There was -shame, too; her very rectitude was crumbling in her weakness and -wretchedness; the wretchedness had seemed to exonerate her when, -exasperated by envy and long waiting, she had gone to the library door -and put her ear to the key-hole, like a base thing, to listen.</p> - -<p>Since everything had abandoned her she might as well abandon herself, so -she told herself recklessly; but she had only heard Camelia’s clear, -sweet voice; and Camelia was reading Greek! Mary could only feel the -irony as cruel, and on regaining her place at the writing-table she -found herself shaking, and overwhelmed with self-disgust and a sort of -desperation.</p> - -<p>When Perior came in very shortly afterwards she could almost have risen -to meet him with a scream of reproach. The mere imagining of such a -strange revelation made her dizzy as he approached her.</p> - -<p>“I had not seen you. I am just off. How are you, Mary?†he asked. In -spite of the mad imaginings Mary’s mask was on in one moment, the white, -stolid mask, as she turned her face to him.</p> - -<p>“Very well, thanks.â€</p> - -<p>“You don’t look very well.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am, thanks.†Mary averted her eyes.</p> - -<p>Perior’s brow had an added look of gloom this morning. His eyes followed -hers. The drizzling<a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a> rain half blotted out the first faint purpling of -the trees. “What a dreary day!†he ejaculated, with a long, involuntary -sigh. He was not thinking of Mary; she saw that very plainly, though her -eyes were fixed on the blurred tree-tops.</p> - -<p>“Very dreary,†she echoed. He looked down at her again, this time with a -certain pain and interest that Mary did not see. On his own thoughts, -the perplexing juggling of “If she still loves me as I love her, why -resist?†the ensuing fear of yielding, and yielding for no better reason -than that he could not resist, broke the thought of Mary. It could not -be a very big thought. Mary was a quiet, uneventful little person, -spending a contented existence under her aunt’s wings, useful often as a -whip wherewith to lash Camelia, but pitiful mainly from his sense of the -contrast of which he really believed Mary quite unconscious. Something, -now, in her still face, in the lax weariness of her thin hand, lying on -the account book, roused in him a groping instinct. He looked at the -hand with a certain surprise. Its thinness was remarkable.</p> - -<p>“You do look badly, Mary,†he said. “Tell me, are you dreary, too? Can I -do anything for you? We must have some rides when it grows finer.†His -thoughts, as usual, gave Camelia an accusing blow.</p> - -<p>“You are bored, tired, unhappy like the rest of us, Mary. Is that any -consolation?†He smiled at her. She felt the smile in his voice, but did -not dare to meet it, bending her head over the account books.</p> - -<p>“Don’t do those stupid sums!â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, I like them!†Indeed, the scrupulous<a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a> duties were her one frail -barrier against the black sea of engulfing thought. And then, her heart -just rising in the false but delicious joy of his kind presence, came a -call, a call not dreary like the day, but fatally sweet and clear, the -sound of it as if a flower had suddenly flung open rosy petals on the -grayness.</p> - -<p>“Alceste, come here! I want you.â€</p> - -<p>“Our imperious Camelia,†said Perior with a slight laugh. “Well, -good-bye, Mary. Don’t do any more sums, and don’t look at the rain. Get -a nice, cheerful book and sit down at the fire. Amuse yourself, won’t -you?†He clasped her hand and was gone.</p> - -<p>Mary sat quite still, moving her pen in slow curves, waves, meaningless -figures over the paper. The arrested sob seemed frozen, and no tears -came. She looked dully at the black zigzags on the paper while she -listened to the distant sound of voices in the hall, Camelia’s laugh, a -lower tone from Perior, Camelia’s cheerful good-bye.</p> - -<p>A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and while she shook with it Camelia -came in. Mary’s coughing irritated Camelia, but she did not want to hurt -her feelings by departing before it after getting the newspaper she had -come for, so, walking to the table, she said, taking up and opening the -<i>Times</i> with a large rustling—</p> - -<p>“All alone, Mary?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes,†Mary replied. The coughing left her, and she clenched her -handkerchief in her hand. The madness rose again, lit by a keener sense -of horror.</p> - -<p>“But Mr. Perior came in, did he not?†Camelia scanned the columns, her -back to the light.<a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes,†Mary repeated.</p> - -<p>“Well, what did he have to say?†Camelia felt her tone to be -satisfactorily detached. She wanted to know. That sense of something -lacking, something even awkward, had become almost acute this morning; -only her quiet gaiety had bridged it over. Mary was again looking out of -the window. An inner impulsion made her say in a tone as dull as her -look—</p> - -<p>“He said he was dreary.â€</p> - -<p>The <i>Times</i> rustled with a somewhat aggressive effect of absorption, and -then Camelia laid it down. Something in Mary’s voice angered her; it -implied a sympathy from which she was to be shut out; he had not said to -<i>her</i> that he was dreary. But she still kept her tone very light as she -walked to the fire.</p> - -<p>“Well, he is always that—is he not?†she commented, holding out a foot -to the blaze; “a very glum person indeed is my good Alceste.â€</p> - -<p>Mary did not reply, and Camelia, with a quick turn of conjecture that -seemed to cut her, wondered if there had been further confidences. She -paused for a moment, swallowed on a rising tremor of apprehension, -before saying, as she turned her back to the fire and faced the figure -at the table—the figure’s heavy uncouthness of attitude making her a -little angrier—“What further moans did my melancholy friend pour into -your sympathetic bosom, Mary?†Mary, looking steadily out of the window, -felt the flame rising.</p> - -<p>“He said that he was bored, tired, unhappy.â€</p> - -<p>After a morning spent with <i>her!</i> Camelia clasped<a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a> her hands behind her -back, and tried to still her quick breathing. She eyed Mary, but she did -not think much of Mary.</p> - -<p>“Really!†she said.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Really.†Suddenly Mary rose from her chair; she clutched the -chair-back. “Oh, you cruel creature! you bad creature!†she cried -hoarsely.</p> - -<p>Camelia stared, open-mouthed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you bad creature,†Mary repeated. Camelia never forgot the look of -her—the ghastly white, stricken out of sharp shadows, the splash of -garish color on either cheek, the pale intensity of her eyes. She -noticed, too, the sharp prominence of Mary’s knuckles as she clutched -the chair-back, and in her amazement stirred a certain, quite different -discomfort. She could find no words, and stared speechlessly at the -apparition.</p> - -<p>“You are cruel to every one,†said Mary. “You don’t care about any one. -You don’t care about your mother—or about <i>him</i>, though you like to -have him there—loving you; you don’t care about me—you never did—nor -thought of me. Well, listen, Camelia. I am dying; in a month I will be -dead; and <i>I</i> love him. There! Now do you see what you have done?â€</p> - -<p>A fierce joy filled her as she spoke the words out. To tear the bleeding -tragedy from its hiding-place, and make Camelia shudder, scream at -it—it brought relief, lightness; she breathed deeply, with a sense of -bodily dissolution; and Camelia’s look was better than screams or -shudders. Let the truths go like knives to the heart that deserved them. -As she spoke Mary felt her wrongs gather around her like<a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a> an army. She -had no fear. She straightened herself to send to her cousin a solemn -look of power.</p> - -<p>“You did not know I was dying; of course you would not know it—for you -think of nothing but yourself. There, do you see that handkerchief? I -have been coughing blood for a long time. Nothing can be done for me. -You know how my father died. And when I am dead, Camelia, you may say to -yourself, ‘I helped to make the last year of her life black and -terrible—quite hideous and awful.’ Yes; say it. Perhaps it will make -you feel a little badly.†With the words all the anguish of those -baffled, suffering months came upon her. The sobs rose, panting; the -tears gushed forth. Staggering, she came round the chair and dropped -into it, and her sobs filled the silence.</p> - -<p>Camelia stood rooted in terror. She expected to see the sudden horror -fulfil itself, to see Mary die before her eyes, Mary’s curse upon her, -and all her misdeeds one vague, menacing blackness. To clutch at any -doubt was impossible. From the first moment of her uprising Mary’s body -had been like a shattered casket from which streamed a relentless light. -Camelia’s eyes were unsealed; she saw that the casket was shattered—the -light convicted her.</p> - -<p>“What have I done?†she gasped. “Tell me, Mary, what is it?â€</p> - -<p>She found a difficulty in speaking. She did not dare approach her -cousin.</p> - -<p>“I will tell you what you have done,†said Mary, raising her head, and -again Camelia felt the hoarse intentness of her voice, like a steady -aiming of daggers. “You have taken from me the one thing<a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>—the only -thing—I had. I love him! He is nothing to you; and you took him from -me.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary! Took him from you!â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; you did not know. He did not know. <i>I</i> saw it all. He might -have loved me had you not come back. He must have loved me, when I loved -him so much! oh, so much!†and, sobbing again, she pressed to her eyes -the blood-stained handkerchief, careless now of its revelations.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary!†cried Camelia, shuddering.</p> - -<p>“I was so happy last winter. He would come and read, and ride. He was so -kind. Auntie, and he, and I—it was the happiest time of my life. But -you came, and he never looked at me again! Oh, how horrible! how unjust! -Why should you have everything?—I nothing! nothing! I suppose you -thought me contented, since I was ugly, and poor, and stupid. And you, -because you are beautiful, and rich, and clever, you have everything! -That is all that counts! I am not selfish and cruel; at least, I used -not to be. I have thought about other people always! I have tried to do -right, and what have I got for it? My life has been a cheat! and I hate -it! And I am glad to die, because I see that you, who are bad, get all -the love, and that I will never have anything! And I see that I am -bad—that I have been made bad through having had nothing!â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary! forgive me! oh, forgive me!†Camelia found her knees failing -beneath her. She stretched her clasped hands towards her cousin.</p> - -<p>“I did not know; indeed, I did not! Indeed, I<a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a> love you, Mary!—oh, I do -love you! We all love you!†She felt herself struggling, with weak, -desperate hands, against Mary’s awful fate and her own guilt. “How can -you say that, when we all love you? know how good you are!—how sweet -and good—love you for it!†She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. -Mary, who herself no longer sobbed, observed her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are a little sorry now,†she said, in a voice of cold -impassiveness that froze Camelia’s sobs to instant silence. “I make you -uncomfortable—a little more uncomfortable than when I cough. It is -strange that when I never did you any harm—always tried to please -you—you should have found pleasure in hurting me. Do you remember all -the little jeers at me before him? You mocked my dulness, my ugliness. -He did not laugh. It made him sad, because he did not like to see you -unbeautiful in anything; but he must have seen me more stupid, more ugly -than before. And when he was with me for one moment you would take him -away. And you lied to keep him to yourself, like that day we were to -have ridden together; and if you had known that I loved him you would -have been all the more anxious to have him—to hurt me.â€</p> - -<p>“No, no, Mary!†Camelia’s helpless sobs burst out again.</p> - -<p>“Yes; why can I speak to you like this? because I am dying, you see that -I am dying—that gives me my only advantage; I can tell you what I think -of you, and you don’t dare reply. You would not dare say to me now that -I am a spy—that I have sneaking<a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a> eyes. I hate you, Camelia! I hate you! -Oh! oh!†She rose to her feet suddenly, and at the change of tone—the -wail—Camelia uncovered her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I am going to die! I am going to die! And I love him, and he does not -care.†Mary groped blindly to a sofa, fell upon it, buried her head in -the cushions.</p> - -<p>Camelia rose to her feet, for she had been kneeling, and stood listening -to the dreadful sobs.</p> - -<p>Her life had never known a comparable terror. The blackness of Mary’s -point of view encompassed her. She felt like a murderer in the night. -She crept towards the sofa. “Oh, forgive me, say a word to me.â€</p> - -<p>“Leave me; go away. I hate you.â€</p> - -<p>“Won’t you forgive me?†The tears streamed down Camelia’s cheeks.</p> - -<p>“Go away. I hate you,†Mary repeated. There was a compulsion in the -voice Camelia could not disobey. Trembling and weeping she went out of -the room.</p> - -<p>Mary lay there sobbing. She had never so realized to the full the extent -and depth of her woe, yet there was relief in the realization, relief in -the flinging off of secrecy and shame. That Camelia should suffer, -however slightly, restored a little the balance of justice, satisfied a -little the outraged sense of solitary suffering, atoned a very little -for fate’s shameful unfairness. To poor Mary, sobbing over her one -triumph, the morality of the universe seemed a little vindicated now -that she had taken into her own hand the long-delayed lash of -vengeance.<a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a></p> - -<p>Her weakened religious formalities and conventionalities withered under -this devouring, pagan flame. It was good to hate, and to revenge one’s -self, good to see the smooth and smiling favorite of the cruel gods, -weeping and helpless. She was tired of rightness—tired of swallowing -her tears.</p> - -<p>The best thing in her life had been turned against her; everything was -at war with her. Well, she would crouch no longer, she would die -fighting, giving blow for blow. She threw her hands up wildly in -thinking of it all—beat them down into the cushions. To have had -nothing, nothing, and Camelia to have everything! Oh, monstrous -iniquity! Camelia, who had done no good, happy; she, who had done no -wrong, unutterably miserable.</p> - -<p>For a long time she lay sobbing, still beating her hands into the -cushion, a mechanical symbolizing of her rebellion and wretchedness. So -lying, all the blackness of the past and future surging over her, -engulfing her, she heard outside the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the wet -gravel. A moment afterwards running footsteps came down the stairs and -crossed the hall. Mary pulled herself up from the sofa, and, with the -outer curiosity of utter indifference, walked to the window. Camelia’s -horse stood before the door, a groom at his head. The drizzling mist -shut out all but the nearest trees, flat, pale silhouettes on the white -background, against which the horse’s coat gleamed, a warm, beautiful -chestnut. Mary’s indifference grew wondering. Her sobs ceased as she -gazed. The gaze became a stare, hard, fixed, as Camelia, in a flash, -sprang to the saddle. Mary saw her profile, bent impatiently,<a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a> the -underlip caught between her teeth, the brows frowning, while the groom -adjusted her skirt. In a moment she was off at a quick trot, and soon a -sound of galloping died down the avenue.</p> - -<p>Mary stood rigidly looking after the sound. A supposition, too horrible, -too hideous, had come to her, too hideous, too horrible not to be true. -Its truth knocked, fiercely insistent, at her heart. Her knowledge of -Camelia, acute yet narrow, and confused by this latter suffering, sprang -at a bound to the logical deduction.</p> - -<p>Camelia could not bear suffering, revolted against it, snatched at any -shield. She had gone now to Perior, that he might lift from her this -dreadful load of responsibility, cast upon her so cruelly by Mary. He -must tell her that he had never thought of Mary, and that the idea of -robbery was a wild figment of Mary’s sick brain. Mary’s brain, though -sick, was clear, clear with the feverish lucidity that sees all with a -distinctness glaring and magnified. She saw all now. The meanness, the -cowardice of Camelia’s proceeding only gave a deepened certainty.</p> - -<p>Then indeed shame came upon Mary. She saw herself gibbeted between them, -knew too well what he would think. He would himself hang her up, since -truth demanded it, and since Camelia must be comforted. The glaring -lucidity dazzled Mary a little at times, and now the awful justice of -Perior’s character assumed in her eyes a Jove-like cruelty, that more -than matched Camelia’s dastardliness. The past hour seemed painless in -comparison with the present moment; its blackness, in looking back<a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a> at -it, was gray. To be debased, utterly debased, in his eyes—that was to -drink the very dregs of her cup of agony. Her hatred of Camelia was her -only guide in the night. She went into the hall and took down her hat -and cloak. She could not wait for Camelia’s return. She must herself see -the actuality of her betrayal. Camelia might lie unless she could hold -the truth before her face; might say that she had not ridden to -Perior’s. Mary would see for herself, and then—oh then! confronting -Camelia, she would find words, if she died in speaking them.</p> - -<p>She ran down the avenue and turned off into the woods by a short cut -that led more directly than the curving high road to the Grange. Her -weakness was braced by the fierceness of her purpose. She felt herself a -flame, hastening relentlessly through the smoke-like mist.</p> - -<p>The woods were cold and wet. She pushed past dripping branches, splashed -through muddy pools; the inner fire ignored its panting frame. When she -arrived at the foot of the hill on which stood the Grange, she knew that -Camelia must have been with him there for an hour or more. She could not -see the house through the heavy atmosphere, but, hidden by the trees and -fog, she could see the road and be herself unseen. On the edge of the -wood was a little stile; she shuddered with wet and cold as she sat down -on it to wait. She would wait for Camelia to pass, and then, by the same -hidden path, she could go home and confront her. Beyond that crash Mary -did not look. It seemed final.<a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>UT Mary was quite mistaken—as absolute logic is apt to be when dealing -with human beings. Camelia, indeed, had gone to Perior, but on a very -different errand from the one Mary’s imagination painted for her. -Camelia was not thinking of herself, nor of throwing off the iron chains -of that responsibility with which she felt herself manacled for life. -Mary’s story had crushed every thought of self, beyond that -consciousness of riveted guilt. It was of Mary alone she thought as she -galloped through the mist. With terror and pity infinite she looked upon -Mary’s love and the approaching death that was to end it; their tragedy -filled everything, and at the feet of the majestic presences her own -personality only felt itself as a cowering criminal. It was as though -the ocean of another’s suffering had flooded the complacent rivers of -her life. They overflowed their narrow channels; they were engulfed, -effaced in the mighty desolation; never again could they find their -flowering banks, their sunny horizons.</p> - -<p>This moan of a suffering universe, heard before only in vaguest -whispers, the minor key of the happy melody that she had known, making -the melody all the sweeter for its half-realized web of sadness—this -moan was now like the tumult of great waters above<a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a> her head, and a loud -outcrying of her awakened soul answered it. She was guilty—yes, as -guilty as Mary knew her to be, for all the mistaken deductions of Mary’s -ignorance. She loved Perior, and he did <i>not</i> love her; but those facts -in no way touched the other unalterable facts—a cruelty, a selfishness, -a blindness, hideous beyond words.</p> - -<p>Yet now she did not think of this guilt, irrevocable as it was.</p> - -<p>Mary—Mary—Mary. The horse’s hoofs seemed to beat out the cry! Mary and -her fate. Camelia stood with Mary against that fate; but her attitude of -rebellion was even fiercer, more determined than poor Mary’s flickering -light could have sustained. Mary good—with nothing. Virtue <i>not</i> its -own reward. Suffering, crushing, unmerited suffering, eating away the -poor empty life. She herself bad, and the world at her feet. Camelia -felt herself capable of taking the immoral universe by the throat and -shaking it to death—herself along with it.</p> - -<p>She was galloping for help, yes, to Perior. He must help her, he alone -could help her, to clutch the malignant cruelty, tear it off Mary, and -then give her some gleam of happiness before she died. Camelia -straightened herself in the saddle at the thought. “She shall not die,†-clenched her teeth on the determination. She might be saved. Who could -tell? One heard of wonderful cures. And at least, at least, she should -not die unhappy. Camelia would wrench happiness for her out of despair -itself. She would fight the injustice of the gods until her last breath -left her.</p> - -<p>All the pitiful humanity in Camelia clung to the<a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a> human hope of -retribution and reward. Her mind fixed in this desperate hope, she could -take no thought of the coming interview; that would have implied a -retrospective glance at her last visit to the Grange, and Camelia could -not think of herself, nor even of Perior.</p> - -<p>The Grange was desolate on its background of leafless trees. Camelia, as -she dismounted at the door, looked down at the whiteness which brimmed -the valley; the tree-tops emerged from it as from a flood; but where she -stood there was no mist—a clear, sad air, and a few faint patches of -blue in a colorless sky above. She rang, holding the horse’s reins over -her arm. Her habit was heavy with the wet, and her loosened hair clung -damply about her throat and forehead. Old Lane, when he appeared, showed -some alarm. She could infer from his expression what her own must be.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Perior? Yes, Miss; in the laboratory with Job Masters. Just go up, -Miss, and I’ll take the horse round to the stables.â€</p> - -<p>The laboratory was at the top of the house. Camelia found herself -panting from the swiftness of her ascension when she reached the door. -Entering, she faced the white light from the wide expanse of window, -which overlooked on bright days miles of wooded, rolling country, to-day -the sea of mist. Perior’s back was to her, and he was bending with an -intent interest over a microscope; a collection of glass jars was on the -table, and Job Masters, his elementary features lit by the intelligent -gravity of close attention, was standing beside him. Perior was -saying—<a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a></p> - -<p>“Now, Job, take a look at it.†His gray head did not turn.</p> - -<p>“It’s Miss Paton, sir,†Job volunteered. At that Perior rose hastily, -and Camelia advancing, looked vaguely at Job, at the microscope, at the -jars of infusoria.</p> - -<p>A thought of the last visit had shot painfully through Perior on hearing -her name, but, after one stare at her white face, his fear, freed from -any selfish terror, took on a sympathetic acuteness.</p> - -<p>“I must speak to you,†she said.</p> - -<p>“Very well. You may go, Job,†and as Job’s heavy footsteps passed beyond -the door, “What is it, Camelia?†he asked, holding her hands, his -anxiety questioning her eyes.</p> - -<p>For a moment, the press of all that must be said crowding upon her, of -all that must be said with a self-control that must not waver or -misinterpret through weakness, Camelia could not speak. She looked at -him with a certain helplessness.</p> - -<p>“Sit down, you are faint,†said Perior, greatly alarmed, but, shaking -her head, she only put her hand on the back of a chair he brought -forward.</p> - -<p>“I have something terrible to tell you, Michael.†That she should use -his name impressed him even more than her announcement, emphasized the -gravity of the situation in which he was to find himself with her. In -the ensuing pause their eyes met with a preparatory solemnity.</p> - -<p>“Michael, Mary is dying.†He saw then that her eyes seized him with a -deep severity of demand. The shock, though not unexpected, found him -unprepared.<a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a></p> - -<p>“She knows it?†he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, she knows it. Listen. She told me everything. It was more horrible -than you can imagine. She told me how cruel I had been to her—how I had -neglected her—how I had cut again and again into her very soul. She -hates me, she hates her life, but she is afraid of death. She is not -going to die happily, hopefully, as one would have thought Mary would -die. She is dying desperately and miserably, for she sees that being -good means merely being trodden on by the bad. She has had nothing, and -she regrets everything.†Perior dropped again into the chair by the -table. He covered his eyes with his hands.</p> - -<p>“Poor child! Unhappy child!†he said.</p> - -<p>The shuddering horror of the morning came over Camelia. She clasped her -hands, pressing them against her lips. It seemed to her suddenly that -she must scream.</p> - -<p>“What does it mean? What does a life like that mean?†Her eyes, in all -their helpless guilt and terror, met his look of non-absolving pity.</p> - -<p>“It means that if one is good one is often trodden upon. We must accept -the responsibility for Mary’s unhappiness. My poor Camelia,†Perior -added, in tones of saddest comprehension, and he stretched out his hand -to her. But Camelia stood still.</p> - -<p>“Accept it!†she cried, and her voice was sharp with the repressed -scream. “Do you think I am trying to shirk it? Do you think that I do -not see that it is I—<i>I</i>, who trod upon her? Don’t say ‘We’; say ‘You,’ -as you think it. You need have<a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a> no compunctions. I could have made her -happy—happier, at least, and I have made her miserable. I have -done—said—looked the cruellest things—confiding in her stupid -insensibility. I have crushed her year after year. I am worse than a -murderer. Don’t talk of me—even to accuse me; don’t think of me, but -think of <i>her</i>. Oh, Michael! let us think of her! Help me to mend—a -little—the end of it all!â€</p> - -<p>“Mend it?†He looked at her, taken aback by her words, the strange -insistence of her eyes. “One can’t, Camelia—one can’t atone for those -things.â€</p> - -<p>“Then you mean to say that life <i>is</i> the horror she sees it to be? She -sees it! There is the pity—the awful pity of it! Not even a merciful -blindness, not even the indifference of weakness! Morality is a gibe -then? Goodness goes for nothing—is trampled in the mud by the herd of -apes snatching for themselves! That is the world, then!†The fierce -scorn of her voice claimed him as umpire. Perior put his hand to his -head with a gesture of discouragement.</p> - -<p>“That is the world—as far as we can see it.â€</p> - -<p>“And there is no hope? no redemption?â€</p> - -<p>“Not unless we make it ourselves—not unless the ape loses his -characteristics.†He paused, and a deepened pity entered his voice as he -added, “You have lost them, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes; I can hear the canting moralist now, with his noisome explanation -of vice and misery. Mary has been sacrificed to save <i>my</i> soul, -forsooth! <i>My</i> soul!â€</p> - -<p>“Yes.†Perior’s monosyllable held neither assent nor repudiation.<a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes? And what does my miserable soul count for against her starved and -broken life?â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. That is for you to say.â€</p> - -<p>“I say that if virtue is to give a reward to vice, life is a nightmare.†-Perior again put his hands over his eyes. The thought of poor Mary, -conscious of injustice, the sight of Camelia writhing in retributory -flames, made him feel shattered.</p> - -<p>“But I didn’t come to talk about my problematic soul,†said Camelia in -an altered voice; “I came to tell you about Mary.†She approached him, -and stood over him as she spoke, so that he looked up quickly.</p> - -<p>“She will probably be dead in a month. She knows it; and, Michael, she -loves you.†Perior flushed a deep red, but Camelia whitened to the lips. -He would have risen; she put her hand on his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Impossible!†he said.</p> - -<p>“No, listen. She told me. She lashed me with it this morning—that -hopeless love—for she thinks that you love me—thinks that I am playing -with you. She loves you. She has loved you for years.â€</p> - -<p>“Don’t say it, Camelia!†Perior cried brokenly. “Mary’s disease explains -hysteria—melancholia—a pitiful fancy—that will pass—that should -never have been told to me.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah, don’t shirk it!†her hand pressed heavily on his shoulder. “Her -disease made her tell me, I grant you, but you could not have doubted -had you heard her!—as I did! You understand that she must never -know—that I have told you.â€</p> - -<p>“I understand that, necessarily, and I must ask<a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a> you from what motive -you think your revelation justified; it must be a strong one, for I -confess that the revelation seems to me unjustifiable—cruelly so.â€</p> - -<p>“I have a strong motive.â€</p> - -<p>“You did not come to pour out to me the full extent of poor Mary’s -misfortune for the selfish sake of relieving, by confession, your -self-reproach? And, indeed, in this matter I cannot see that you are -responsible. It is a cruelty of fate, not yours.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia looked away from him for a moment, looked at the microscope. A -swift flicker of shame went through her, one thought of self, then, -resolutely raising her eyes, she said, “Am I not at all responsible? Are -you sure of that?â€</p> - -<p>“Responsible for Mary loving me?†Perior stared, losing for a moment, in -amazement, his deep and painful confusion.</p> - -<p>“No; that is fate, if you will. But had I not come back last summer, had -I not claimed you, monopolized you, absorbed you. Ah! you are flushing; -don’t be ashamed for me! I swear to you, Michael, that I am not giving -myself a thought, had I not set myself to work to make love to -you—there is the fact;—don’t look away, I can bear it—can you tell me -that Mary might not have had the chance she so deserved, of slipping -sweetly and naturally into your heart—becoming your wife?â€</p> - -<p>“Camelia!†Perior turned white. “I never loved Mary, never could have -loved her. Does that relieve you?†He keenly eyed her.</p> - -<p>“Don’t accuse me of seeking relief! That is a cruelty I don’t deserve. -If you never could have loved Mary, it is even more dreadful for me—for -it<a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a> is still crueller for Mary. That she should love you. That you -should not care! could never have cared!â€</p> - -<p>At this Perior rose and walked up and down the room. “Don’t!†he -repeated several times. His wonder at Camelia interfused intolerably his -sorrow for Mary.</p> - -<p>Camelia followed him with steady eyes. The eagerness of decisive appeal -seemed to burn her lips as she said slowly—</p> - -<p>“Ah, had you seen her! Had you heard her crying out that she was -dying—that she loved you—that you did not care!â€</p> - -<p>“You must not say that.†Perior stopped and looked at her sternly, “I am -not near enough. It is a desecration.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! but how can I help her if I don’t? How can <i>you</i> help her? For it -is you, Michael, <i>you</i>. Can’t you see it? You are noble enough. -Michael—you will marry Mary! Oh!‗at his start, his white look of -stupefaction, she flew to him, grasped his hands—“Oh, you must—you -<i>must</i>. You can make her happy—you only! And you will—say you will. -You cannot let her die in this misery! Say you cannot, Michael—oh, say -it!†And, suddenly breathless, panting, her look flashed out the full -significance of her demand. In all its stupefaction Perior’s face still -retained something of its sternness, but he drew her hands to his -breast. “Camelia, you are mad,†he said.</p> - -<p>“Mad?†she repeated. Her eyes scorned him; then, rapidly resuming their -appealing dignity, “You can’t hesitate before such a chance for making -your whole life worth while.<a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Quite <i>mad</i>, Camelia,†he repeated with emphasis. “I could not act such -a lie,†he added.</p> - -<p>“A lie! To love, cherish that dying child! A better lie than most -truths, then! You are not a coward—surely. You will not let her die -so.â€</p> - -<p>“Indeed I must. Any pretence would be an insult. As it is, if Mary could -see you here, she would want to kill us both.â€</p> - -<p>“Not if she understood,†said Camelia, curbing the vehemence of her -terrified supplication, the very terror warning her to calm. “And what -more would there be in it to hurt her?â€</p> - -<p>“That <i>I</i> should know—and should refuse. Good God!â€</p> - -<p>“Where is the disgrace?†Camelia’s eyes gazed at him fixedly. “Then we -are both disgraced—Mary and I.†Her smile, bitterly impersonal, offered -itself to no interpretations, yet before it he steadied his face with an -effort. He could not silence her by the truth—that he loved her, her -alone; loved now her high, frowning look, her passionate espousal of -another’s cause. Mary’s tragic presence sealed his lips. He said -nothing, and Camelia’s eyes, as they searched this chilling silence, -incredulous of its cruel resolve, filled suddenly and piteously with -tears.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Michael,†she faltered. Scorn and defiance dropped from her face; -he saw only the human soul trembling with pity and hope. He did not dare -trust himself to speak—he could not answer her. Holding her hands -against his breast, he looked at her very sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>“Listen to me, Michael. I mustn’t expect you to<a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a> feel it yet as I -do—must I? That would be impossible. I only ask you to <i>think</i>. You see -the pathos, the beauty of Mary’s love for you! for years—growing in her -narrow life. Think how a smile from you must have warmed her heart—a -look, a little kindness. She adores you. And this consciousness of -death, this nearing parting from you—you who do not care—leaving even -the dear sight of you. Think of her going out alone, unloved, into the -darkness—the everlasting darkness and silence—with never one word, one -touch, one smile, to hold in her heart as hers, meant for her, with -love. Oh, I see it hurts you!—you are sorry; oh, blessed tears! You -cannot bear it, can you? Michael, you will not let her go uncomforted? -She is not strong, or brave, or confident. She is sick, weak, -terrified—a screaming, shuddering child carried away in the night. -Michael!‗it was a cry; she clasped his hands in hers—“you will walk -beside her. You will kiss her, love her, and she will die happy—with -her hand in yours!†Her eyes sought his wildly. He had never loved her -as he loved her now, and though his tears were for Mary, the power, the -freedom of his love for Camelia was a joy to him even in the midst of a -great sadness. He could not have kissed her or put his arms around her; -the dignity of her abasement was part of the new, the sacred loveliness, -and it was more in pity than in love that he took the poor, distraught, -beautiful face between his hands and looked at her a negation, pitiful -and inarticulate. She closed her eyes. He saw that she would not accept -the bitterness.</p> - -<p>“I will do all I can,†he then said; “but,<a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a> dear Camelia, dearest -Camelia, I cannot marry her.â€</p> - -<p>It was a strange echo. Camelia drew away from him.</p> - -<p>“What can you <i>do</i>? She knows you are her friend; that only hurts.â€</p> - -<p>“Does it?†He saw now, through the unconscious revelation, the greatness -of her love for him, and saw that in the past he had not understood. She -loved him so much that there was left her not a thought of self. Her -whole nature was merged in the passionate wish that he should fulfil her -highest ideal of him. He saw that she would have laid down her life for -him—or for Mary, as she stood there, and, for Mary, she expected an -equal willingness on his side.</p> - -<p>“It would only be an agony to her,†Camelia said; “she would fear every -moment that she would betray herself to you, as she betrayed herself to -me. Can’t you see that? Understand that?†Desperately she reiterated: -“You must pretend! You must lie! You must tell her that you love her! -You must marry her, take her away to some beautiful country—there are -places where they live for years; make a paradise about her. You -<i>must</i>.†She looked sternly at him.</p> - -<p>“No, Camelia, no.â€</p> - -<p>“You mean that basest no?†She was trembling, holding herself erect as -she confronted him; her white face, narrowly framed by the curves of -loosened hair, tragic with its look of reprobation.</p> - -<p>“I mean it. I will not. You will see that I am right. It would be a -cruel folly, a dastardly kindness,<a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a> a final insult from fate. And I do -not think only of Mary—I think of myself; I could not lie like that.â€</p> - -<p>Her silent woe and scorn, frozen now to a bleak despair, dwelt on him -for a long moment, then, without another word, she turned from him and -left him, making, by the majesty of her defeated wrong, his victorious -right look ugly.<a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">C</span>AMELIA galloped home furiously. The tragedy was then to be consummated. -He would not put out a finger to avert it. Mary would go down into the -pit of nothingness, and her love, her agony, her strivings after good, -would be as though they had never been.</p> - -<p>“And <i>I</i> live,†thought Camelia, as she galloped, and her thoughts -seemed to gallop beside her; they were like phantom shapes pressing on -her from without, for she did not want to think. “<i>I</i>, thick-skinned, -dull-souled I. Yes, materialism wins the day. Morality is a lie, evolved -for the carpeting of lives like mine, for the preservation of the -fittest!—<i>I</i> being fittest! To those that have shall be given, and from -those who have not shall be taken away—the law of evolution. Oh! -hideous, hideous! Oh, horror!—not even the ethical straw of development -to grasp at; Mary’s suffering has warped her, lowered her. She has been -tortured into rebellion against her own sweet rectitude; she, who only -asked to love—hates; she, who lived in a peaceful renunciation, now -struggles, thinks only of herself.â€</p> - -<p>It was this last thought that seemed to lean beside her, look into her -eyes with the most intolerable look. Mary—inevitably lowered. The -blackness shuddered through her. Camelia on that ride tasted<a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a> the very -dregs of doubt and despair, and knew the helplessness of man before -them. She could have killed herself, had not a sullen spark, the last -smouldering from the fire of resolution that had burned in her as she -rode to Perior, still lit one path through the darkness. She must throw -herself at Mary’s feet, seek and give comfort through her own extreme -abasement. She must cling to Mary, supplicating her to believe in her -infinite love and pity. Could not that love, when all errors were -explained, reach and hold her? Camelia felt her defiance of eternity -clasp Mary forever. But when she reached home Mary was not there. -Camelia panted as she ran from room to room; her desire, thrown back, -rose stiflingly. She was afraid of seeing her mother, for at a look, a -question, she felt that her suspense of hard self-control would break -down; she might scream and rave. She sent a few words to Lady Paton by a -servant; she was tired and was going to rest—must not be -disturbed—then she locked herself into her own room.</p> - -<p>Some hours passed before she heard Mary’s voice outside demanding -entrance, hours that Camelia was to look back on as the blackest of her -life, so black that all in them, every thought and impulse, made an -indistinguishable chaos, where only her suffering, a trembling leaf -tossing on deepest waters, knew itself. In looking back, she remembered -that she had not once moved until the knock came, and that, on going to -open the door, her hand had so shaken that it fumbled for some moments -with the key.</p> - -<p>Mary stood on the threshold. She was splashed with mud. Beside the -whiteness of her face, Camelia<a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>’s was passive in its pain. Mary closed -the door, and, as Camelia retreated a little before her, leaned back -against it. Her eyes went at once over Camelia’s wet habit and -dishevelled hair; she had expected a careful effacement of all signs of -the guilty errand; Camelia could not now deny the ride. The thought of a -brazen avowal made Mary close her eyes for a moment. She had to struggle -with a sick faintness, as she leaned against the door, before she could -put that monstrous thought aside and say, returning to her first -impulse, and opening her eyes as she spoke—</p> - -<p>“I know where you have been.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia stood still. This unexpected blow confused the direct vision of -appeal and abasement that upheld her. She must face an unlooked-for -contingency, and her mind seemed to reel a little as she faced it.</p> - -<p>“You followed me, Mary?†she asked, with a gentleness bewildered.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I followed you.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia was now becoming conscious of the definiteness of Mary’s heavy -stare. It was like a stone, and under the weight of it she groped, -staggering, in a wilderness of formless conjectures. Mary could not know -why she had gone. A pang of terror shot through her. Mary’s next words -riveted the terror.</p> - -<p>“I saw you. I know why you went. I know everything,†said Mary. -Camelia’s horror kept silence, though the room seemed to whirl round -with her. Had Mary by some unknown means reached the Grange before she -did? Had she been hidden near the laboratory? Had she heard?<a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a> Were all -merciful lies impossible? She felt her very lips freeze in a rigid -powerlessness.</p> - -<p>“You went to tell him that I loved him?†Mary’s eyes opened widely as -she spoke, and she walked up to her cousin, close to her.</p> - -<p>“You told him that I loved him,†she repeated, and Camelia in her -nightmare horror felt the hatred of the pale eyes.</p> - -<p>“You don’t dare deny that you told him.†No, Camelia did not dare deny. -She looked down spellbound at Mary. She was afraid of her, horribly -afraid of her. It was like the approach of a nightmare animal, its -familiar seeming making its strangeness the more awful. She did not dare -deny. She could not move away from her; she was paralyzed in her dread. -Mary looked at her as though conscious of her own power.</p> - -<p>“You told him, so that he might comfort you, tell you he had never loved -me, never could have loved me. You betrayed me to save yourself from -that reproach of robbing me.†It was like awakening with a gasp that -Camelia now cried—</p> - -<p>“No, no, Mary! Oh no.â€</p> - -<p>She could speak. She could clasp her hands. “No, no, no,†she repeated -almost with joy.</p> - -<p>“You lie. You are lying. What is the good of lying to me now? It is easy -for you to lie. You went to ask him the truth, and he gave it to you. -For he would never have loved me, whatever I may have hoped—even -believed at moments.â€</p> - -<p>“No, Mary; no, no!†Mary’s dreadful supposition made Camelia feel the -reality as a peace, a refuge. That world of black cruelty where Mary<a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a> -wandered, that at least was untrue, an illusion. Not hatred, not deceit -surrounded her, but love, and pity, and tenderness.</p> - -<p>“I did not go for that, Mary,†she cried. “Listen, Mary, you are wrong; -thank God, you are wrong. I did not go because I was sorry for myself; I -did not go basely. I was so sorry for you,†said Camelia, sobbing and -speaking brokenly, while Mary looked at her in a stern tearless silence, -“I knew he would be sorry. I knew we both loved you, and I wanted him to -marry you, Mary.â€</p> - -<p>“<i>What!</i>†Mary’s voice was terrible; yet Camelia clung to the courage of -her love, confident that the truth alone could now reveal it—all the -truth.</p> - -<p>“Yes, dearest Mary, yes. There was no hatred, only a longing to make you -happy—to help atone; only love, not hatred.â€</p> - -<p>“You are telling me the truth?â€</p> - -<p>They were standing still before each other. Camelia could not interpret -the pale eyes.</p> - -<p>“Mary, I swear it before God.â€</p> - -<p>“And he will not marry me!â€</p> - -<p>“He loves you, as I do.â€</p> - -<p>“He will not marry me!â€</p> - -<p>“Let me only tell you—everything; it is not you only——â€</p> - -<p>“You tossed me to him—and he refused me! How dare you! How dare you! -How dare you!†And Mary, a revelation of rage and detestation flaming up -in her eyes, distorting her face, struck her cousin violently on the -cheek.</p> - -<p>Camelia stood dazed. The blow interpreted, too<a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a> well, Mary’s attitude. -She could not resent, nor even wonder, could only accept the retribution -of cruel misunderstanding and bow her head. She covered her face with -her hands and wept. Except for this sound of weeping the room was still. -In the darkness of her humiliation—shut in behind her hands—Camelia -felt, at last, the silence. She looked up. Mary was once more leaning -against the door. Her eyes were closed. Camelia went to her, took her -hand, and Mary made no motion. Raising the hand to her lips Camelia -kissed it; its coldness chilled the smarting of the blow. Mastering her -terror Camelia put her arms around her, and, Mary sinking forward into -them, she gathered up the piteously light figure and carried it to the -bed.</p> - -<p>“Mary—Mary—Mary,†she murmured, staring at the head which lay so -still, so solemnly. Was she dead? Camelia struck aside the thought of a -so cruel finality. Strengthened by her rebellion she sprang to open the -door, and the house resounded with her cries for help.<a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE servant, as he showed Perior into the drawing-room, told him that -Miss Fairleigh was dying, and the imminence of the tragedy was -sorrowfully emphasized by Lady Paton’s woe-stricken face, as she came in -to him.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Michael, dying,†she said before he spoke; his look had asked the -question. He took her hands, and they sat down, finding a comfort in -being together, and Perior was in as much need of it as she, felt not -one whit stronger before the approaching end.</p> - -<p>“Tell me about it. It has been so sudden.â€</p> - -<p>Lady Paton sobbed out the sad facts. Her own blindness; poor Mary’s long -concealment—too successful; the doctor’s fatal verdict.</p> - -<p>“I was blind, too,†said Perior, “though I always feared it.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! that is the cruellest part of it! And her indifference—she does -not seem to care; she does not speak to any of us.â€</p> - -<p>“Not to Camelia? Is Camelia with her?â€</p> - -<p>Perior’s heart must spare some of its aching to his unhappy Camelia.</p> - -<p>“She has not once left her. She is so brave; I can only cry; but it has -made Camelia already different; a strength, a gentleness, yet a despair. -She<a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a> feels it terribly, Michael, and the first shock was hers. Mary was -out all yesterday afternoon—in the wet and cold, and when she came in -she fainted in Camelia’s room.â€</p> - -<p>Perior looked at her, pondering this sinister announcement.</p> - -<p>“I should like to see Mary—when she is able,†he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes. She must have her friends about her, my poor, poor child. Ah -Michael! I can never forgive myself.â€</p> - -<p>“Why do you say that? You gave Mary all her sunshine.â€</p> - -<p>“Not enough! not enough! She must have seen that it was Camelia, only -Camelia, in whom my heart was bound up. She must have felt it.â€</p> - -<p>Perior sighed heavily. He, too, had regrets. Had he but known, guessed -what he had been to Mary! But he said, “Don’t exaggerate that; Mary must -have understood; it was inevitable, quite, and pardonable. Camelia was -your daughter.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! Camelia had so much, Mary so little!†and to this Perior must -perforce assent.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Camelia sat by Mary’s side. She divided the vigils with the -nurse who came down from London. She found that her eternal -self-reproach had strengthened her. She could bear its steady -contemplation and soothe her mother’s more helpless grief.</p> - -<p>Mary was sinking fast. During the next three days she hardly spoke, -though her eyes followed the ministering figures that moved about her -bed. Conscious that she was dying, but wrapped in an emotionless<a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a> -sadness, she watched them all indifferently, and slept quietly from time -to time. It was going to be much easier than she had thought. Hardly a -thread bound her to life; even her passionate hatred of Camelia was -dimmed by the creeping mists; even her love for Perior wailed, it -seemed, at a long distance from her; she listened to it as she lay -there; only at moments came a throb of pain for all the happiness she -had never had. Camelia meeting the calm eyes would smile tremulously, -but Mary gave no answering smile, and her eyes kept all their calm.</p> - -<p>Camelia had to hold firmly to the self-abnegation of perfect -self-control to keep down the cry of confession that would give her -relief, that would perhaps admit her to Mary’s heart; it was not until -the third night, as she sat beside her, that the yearning allowed itself -to grow to hope. Mary’s eyes, on this night, turned more than once from -their vacant gaze and dwelt upon her with a fixity almost insistent.</p> - -<p>Camelia dared, at last, to take in both her own the tragic hand that lay -on Mary’s chest, and, after a timid pause, she raised it to her lips. It -lay resistless; she held it against her cheek; through the dimness, Mary -felt the tears wetting it.</p> - -<p>The merciful hardness about her heart seemed to melt. She knew a keener -pang, a longer aching, that did not end and give her peace again. It was -not calm, after all, not good to die with that unloving frost holding -one. She lay in silence, looking, in the faint light, at her cousin’s -bent head, the ruffled outline of the golden hair. The thought of -Camelia’s beauty bowed in this desolation touched her sharply, -intolerably. She felt her heart beating<a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a> heavily, and suddenly, -“Camelia, I am sorry,†she said.</p> - -<p>Camelia clasped the imprisoned hand to her breast, and leaned forward.</p> - -<p>“Sorry! Oh, Mary—what have you to be sorry for?â€</p> - -<p>“I was wicked—I hated you—I struck you.â€</p> - -<p>“I deserved hatred, dear Mary.â€</p> - -<p>“I should not hate you. It hurts me.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh my darling!†sobbed her cousin, rising, and bending over her.</p> - -<p>“It hurts me,†Mary repeated, but in a voice unmoved.</p> - -<p>“Do you still hate me, Mary?â€</p> - -<p>There was a pause before she answered—and then with a certain -faltering, “I—don’t know.â€</p> - -<p>“Will you—can you listen, while I tell you something?†said Camelia -almost in a whisper—for Mary’s voice was hardly more, “I must tell you, -Mary, I deserve everything you said, and yet—you misjudged me. Will you -hear the truth?†Camelia clasped the hand more tightly to her breast. “I -am not going to defend myself—I only want you to know the truth; -perhaps—you will be a little sorry for me then—and be able to love -me—a little.â€</p> - -<p>Mary looked up at her silently, and, when she paused, said nothing; yet -her intent look seemed to assent.</p> - -<p>“It will not give you pain,†Camelia said tremblingly, “the pain is all -mine here. Mary—I love him too.†The words came with a sob. She sank -into the chair, and dropping Mary’s hand she leaned her elbows on the -bed and hid her face.<a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a></p> - -<p>“I loved him, Mary, and—I imagined that he must love me. My vanity was -so great that I thought I could choose or reject him. I accepted Sir -Arthur—from spite—partly, and then I was dreadfully frightened. On the -very day I accepted Sir Arthur I sent for Mr. Perior. Mary, I made love -to him. I did not tell him I was engaged; I wanted to escape from that -blunder unscathed. I could not believe in his embarrassment, nor in the -reality of his scorn when he found me out. I broke my engagement—as you -know. I went to Mr. Perior’s house. I entreated him to love me—I hung -about his neck, cried, implored. He did not love me; he rejected me. He -scorns me—he is sorry for me; he is my friend, but he scorns me. I was -not playing with him—you see that now. I adore him—and he does not -love me at all.â€</p> - -<p>Uncovering her face, Camelia found Mary’s eyes fixed upon her.</p> - -<p>“Do you understand now, Mary, why I went to him? I loved you so—was so -sorry for you—so infinitely sorry—for had I not felt it all? I never -told him that you thought he might have loved you; but I thought it -myself, I thought that he might love you, indeed, when he <i>knew</i> -you—knew the sweetness, the sadness of your hidden love. If he refused, -Mary, it was because he respected you too highly and himself—to act any -falsity towards you. It was not like my rejection; there was no shame, -no abasement for you. You have his reverent pity, his deep, loving -devotion. Don’t regret, dear Mary, that through my well-meant folly he -really knows you now.†She paused, and Mary still lay<a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a> silent, slowly -closing and unclosing her hand on the sheet.</p> - -<p>“Believe me, Mary,†said Camelia, the monotony of her recitative -yielding to an appealing tremor, “I have told you the truth—the very -truth. I have not hidden a thought from you.â€</p> - -<p>“You love him?†Mary asked, almost musingly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, dear, yes. We are together there.â€</p> - -<p>“I never saw it; never guessed it.â€</p> - -<p>“Like you, Mary, I can act.â€</p> - -<p>“And you wanted him to marry me,†Mary added presently, pondering it -seemed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary!†said Camelia, weeping, “I did. I longed for it, prayed for -it—I would have given my life to have him marry you. Mary, believe me, -when I tell you that to atone in however a little measure for your -dreary life, I would die—oh gladly, gladly.â€</p> - -<p>“Would it not have been worse than dying?†Mary asked in a voice that -seemed suddenly to subtly smile, though she herself lay unsmiling in the -shadowed whiteness of the bed.</p> - -<p>“What—worse?â€</p> - -<p>“To see him marry me.†Camelia gazed at her.</p> - -<p>“I think, Mary,†she said presently, “I could have seen it without one -pang for myself; I would have been too glad for you to think of that. -And then—he does not love me. The iron entered my soul long ago. I have -long since lost even the bitterness of hope.â€</p> - -<p>“And he does not love you,†Mary repeated quietly, raising her eyes and -looking away a little.</p> - -<p>“He does not, indeed.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia’s quivering breaths quieted to a waiting<a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a> depth. But Mary for a -long time said nothing more. Her hand lay across her breast, and above -it her face now surely smiled.</p> - -<p>At last she turned her eyes on her cousin. Looking at her very gently, -she said, “But I love you, Camelia.<a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>â€</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">C</span>AMELIA was sitting again by Mary’s bed when Perior was announced the -next morning.</p> - -<p>“You must go and see him to-day,†said Mary.</p> - -<p>“Why—must I?â€</p> - -<p>“I should like to see him,†Mary’s voice had now a thread only of -breath; to speak at all she had to speak very slowly, “and you must tell -him first, that I know.â€</p> - -<p>“Mary—dear——â€</p> - -<p>“I do not mind.â€</p> - -<p>“No, one does not, with him. I will see him, tell him.</p> - -<p>“Talk—be nice to him; do not be angry with him because he will not -marry me.†Her smile hurt Camelia, who bent over her, saying—</p> - -<p>“If I had not gone!—you would not be here now; we might have kept you -well much longer.â€</p> - -<p>“That would have been a pity—wouldn’t it?†said Mary, quite without -bitterness.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary! Could we not have made you happy?â€</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is knowing that I can never be well that keeps me now from -being sad,†Mary answered; “don’t cry, Camelia—I am not sad.â€</p> - -<p>But Camelia cried as she went down the stairs.</p> - -<p>A pale spring sunshine filled the morning-room,<a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a> where she found Perior. -She had hardly noticed the outside world for the last few days, and it -gave her now a sweetly poignant shock to see that the trees were all -blurred with green, a web of life embroidering the network of black -branches; beyond them a high, pale, spring sky. She saw the green really -before seeing Perior, for he was looking at it, his back turned to her -as she came in. Then, as he faced her, his aging struck her more -forcibly than the world’s renewal of youth. As she looked at him, and -despite the memory of their last words together, despite the tears upon -her cheeks, she smiled. She had forgiven him. He had been right, she -wrong; and then—his sad face, surely his hair had whitened? The love -for Mary that overflowed her heart seemed to clasp him in its pity and -penitence, but she could only feel it as the overflow.</p> - -<p>“She wants to see you,†she said, giving him her hand, and she added, -for the joy of last night must find expression, “She knows everything. -She followed me that day—and half guessed the truth—only half; I had -to tell her all. And she has forgiven me—for everything.†Camelia bent -her forehead against his shoulder and sobbed—“She is dying!—and she -loves me!â€</p> - -<p>“My darling Camelia,†said Perior, putting his hand on her hair.</p> - -<p>To Camelia the words could only mean that he forgave—and loved—as Mary -did; but she felt the deep peace of truest union.</p> - -<p>“Then she is dying in the sunshine, isn’t she?†he added, “not in that -horrible darkness.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes—but such a cold, white sunshine. It is<a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a> because she feels no -longer. It is peace—not happiness; just ‘peace out of pain.’â€</p> - -<p>“And cannot we two doubters add, ‘With God be the rest’?â€</p> - -<p>“We must add it. To hope so strongly—is almost to believe, isn’t it? -Come to her now.â€</p> - -<p>She left him at Mary’s door.</p> - -<p>The nurse, with her face of hardened patience, rose as he entered.</p> - -<p>“I will leave you with Miss Fairleigh, sir. Call me if I am needed.â€</p> - -<p>Her look was significant.</p> - -<p>Perior felt his heart shake a little as he went round the white curtain. -He was afraid. If he should blunder—stab the ebbing life with some -stupidity! Something of this tender fear showed in his look at the dying -girl, and the fear deepened for a moment to acutest pain at sight of -her. Was that the Mary he had last seen sitting over the account -books?—the Mary he had fatuously told to keep cheerful? Remorse wrung -his heart. But as for the fear of hurting her, Mary was very far beyond -all little mundane tremors, and they faded away, ashamed for having -been, as he clasped her hand, and met her eyes; their still smile -quieted even his pain, and wrapped him in its awe and beauty.</p> - -<p>He sat down beside her, keeping her hand in his.</p> - -<p>“Dear Mary,†he said.</p> - -<p>For a long time she did not speak; indeed Perior thought that she might -not wish to employ the coarser medium of communication, could not, -perhaps; her eyes, as they rested upon him, seemed amply significant; -but he could not fathom, quite,<a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a> their ultimate meaning. Perhaps a great -sadness underlay their calm. But at last, very faintly and very slowly -she said—</p> - -<p>“You saw Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes.â€</p> - -<p>“You know—that I was—cruel to Camelia?â€</p> - -<p>“No, I did not know.â€</p> - -<p>“I was.â€</p> - -<p>“I cannot believe that, Mary.â€</p> - -<p>“I was, I misjudged her. I struck her. She did not tell you that?â€</p> - -<p>“No,†said Perior, after the little pause his surprise allowed itself.</p> - -<p>“I did, I struck her,†Mary repeated, with a certain placidity. “You -understand?†she added.</p> - -<p>Perior was putting two and two together; the result was clearly -comprehensible.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I understand,†he said.</p> - -<p>“Camelia understood too.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes,†Perior repeated his assent, adding, “You have saved Camelia, -Mary; I don’t think she can ever again be blind—or stupid.â€</p> - -<p>“Camelia—stupid?†Mary’s little smile was almost arch.</p> - -<p>“That is the kindest word, isn’t it?†Perior smiled back at her, “Let us -be kind, for we are all of us stupid—more or less; you very much less, -dear Mary.â€</p> - -<p>Mary’s look was grave again, though it thanked him. “You are kind. -Camelia has been very unhappy,†the words were spoken suddenly, and -almost with energy.</p> - -<p>“I don’t doubt that.†Mary closed her eyes, as<a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a> if all effort, even the -passive effort of sight, must be concentrated in her words.</p> - -<p>“And I am afraid—she will be very unhappy about me.â€</p> - -<p>“That is unavoidable.â€</p> - -<p>“But—unjust. She is nothing—that I thought. Nothing is her fault. It -is no one’s fault.—I was born—not rich, not pretty, not clever, not -even contented; it is no one’s fault. I have been cruel. You must -comfort her,†and Mary suddenly opening her eyes looked at him fixedly. -“You must comfort her,†she repeated, adding, “I know that you love -Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>Perior, with some shame, felt the red go over his face. Mary observed -his confusion calmly.</p> - -<p>“You need not mind telling me,†she said.</p> - -<p>“Dear Mary, I am abased before you.â€</p> - -<p>“That isn’t kind to me,†Mary smiled. “You do love her—do you not?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, I love her.â€</p> - -<p>“And she loves you.â€</p> - -<p>“I have thought it—sometimes,†said Perior, looking away.</p> - -<p>“She has always loved you. You too have misjudged Camelia. She told -me—last night—she told me that you had rejected her.â€</p> - -<p>“Did she, Mary?†Perior looked down at the hand in his.</p> - -<p>“Yes—through love of me. You understand?â€</p> - -<p>“Perfectly.â€</p> - -<p>“It brought us together,†said Mary, closing her eyes again.</p> - -<p>She lay so long without speaking that Perior<a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a> thought she must, in her -weakness, have fallen asleep, but at last she said, the words wavering, -for her breath was very shallow, “That is what Camelia needed. Some -one—to love—a great deal——†And with an intentness, like the last -leap of a dying flame, she added, looking at him, “You will marry -Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“If Camelia will have me,†said Perior, bending over her hand and -kissing it.</p> - -<p>A gleam of gaiety, of pure joyousness, shone on Mary’s face. Humorously, -without a shadow of bitterness, she said, “I win—where Camelia failed!â€</p> - -<p>The tears rushed to Perior’s eyes. He could not speak. He rose, and -stooping over her, he took her in his arms and kissed her.</p> - -<p>“Ah!†she said quickly, “it is much better to die. I love you.†She -looked up at him from the circle of his arms. “How could I have lived?â€</p> - -<p>At the great change in her face he wondered if he had done well in -yielding to the impulse of pure tenderness; but still supporting her -fragile shoulders he said, stammering—</p> - -<p>“Dear child—in dying—you have let us know you—and adore you.â€</p> - -<p>The light ebbed softly from her eyes as she still looked up at him. -“Perhaps—I told you—hoping it——†she murmured. These words of -victorious humility were Mary’s last. When Camelia came in a little -while afterwards she saw that Mary’s smile knew, and drew her near; but -standing beside her, holding her hand, she felt that Mary would not -speak to her again. Through her tears she looked across the bed at -Perior; his head was bowed on the<a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a> hand he held; his shoulders shook -with weeping. At the unaccustomed sight a half dull wonder filled her.</p> - -<p>For a long time Mary smiled before her, as they held her hands; and -Camelia only felt clearly that the smile was white and beautiful. She -waited for it to turn to her again. Only on meeting Perior’s solemn look -the sense of final awe smote upon her.</p> - -<p>“She is dead,†he said.</p> - -<p>To Camelia the smile seemed still to live.</p> - -<p>“Dead!†she repeated. Perior gently put the hand he held on Mary’s -breast.</p> - -<p>“Not dead!†said Camelia, “she had not said good-bye to me!â€</p> - -<p>Perior came to her; his silence, that could not comfort, answered her. -She fell upon her knees beside the bed, and her desperate sobs wailed -uselessly against the irretrievable.<a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T was many weeks afterwards that he told her what Mary had said. Her -woe, not selfish, but inconsolable, made it impossible that during the -first days of bereavement he should do more than help and sustain her by -the fullness of a friendship now recognized as deep and unrestrained.</p> - -<p>It was she herself who asked him one day if Mary had said anything that -he could tell her, had spoken of her with a continuation of the -forgiveness, her trust in which made life possible. Camelia, in her new -devotion to her mother, its vehemence almost alarming Lady Paton, -controlled for her sake all tears and lamentations, but lying on a sofa -this afternoon, alone in the twilight, the tears had risen, and they -were falling fast when Perior came in and sat down beside her. It was -then that she asked him about Mary.</p> - -<p>“She told me what you said to her the night before she died,†Perior -answered, and Camelia let him take her hand. She lay reflecting for some -moments before saying—</p> - -<p>“She wanted you to think as well of me as possible.â€</p> - -<p>“She wanted to make me happy. She knew that you were mistaken.â€</p> - -<p>“How mistaken?†Camelia asked from her pillow.</p> - -<p>His voice had been unemphatic, but in the slight<a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a> pause that followed -her question she felt that his eyes dwelt upon her, and she looked up at -him.</p> - -<p>“You told her—that I did not love you.†Camelia lay silent, her hand in -his, her eyes on his eyes.</p> - -<p>“You believed that, didn’t you?†he asked.</p> - -<p>“How could I help believing it?â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! that shows a trust in me! Well, Mary did not believe it. Mary told -me that I loved you.â€</p> - -<p>“And do you?†cried Camelia. She took her hand away, sat upright, and -faced him. Perior was forced to smile a little at the baldness of his -answering, “I do, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p>“You did not know till——â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, I knew all along,†Perior confessed, interrupting her. Camelia’s -eyes widened immensely as she took in the astounding revelation. He -replied to their silent interrogations with “I have been a wretched -hypocrite. How I convinced you of the lie I don’t know.â€</p> - -<p>“And you told that to Mary.†He saw now that her gaze passed him, -ignored him and his revelation in its personal bearing.</p> - -<p>“I told her the truth. It did not hurt her. She was far above such -hurts. You had showed her that you were worthy of any love. To share her -secret made her happy.â€</p> - -<p>“Happy! Oh, Mary! Mary!†Camelia murmured, looking away from him. “It -must have hurt,†she added. “Ah, it must have hurt.â€</p> - -<p>“She was as capable of nobility as you—that was all.â€</p> - -<p>“As I!†It was a cry of bitterness.</p> - -<p>“As you, indeed. I feel between you both what<a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a> a poor creature I am. I -suppose I did for a test. You proved yourselves on me.â€</p> - -<p>There was silence for a little while. Camelia looked out of the window -at the spring evening. It was here they had sat together on that day of -their first meeting after her return. Her mind went back to it in all -the sorrow of hopeless regret. What had Mary been to her then?</p> - -<p>“What more did she say?†she asked at last in a voice of utter sadness. -She still looked out of the window, but when he answered, “She said that -you loved me,†she looked at him.</p> - -<p>“Is that still true, Camelia?†he asked, smiling gravely and with a -certain timidity.</p> - -<p>“So you know, at last, how much.â€</p> - -<p>“My darling.†His tone brought the tears to her eyes; they rolled down -her cheeks while she said brokenly, “And I told her; I gave her the -weapon—and she smiled at us. Oh, that smile!â€</p> - -<p>“There was triumph in it. She asked me to marry you, Camelia, and I said -I would—if you would have me. But, I must not ask you now—must I?†He -sat down beside her on the sofa, and kissed her hand.</p> - -<p>“Ah, no; don’t think of that. It would kill me, I think, if for one -moment I forgot.â€</p> - -<p>“You need not forget—yet you may be happy, and make me happy.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, you don’t know,†said Camelia, clasping her hands and looking down -at them, “you don’t know. Even you don’t know how wicked I have been.â€</p> - -<p>“We all have such dark closets in our hearts. Don’t shut yourself in -yours.<a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“I don’t shut myself. I am locked in. That is my punishment. Michael,†-and she looked round at him without turning her head, “I think of -nothing else; that I made her miserable—that I made her glad to die. I -must tell you. You don’t know how I treated her. I remember it all -now—years and years—so plainly. I robbed her of everything. If a -sunbeam fell on her path I stood between her and it.â€</p> - -<p>Perior was silent, but putting his hand over hers he held it faithfully.</p> - -<p>“Listen. Let me tell you a few—only a few—of the things I remember. I -don’t know why you love me!—how you can love me! It hurts me to be -loved!†she sobbed suddenly.</p> - -<p>“If it will help you, tell me everything. And I must love you, even if -it hurts you.â€</p> - -<p>And, her hand in that faithful hand, her eyes on his, demanding -inflexible judgment, Camelia began the long confession—a piteous tale, -indeed. All the blots and failings gathered in a huge blackness; she -spoke from it. He felt as she spoke that the clasp of his hand was her -one link with revival. It was a piteous tale: for the robbery of Mary’s -ride, the brutal taunts flung at her on that winter night—these were -but the bigger drops in the sea of selfish thoughtlessness. After each -incident, rounded with a succinct psychology that showed her pitiless -clearness of vision, she paused, as if waiting for him to speak. His -silence seemed to acquiesce, and she wanted no soothing denial. And even -now his hand held hers, and did not cast her off. When she had done, and -after the silence had grown long, he said—<a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a></p> - -<p>“And so I might lay bare my heart to you.â€</p> - -<p>“I would not be afraid of its dark corner. You have never been meanly -selfish, never trodden on people.â€</p> - -<p>“But I might affirm other things. I will open the door if it will help -you to sit down with me in the doubled darkness.â€</p> - -<p>“No, dear Michael, no. Mine is enough.â€</p> - -<p>“I have heard you; and may I now tell you again that I love you?â€</p> - -<p>“Not again. Not now. But I am glad that you love me. I feel it. I should -like to sit like this forever, just feeling it, with my hand in yours.â€</p> - -<p>This very debatable love-scene must be Perior’s only amorous consolation -for many months. Of her quiet content in his presence there could be no -doubt. No barrier, no pain, was now between them. Their union was -achieved, as if by a mere wave-wash, effacing one misunderstanding—it -hardly seemed more now, nor their change of relation apparent; but under -all Camelia’s courage was the fixed determination to allow herself no -happiness. Superficially there was almost gaiety at times; her regret -would never become conventional or priggish; but even Lady Paton did not -guess that Camelia and Michael were lovers, although a secret hope—very -wonderful, and carefully hidden—painted for her future rosy -possibilities. With all the sadness, with all the regret, these days -were the happiest Lady Paton had known; and as Camelia’s devotion was -exclusively for her, she could not guess that the secret hope was -already realized.</p> - -<p>Yet Camelia did not leave her silent lover utterly<a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a> bereft. After the -deep gravity of the first avowal her little demonstrations were of a -light, an almost mocking order. In this new phase she returned to the -teasing fondness of the old one; and sometimes the central tenderness -would pierce the lightness.</p> - -<p>Perior could afford patience. Reading one afternoon in the library (his -daily presence at Enthorpe was a matter of course), he heard steps -behind him, then felt her hand clasp over his eyes.</p> - -<p>“You are keeping on—loving me?†she demanded.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am keeping on,†said Perior, turning his page with a masterly -calm. He knew that the little outburst conceded nothing, and that even -when Camelia dropped a swift kiss on his hair he was by no means -expected to retaliate.</p> - -<p>For the lighter mood the cottages made endless subjects for conversation -and discussion. In talking—squabbling amicably—over their interior -civilization, Camelia felt that she and Perior had much the playful -gravity of children making sand pies at the seaside.</p> - -<p>Camelia insisted on her prints and photographs, and on hanging them -herself. She had fixed theories on the decoration of wall-spaces.</p> - -<p>Perior held the ladder and criticised. “They are quite out of place, you -know. That exotic art is most incongruous. It jars.†Camelia was hanging -up a modern print after Hiroshighé.</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t jar on us, would it?†she asked, driving in a nail.</p> - -<p>“We are exotic mentally.<a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Let us train them to a more cosmopolitan out-look, then.â€</p> - -<p>“They would far prefer the colored prints from Christmas numbers.â€</p> - -<p>“Well, they shan’t have them!†Camelia declared, and he laughed at her -determined tyranny. But when her tenants were duly installed Camelia was -forced to own that the honest forces of the soil were difficult to -manage. She came in to tea one afternoon with the announcement, that the -Dawkins had taken down all their prints and put up flower-entwined texts -and horrible colored advertisements. Mrs. Dawkins had said that her -husband objected to “those outlandish womenâ€; they made him feel “quite -creepy like.â€</p> - -<p>Later on she had to confess that the Coles by no means appreciated their -photographs of the Sistine Sibyls, so charmingly placed along the walls, -and that from among them glared a well-fed maiden with upturned, -prayerful, and heavily-lashed eyes; testifying to the Coles’ religious -instincts and to their only timid opposition.</p> - -<p>“How can they be so stupid!†cried Camelia. “And how can I!â€</p> - -<p>“You can’t grow roses on cabbages, Camelia,†said Perior, “to say -nothing of orchids. You are demanding orchids of your cabbages.â€</p> - -<p>“Desire precedes function,†Camelia replied sententiously, “if the -cabbages want to, very much, they may grow orchids. I shall still -hope.<a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>â€</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span>N a beautiful October afternoon a visitor came to Enthorpe.</p> - -<p>Camelia was summoned to find Mrs. Fox-Darriel in the drawing-room. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, with a pastoral hat—rather Gallic in its conscious -innocence—tipped over her emphasized eyes, her gown of muslin and lace -very fluffy on very rigid foundations, looked with her triumphant -artificiality of outline quite oppressively smart. Camelia, after her -year’s seclusion, felt her to be oppressive.</p> - -<p>It was rather difficult to smile on meeting her, their parting had such -painful associations—the dark turmoil of those days drifted over -Camelia’s memory as she gave her friend her hand.</p> - -<p>“You are surprised to see me, aren’t you, Camelia?†said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Rather surprised.â€</p> - -<p>“No wonder, you faithless young woman. You haven’t troubled to toss me a -thought for this twelvemonth. Well, I bear you no grudge; it is a -psychological phase that will, I hope, wear itself away. Yes, I am -stopping down in these parts again, twenty miles away, with the -Lambournes. You have not seen them yet, I hear. New importations. Mr. -Lambourne is a bloated capitalist, and as my poor Charlie is Labor -personified, I hope that<a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a> my display of four new gowns daily in the -Lambourne ancestral halls—they will be ancestral some day—will result -in a beneficial return of favors. Charlie is going in very much for -companies; Mr. Lambourne’s companies are extremely advantageous. Oh, I -uphold the uses of Lambournes in our modern world; they make us poor -penniless aristocrats so very comfortable; they are good, grateful -people.â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel, while she talked, was looking Camelia up and down in a -slowly cogitating manner.</p> - -<p>“No, I can’t stop to tea; I must be going back directly, it is a long -drive. I only came to have a look at you, and, if possible, to solve the -mystery. What’s up, Camelia? That is what I want to know. Is this all -the result of last year’s little <i>esclandre</i>?â€</p> - -<p>Camelia evaded the question.</p> - -<p>“We have had trouble. You heard that my cousin was dead.â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s eye travelled again over Camelia’s black dress. -“Yes—I heard. Poor little thing. And she would never appreciate how -charming was the mourning being worn for her; that gown is really—well, -there is a great deal in it, a great deal. I don’t know how you manage -to make your clothes so significant. You’ve got all Chopin’s Funeral -March into those lines. Well, it makes you feel badly, of course.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes. Very badly.†From the very patience of Camelia’s voice Mrs. -Fox-Darriel was keenly aware of barriers. How Camelia had disappointed -her! A certain baffled, angry affection rose within her.</p> - -<p>“You certainly treated her horribly, my dear. I<a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a> understand regrets.†-Camelia made no reply, and looked at her with a steady sadness.</p> - -<p>“And—she was in love with the vial of wrath. You knew that, I suppose.â€</p> - -<p>“I knew that I was in love with him, Frances.â€</p> - -<p>At that Mrs. Fox-Darriel gasped. Her eyes took on an unblinking fixity. -“So you own to it?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, I certainly own to it.â€</p> - -<p>“Camelia! You are not going to—†The conjecture made her really white.</p> - -<p>“To what?†and Camelia smiled irrepressibly.</p> - -<p>“Camelia, I am fond of you. I did wish best things for you. I did hope -to see you <i>somebody</i>. You would have been. You <i>can</i> be. Sir Arthur -will be on his knees before you if you lift a finger.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh! I hope not,†cried Camelia.</p> - -<p>“You know it. You know it. Lady Elizabeth hasn’t a chance. She has -become literary—is writing the life of her great-grandfather, deep in -archives—that means hopelessness.—Camelia!†and Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s cry -gathered from Camelia’s impassive smile a frenzied energy. “You are -not—tell me you are not—going to marry that man—relapse into a -country matron! He will swamp you. You have nothing in common. It is -calf-love, pure and simple. I felt it all along; hoped he would see the -incongruity of it—take your poor little cousin, who was cut out for -submission and nurseries.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think a superfluity of either will be expected of me,†said -Camelia, with a laugh really unkind.</p> - -<p>“Oh, heavens! You are going to marry him?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, immediately,†said Camelia, somewhat to<a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a> her own surprise. She had -not expected her rather indefinite views on this subject to crystallize -so suddenly and so irrevocably. “Console yourself, Frances,†she added, -really feeling some compunction before Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s tragic -contemplation, “it won’t be my funeral. He dug me out, and I am going to -dig him out. You may hear of me yet—as his wife.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah!†Mrs. Fox-Darriel had found the calm of her despair. “It is the -same old story. His indifference has done it all. It may be brutal, but -I must say it, you threw yourself at his head. The flattery at last -penetrated his priggishness; Endymion stooped to Selena.â€</p> - -<p>Camelia’s serenity held good.</p> - -<p>“You can’t make me angry. I like your disinterestedness, Frances. Let me -thank you for Endymion; I am sure the simile would flatter his -forty-five years.â€</p> - -<p>“And I came hoping——â€</p> - -<p>“Hoping what my kind Frances?â€</p> - -<p>“That I was to be a link; that I would find you sane again—willing to -pay me a visit, and meet <i>him</i>.â€</p> - -<p>“But, as you see, I am on Latmos, and like it.â€</p> - -<p>“Yes, I see. I am disillusionized, Camelia; I confess it. I didn’t -expect that sort of floppiness from you. And there is a -self-righteousness about your whole manner that is insufferable, quite; -I tell you so frankly.†Mrs. Fox-Darriel, as she spoke, shouldered her -closed parasol, and clasped her hands over it in a militant antagonism -of attitude. “The sheep looking suavely from its fold at the goat. We -are all goats to you now.<a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>â€</p> - -<p>“Come, let us kiss through the bars, then.â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are miles away—æons away!â€</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fox-Darriel submitted drearily. “You are lost! done for! And the -name, the power, the future you might have had! You were clever.â€</p> - -<p>“I rather doubt that.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah! of course you doubt it; you must doubt it. As the wife of a crusty -country squire it would be a corroding cleverness merely. You turn your -back on it.â€</p> - -<p>“We won’t be hopelessly provincial. You will see us in London. He may -get into Parliament.â€</p> - -<p>“Us! He! Alas! he will swamp you,†she repeated. “He will turn you into -a pillar of salt—looking back, and being sorry. <i>You</i> to be wasted!†-was the last Camelia heard.</p> - -<p>When she had gone Camelia went slowly across the lawn; Perior, she knew, -was lurking about the garden waiting for her. Some of Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s -remarks had cut—so far less deeply, though, than her own thoughts -during past months. It was the strong revival of these thoughts that -pained her more than the mode of revival.</p> - -<p>It was dusk, a pensive dusk, the evening sky faintly barred with pink. -Perior was walking up and down the garden between rows of tally growing -flowers. Was the thought of his patience and loneliness, of her -selfishness in prolonging them, a mere sophistry meant to hide her own -longing for happiness? As she walked down the path towards him her mind -juggled with this thought; it was very confusing.</p> - -<p>“Who do you think it was?†she asked, putting<a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a> her hand in his, a little -<i>douceur</i> Perior had never presumed upon.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Jedsley? Mrs. Grier? Lady Haversham?†he asked affably, but -scanning, as she felt, the sadness of her face.</p> - -<p>“No—the past has been having a flick at me—Mrs. Fox-Darriel the whip.â€</p> - -<p>“Ah yes. I never liked her.â€</p> - -<p>“There is not much harm in her.â€</p> - -<p>“No, perhaps not,†Perior acquiesced.</p> - -<p>“I told her,†said Camelia, after a little pause in which they turned a -corner of the garden, and walked down it again by an outward path.</p> - -<p>“Well, what did you tell her? She has hurt you. I can see that.â€</p> - -<p>“No, not she. She asked me if I had never seen that Mary loved you, so, -in reply, I said that I had only seen that <i>I</i> loved you.â€</p> - -<p>“Did that excellent piece of truth-telling pain you?â€</p> - -<p>“No; it was a delicious mouthful. But, she said too, that the flattery -of my love had pierced your indifference—or your priggishness, she -called it‗and Camelia gave him a rather arch glance, “and I didn’t -really wonder, not <i>really</i>; but you were so much more indifferent than -I was, weren’t you?†and she paused in the path to look at him, not -archly, but very seriously. Her candor was so charming, with its little -touch of fear, that Perior’s answer could not resist an emphasis.</p> - -<p>“Dearest,†he said, and Camelia’s wonder was not unpleasant, and his -daring went unrebuked, as he put his arm around her.<a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a></p> - -<p>“That means you were not?â€</p> - -<p>“It means a great deal more. I was in love with you when I was nothing -to you. I’ve always been in love with you—horribly in love with you. -Indifference! Great heavens! that was what I prayed for, that was what I -tried to feign, for I thought you such an abominable little siren. All -the time that you were picking me up, and putting me down, and whisking -past me, and torturing and teasing me, all the time I was adoring you, I -couldn’t help myself! adoring you with all your crimes upon you! -thinking myself a fool for it, I grant.â€</p> - -<p>“Putting you down? No, I never did that,†Camelia demurred.</p> - -<p>“Well, I thought so. And at all events you know that you were most -comfortably indifferent until you found out that you couldn’t get me for -the asking.â€</p> - -<p>“No, no!†cried Camelia. “From the first, if you had really let me think -you loved me, told me so, nicely, and begged a little, I should have -fallen straight into your arms, and perhaps never have found out how bad -I was!â€</p> - -<p>“And that would have been a pity, eh? No,†he added, with an -argumentative gravity that touched and made her smile sadly. “You were -never <i>bad</i>. It was always half my fault. I misjudged you, and you -danced to my lugubrious piping.â€</p> - -<p>“This is the very madness of devotion! Oh, dear Alceste, with you, -perhaps, with you I have not dealt so badly; but, <i>but</i>——†She walked -on again, turning away her head.</p> - -<p>“Don’t,†said Perior gently.<a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a></p> - -<p>“Ah, I must, I must remember.â€</p> - -<p>For a long time they were silent during the rounding of the whole -garden, where the high walls grew dark against the sky, and the flowers, -in the faint light, were ghostly.</p> - -<p>“Michael,†she said at last, “I rebel sometimes against my own -unhappiness. I want to crush it—I am afraid of it; but I am more afraid -of being happy.â€</p> - -<p>“Why can’t they go together?†he asked.</p> - -<p>“Ah! but can they?â€</p> - -<p>“They must, sooner or later. Then you won’t be afraid of either. Doesn’t -this all mean,†he added, “that <i>now</i> I may tell you how much I love -you?†and he stopped to look at her. Her face was like a white flower in -the dusk. Far away, over long sweeps of thin purpling cloud, shone one -star, faint and steady. He saw together her face, the sky, and the star.</p> - -<p>“Oh!†said Camelia, “<i>do</i> you know me? Even now, do you know me? I’m not -one bit good! I am still the horrid child who clamored for your love; my -love for you the only good thing in me! You love me, all the same? You -don’t mind? don’t expect anything? I want so much, but I will have -nothing, not a kiss, not your hand holding mine,—there, let it go,—on -false pretences.â€</p> - -<p>“I can only retaliate. <i>I</i> am not one bit good. Dear, horrid child, will -you put up with me?â€</p> - -<p>“Oh, I never minded!†she cried. “I loved you, good or bad.â€</p> - -<p>“And I you; only I minded. That is all the difference. There isn’t a -falsity between us, Camelia,†he added.<a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a></p> - -<p>“No, there isn’t.â€</p> - -<p>“Then, may I kiss you, and hold your hand?â€</p> - -<p>“Yes; only—first—first—†she held him off, smiling, yet still -doubting, still tremulously grave, “I am not good enough; no, I am not -good enough.â€</p> - -<p>“Quite good enough for me,†said Perior. “I am getting tired of your -conscience, Camelia.â€</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<table summary="note" border="4" cellpadding="10" style="background-color: #ffffff; -margin-right:auto;margin-left:auto;max-width:60%;text-align:center;"> - <tr> - <td valign="top">Typographical error corrected by the etext transcriber:<br /> -befere=> before {pg 274}</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Confounding of Camelia, by -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - -***** This file should be named 41917-h.htm or 41917-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/9/1/41917/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - -</pre> - -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/41917-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/41917-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 20a0f09..0000000 --- a/old/41917-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/41917.txt b/old/41917.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 26858a6..0000000 --- a/old/41917.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9273 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Confounding of Camelia, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Confounding of Camelia - -Author: Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Release Date: January 26, 2013 [EBook #41917] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -The Confounding of -Camelia - -By -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -Author of -"The Dull Miss Archinard," Etc. - -New York -Charles Scribner's Sons -1899 - -Copyright, 1899, by -Charles Scribner's Sons - -MANHATTAN PRESS -474 W. BROADWAY -NEW YORK - - -_TO - -"CHARLIE" AND "JIMMIE"_ - - - - -The Confounding of Camelia - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -When Camelia came down into the country after her second London season, -descended lightly upon the home of her forefathers, her coming -unannounced, and as much a matter of caprice as had been her long -absence, a slowly growing opinion, an opinion that had begun to form -itself during Camelia's most irresponsible girlhood, became clearly -defined, a judgment fixed and apparently irrevocable. The Patons had -always been good, quiet people; absolutely undistinguished, were it not -that the superlative quality of their tranquil excellence gave a certain -distinction. There were no black sheep in their annals, and a black -sheep gives, by contrast, a brilliancy lacking to unaccented bucolic -groupings, strikes a note of interest at any rate; but none of the Paton -sheep were even gray. They fed in pleasant, plenteous pastures, for it -was a wealthy, though not noticeably wealthy family, and perhaps a -rather sheep-like dulness, an unimaginative contentment not conducive to -adventurous strayings, accounted for the spotless fleeces. - -Their cupboards had never held a skeleton--nor so much as the bone of -one. The family portraits, none even pretending to be Sir Joshuas or -Vandycks, only presented a respectable number of generations, so that -the mellow perspective of old ancestry, remarkable at least for a -lengthy retrogression into antiquity, made no background to their -commonplace. Sir Charles, Camelia's father, was the first Paton weighted -with an individuality that entailed nonconformity, and since Sir -Charles's individuality had confused all anticipations, further -developments of the wild streak could not be unexpected. Many of the -quiet, conservative people, who had known Camelia, her father and -mother, and Patons of an earlier epoch, pronounced with emphasis that -Camelia was spoiled; there was a tenderness in the term, an implication -of might-have-beens; and other people, more bitter and perhaps more -sensitive, remarked that not her head-turning London successes, of which -big echoes had rolled down to Clievesbury, but the inherent, the no -doubt inherited defects of Miss Paton's character were responsible for -her noticeable variation from family traditions. Did not that portion of -Blankshire, which lay about the dim old village of Clievesbury, send up -to the capital every year its native offerings of maidenhood? A London -season had never induced in these well-balanced young ladies the merry -arrogance so provokingly apparent in Miss Paton. Old Mrs. Jedsley it -was, the last rector's widow, who most openly denounced Camelia, and -that, despite her long friendship for the Patons; denounced her -frivolity, her insincerity, her egotism, and her wonderful gowns--their -simplicity did not deceive Mrs. Jedsley's keen eye; the price of one -would keep the parish in flannel for a year she declared, and, no doubt, -include the school feast. Mrs. Jedsley prided herself on her impartial -faculty for seeing disagreeable truths clearly and for announcing them -unflinchingly. Her fondness for Lady Paton--"poor Lady Paton"--could not -blind or silence her. Poor Lady Paton was more than ever effaced, Mrs. -Jedsley said; one might have thought that Sir Charles had required as -much submission as a woman's life could well yield, but the daughter had -called forth further capabilities. - -"The very way in which she says 'Oh, Camelia!' is flattering to the -girl. Her mother's half-shocked admiration encourages her in the belief -that she is very naughty and very clever; and really while Camelia talks -Lady Paton looks like a hare under a bramble." - -The simile hit the mark so nicely that the alarmed retirement of Lady -Paton's attitude was pictorially apparent forthwith. And, "Ah, well!" -Mrs. Jedsley added, "What can one expect in the child of such a father! -The most gracefully selfish man who ever lived. Charles Paton would have -smiled you out of house and home, and left you to sit in the snow, while -he warmed himself at your fireplace." - -Indeed this application of the laws of heredity might have induced a -certain charitable philosophy on Camelia's behalf. The love of -adventure, of prowess, of power, had shown itself in Charles Paton; but -much had been forgiven--even admired--with a sense of breathlessness, in -a cloud-compelling younger son (his good looks had been altogether -supreme), which, when seen flaunting indecorously in the daughter, was -highly unpopular. Charles Paton at a very early age had found the family -traditions "devilish dull" (and, indeed, it could not be denied that -dull they were); he entered the army, kicked over the traces, and was -"wild" with all his might and main. Clievesbury disapproved, but at the -same time Clievesbury was dazzled. - -Surrounded by this naughty atmosphere, reverberating with racing and -betting, dare-devil big-game shooting, and the extreme fashion that is -supposed to reverse the "devilish dull" morality of tradition, Charles -Paton--like his daughter--returned to Clievesbury, and there fell most -magnanimously and becomingly in love with little Miss Fairleigh, the -eighth daughter of a country baronet--a softly pink and white -maiden--wooed and married her and settled down, after a fashion, to -carve out an army career for himself. He carved to good purpose, luck -giving him the opportunity. He carried his life as lightly and gallantly -as a flag; sought peril, and the tingling excitement of the strangest -feats. His reckless bravery won him a knighthood; his fame, his happy -good-nature, and extreme good looks, made him a hero wherever he went. -Charles Paton's yellow curls, his smile, the Apollo-like line of his -lips, were as well known as his martial exploits. - -He was vastly popular, and his little wife in the shadow by his side, -looked up, like the others, and adored where they admired. Sir Charles -liked a sunny atmosphere, and though the hearthstone flame in its steady -commonplace did not count for so much as the wider outdoor effulgence, -it was very cosy to come back to, when domesticity was a momentary -necessity. He would not have liked a change of temperature, and -tolerated the wifely worship very graciously. He was fond of her too; -she was very pretty, not clever--(an undesirable quality in a wife)--far -more of a help than a hindrance, though how much of a help he perhaps -never realized. That broad triumphal road down which the hero marched -was swept and garnished by the indefatigable wife. The dustiness and -thorniness of daily life were kept from him. Lady Paton packed and paid, -and dashed from post to pillar. She was a delicate woman who, petted and -made much of, might have allowed herself an occasional headache and a -tea-gown existence. The years in India were not easy years; through them -all she unwaveringly adored her husband, and in many phases of a varied -life showed the steely fibre so often and so unexpectedly displayed by -the most delicately inefficient looking women. - -Camelia was the fifth child; the others died, two in India and two in -England, away from the poor mother. This last one was little more than a -baby when ill-health and the death of his brother decided Sir Charles on -a return to England. Lady Paton rejoiced in the home-coming. With her -pretty baby--a girl, alas! but the estate was unentailed--and her great -and glorious husband by her side--the future seemed to open on an -unknown happiness. But Lady Paton was to know few compensations. Sir -Charles found the role of country gentleman very flavorless, and his -attempts to evade boredom left his wife more lonely--and too, more -conscious of loneliness, than in busier days. - -When Camelia was eight her father died. One saw then that Lady Paton was -supremely adapted to eternal mourning. As a widow, she reached a -black-encompassed repose, a broken-hearted finality of woe. Camelia was -the one reason for her life. The child had never to enforce her will, -her mother's devotion yielded to the slightest pressure. Camelia was -hardly conscious of ruling, nor the mother of being ruled. As the -stronger egoism, Camelia domineered inevitably. She was a gay, kind -child, happy in the unfettered expansion of her individuality; she -delighted in its exercise, and in all sorts of unconventional -acquirements. She read voraciously and loved travel. Lady Paton had by -no means reached the end of packing and paying days. Camelia hated -beaten tracks; the travelling must be different from other people's; she -managed in a tourist-ridden Europe to find the element of adventurous -experience. Camelia was keen on experiences. Lady Paton did not -appreciate them properly; but then Lady Paton saw life from no artistic -standpoint. She thought undiscovered Greece and Poland more trying than -the most trying places in India. The steppes depressed her; she dared -not mention wolves, but her mind dwelt dejectedly upon them. She could -hardly think of the cooking in certain out-of-the-way corners in Spain -without shuddering. But she bore all with apparent placidity, and her -helpful qualities won her daughter's approval just as they had won her -husband's. - -There was nothing rude or uncouth in Camelia's domineering spirit, it -was too happy, too spontaneous, too sure of its own right. Even after -these two years of London her severest detractors could not accuse her -of the grosser forms of vanity, nor of affectation, nor of the ugly -thing that goes by the name of "fastness." Her unerring sense of the -best possible taste made "fast" girls seem very tawdry, and her coolly -smiling eyes told them that she found them so. Even with the fact of her -serene indifference to them growing into the consciousnesses of the -people about Clievesbury, they still owned, generously, but perforce, -that she was neither strident nor slangy, nor given to any form of -posing. The change in Camelia, if change there were, was a mere -evolution. She had tasted the joys of a wide effectiveness. She was only -twenty-three, and more than once had been told that she was the only -woman in London fitted to hold a "salon," a "salon" that would be a -power social, artistic, and political. Authors talked to her about their -books, painters about their pictures; her presence at the opera was -recorded as having judicial importance; a new pianist was made if he -played at one of her musicals. She was a somebody to whom the -Clievesburyites were nobodies indeed. - -Camelia smiled at her own power. She did not think more highly of -herself, but less well of other people, for she measured at once the -comparative worth of her own attributes in a world of mediocrity. She -saw through the flattery, valued it at its proper rate, but enjoyed it, -and indulged in a little air of self-mockery that to appreciative minds -crowned her beauty irresistibly. But she was rather disappointed in -finding most people so stupid. It was difficult to hold to one's -standard in a world where the second-best passed so fluently. By those -standards Camelia saw herself very second-best; but were there then no -clever people to see it with her? She caught herself in a yawning -weariness of it all. A lazy month or so in the country appealed to her; -other motives, too, were perhaps not wanting. With a little retinue of -friends she reappeared at Clievesbury, and, by degrees, old neighbors -discovered that little Camelia had developed into a rather prickling -personality. On calling they found Lady Paton very much in the -background. Camelia seemed to make no claim, and yet she was the -important personage, and to ignore her prominence was to efface oneself -with her mother. It was thought--and hoped--that Lady Haversham, the -magnate of the county, would vanquish that complacent sweetness, the -aerial lightness of demeanor that glanced over one's head while one -spoke, and "positively" said Mrs. Jedsley "makes one feel like a cow -being looked at along with the landscape." - -But although Lady Haversham held rule in the country, in London she, -too, was a nobody, and Camelia very much the contrary. Lady Haversham -knew right well that in going to see her old friend Lady Paton, Camelia -was her objective point, and to try a fall with Camelia upon her native -heath, her intention. Lady Haversham knew that in the eyes of the -world--the world that counted--she was a mere country mouse creeping -into the radiant effulgence of the young beauty, and this unpleasant -consciousness gave her quite a drum-like sonority of manner--a fatal -manner, as she felt helplessly while she beat out her imposing phrases -beneath the clear smiling of Camelia's eyes. Lady Haversham tried in -the first place to exclude Camelia, and addressed herself with most -solicitous fondness to Lady Paton; but Camelia's silent placidity stung -her into self-betrayal. Camelia evidently cared nothing for Lady -Haversham's graciousness--or lack of it; seemed, indeed, unconscious of -the cold shoulder turned so emphatically upon her. Lady Haversham -thumped and rumbled, and knew herself worsted. - -"Manner! Unpleasant manner!" she said to Mrs. Jedsley later on in the -day, "the child has no manners at all! That takes in London nowadays, -you know. Anything in the shape of arrogant youth and prettiness is sure -of having its head turned. And as to prettiness, I should call her -curious-looking rather than pretty." And by this Mrs. Jedsley knew that -Camelia had snubbed Lady Haversham, without trying to--there was the -smart; Camelia was making no effort at all to be unpleasant, to impose -herself, but, unmistakably, she only thought of the good people about -her home as cows in the landscape. - -"I suppose she finds us all very provincial," said Mrs. Jedsley, not -averse to planting the shaft, for she had felt Lady Haversham's -graciousness to be rather rasping at times. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -On the sunny autumn day with which this story opens, Miss Paton was in -the morning room at Enthorpe Lodge, waiting for some one--a some one who -to her was not a nobody; and though her attitude hardly denoted much -anxiety, her mind was alert and very conscious of a pleasing and yet -exasperating suspense. Her friend Mrs. Fox-Darriel was with her. Miss -Paton leaned against the mantelpiece as she talked, her eyes often -swerving to the clock, but calmly, with no perceptible impatience, or -passing in a quiet glance over her hand, the falling folds of her white -dress, her friend's face and figure--figure and face equally artificial, -and perhaps affording to Miss Paton's mind a pleasing contrast to her -own distinctive elegance. - -There is in Florence a plaque by one of the della Robbia; a long -throated girl's head leans from it, serenely looking down upon the -world; a delicate head, with a clear brow, a pure cheek, a mouth of sad -enchanting loveliness; Camelia's head was like it; saint-like in -contour, but with an added air, an air of merry irresponsibility. The -outward corners of her eyes smiled into a long upward curve of shadow, -her brows above them made a wing-like line, wings hovering extended, and -a little raised. The upward tilt pervaded the corners of her mouth, a -sad mouth, yet even in repose it seemed just about to smile, and its -smile sliding to a laugh. The very moulding of her cheek and chin showed -a tender gaiety. As for coloring it might have been the coloring of a -pensive Madonna, so white was her skin, so palely gold her smooth thick -hair. She was slender too, with the long narrow hands and feet of an -Artemis, and on seeing her one thought of a maiden-goddess, of a St. -Cecilia, and, without surprise over the incongruity, of an intimately -modern young taster of life, whose look of pagan joyousness took neither -herself nor other people seriously, said "que voulez-vous," to all -blame, and gently mocked puritanical earnestness. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel was plunged into the depths of an easy-chair, a type -without hints and whispers to baffle and fascinate. She was thoroughly -conventional and not in the least perplexing. Her elaborate head, a -masterpiece of wave and coil and curl, rested against the high-chair -back, its lustre a trifle suspicious where the light caught too gold a -bronze on the sharp ripples. - -She was considered a beauty, and her steely, regular face looked at one -from every stationer's shop in London. Miss Paton's photographs were to -be procured at no stationer's, one among the many differences that -distinguished her from her friend. - -On Camelia's "coming-out" in all the dryad-like freshness of her one and -twenty years, Mrs. Fox-Darriel, smartest of the "smart," kindly -determined to "form" and "launch" her. She was very winning, and Camelia -seemed very willing. But Mrs. Fox-Darriel soon recognized that she was -being led--not leading, soon recognized that Camelia would never follow. -The first defeat was at the corsetiere's visible symbol of the "forming" -process. Under Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye, Miss Paton's nymph-like slimness -was measured for stays of all sorts and descriptions; Camelia, when the -stays were done, surveyed her figure therein confined, with reflective -rather than submissive silence. - -The week after she went to Paris, and when she returned it was with a -stayless wardrobe. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was fairly quelled as Camelia swept -before her in these masterpieces of the Rue de la Paix. - -"They are not aesthetic," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel--"I own that--not a -greenery-yallery whiff about them; nor too self-conscious; but my dear, -why? Don't you like my figure?" - -Camelia turned candid eyes upon the accurate waist, the rigid curves and -right angles. "I can't say I do, Frances," she owned, wherewith Mrs. -Fox-Darriel winced a little. "I don't think it looks alive, you know," -said Miss Paton. "Of course one must know how to dress one's -nonconformity. I think I have succeeded." And Camelia went to court -looking like a glorified Romney, with hardly a whalebone about her. -Their future relationship was forecast by this declaration of -independence. The stayless protegee conferred, did not receive lustre. - -Inevitably Mrs. Fox-Darriel found herself revolving about the young -beauty--a satellite among the other satellites, and more than Camelia -herself was Mrs. Fox-Darriel impressed by Camelia's effectiveness. - -On this morning from the depth of her laziness she observed her young -friend's glances at the clock with some wondering curiosity; it was -difficult to imagine a cause for the stirring of Camelia's contemplative -quiescence under country influences, but Mrs. Fox-Darriel was quick to -see the faintest ripple of change, and to her well-sharpened acuteness -the ripple this morning was perceptible. - -"No new guests coming to-day?" she had asked, receiving a placid -negative. "And what are you going to do?" she pursued, patting the -regular outline of her fringe. - -"I thought of a ride with Mr. Merriman and Sir Harry. Do you care to -come?" - -"No, no, I have too much of Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman as it is." - -"It is dull down here, Frances. Perhaps you had best be off to Homburg. -I am bent on recuperative vegetating, you know." - -"Whom are you waiting for?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel asked, coming to the point -with a circumspection rendered rather ridiculous by the frank promptness -of Miss Paton's answer. - -"I'm waiting for Mr. Perior, Frances," and she laughed a little, -glancing at her friend with a rapid touch of ridicule, "and he is -half-an-hour late; and I want to see him very badly." - -"Mr. Perior?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel's vagueness was not affected. "One of the -vegetables, my dear? Has not the curiosity of the neighborhood exhausted -itself?" - -"Ah--this vegetable isn't curious, I fear, not a shoot shows at least. -If he is curious he will pretend not to be, and pretend very -successfully." - -"That is subtle for a vegetable. Perior, the name is familiar. Who is -this evasive person?" - -Miss Paton's serene eyes looked over her friend's head at the strip of -blue and green outside framed by the long window. She was asking herself -with an inward smile for her own perversity, whether she had not come -down into the country for the purpose of seeing the "evasive person." -She would not mind owning to it in the least. Pickles after sweets; she -anticipated the tart taste of disapproval pleasantly. - -"Who is he?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel repeated. - -"He is my oldest friend; he doesn't admire me in the least--so I am very -fond of him. I christened him 'Alceste,' and he retaliated with -'Celimene.' He is forty odd; a bachelor; he lives in a square stone -house, and taught me very nearly everything I know. My Greek is almost -as good as my skirt dancing." - -"The square-stone gentleman didn't teach you skirt-dancing, I suppose. I -begin to place him. The editor; the family friend; the misanthrope." - -"Yes, my 'Alceste.' He has reason for misanthropy. His life has been a -succession of disappointments. I am one of them, I fear." - -"Dear me, Camelia!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel sat upright, "have you ever dallied -with this provincial Diogenes?" - -Miss Paton smiled over the supposition. "His disappointments are moral, -not amorous. Why do I tell you this, I wonder?" - -"To show me that you don't care for him perhaps," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -who to tell the truth, was rather alarmed. Since she had resigned -herself to a planetary, a reflected brilliancy, her star at least must -never wane; its orbit must widen. Camelia's whole manner seemed suddenly -suspicious. She was evidently waiting for this person, pleased, -evidently, to talk of him, and though Camelia might be trusted for a -full appreciation of her future's possibilities, Mrs. Fox-Darriel was -hardly satisfied by the frankness of her "Oh! but I do care for him; he -preoccupies me." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflected for some moments on the dangers of -country-house propinquity and retrospective intimacy before saying -pleasantly-- - -"What does he look like?" - -Camelia laughed again, soothing Mrs. Fox-Darriel somewhat by the -good-humored glance which seemed to pierce with amusement the anxiety on -her behalf. - -"His eyes are thunderous; his lips pale with suppressed anger." - -"Dear me! I am really anxious to see this vial of wrath." - -"And since that is his footstep on the gravel, you shall see him -immediately," said Camelia. - -A moment after Mr. Perior was announced. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Mr. Perior was a tall man, well built, yet carrying himself with a -certain ungainliness. He had an air of eagerness reined back. His face -was at once severe and sensitive. - -He gave no notice to Mrs. Fox-Darriel, whose head twisted round to -observe his entrance, and walking up to Miss Paton he took her -hands--she had put out both her hands in welcome--and, looking at her -kindly, he said-- - -"Well, Celimene." - -"Well, Alceste." - -The smile that made of Camelia's face a changing loveliness seemed to -come and go, and come again while she looked at him, as a butterfly's -wings fold and open while it rests upon a flower. She rarely laughed -outright, but her face in gravity was unfamiliar; one could hardly -imagine it without the shifting charm. - -"You might have come before," she said--her hands in his, "and I -expected you." - -"I was away until yesterday." - -"You will come often now." - -"Yes, I will." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye--a none too friendly eye--travelled meanwhile up -and down the "vial of wrath." Clever, eccentric, he had evidently made -an impression upon the not easily impressed Camelia, and his -clean-shaved face, and the rough gray hair that gave his head a look of -shaggy heaviness, seemed to express both qualities significantly. - -"Did you ride over?" Camelia asked. "No? Hot for walking, isn't it? -Frances, my friend Mr. Perior." - -"You live near here, Mr. Perior?" said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, glancing at his -boots, which were peculiarly solid and very dusty. - -"Only five miles away," he said. Mr. Perior's very boots partook of -their wearer's expression of uningratiating self-reliance. - -"We have heard of you in London too, I believe. You are editor of--what -review is it, Camelia?" - -"I was the editor of the _Friday Review_, but I've given that up." - -"He quarrelled with everybody!" Camelia put in, "but you can hear him -once a week in the leading article--dealing hatchet-blows right and -left. They don't care to keep him at closer quarters." - -Mr. Perior looked at her, smiling but making no repartee. - -"And Camelia has been telling me that you are responsible for her -Greek." - -"Is Camelia ashamed of her Greek? She needn't be. She was quite a good -scholar." - -"But Greek! For Camelia! Don't you think it jars? To bind such dusty -laurels on that head!" - -"Laurels? Camelia can't boast of the adornment--dusty or otherwise." - -"Oh! leave me a leaf or two. You are disloyal. I am glad of my Greek. -When one is so frivolous the contrast is becoming. And every twig of -knowledge is useful nowadays in a woman's motley crown, provided she -wears it like a French bonnet." - -Perior observed her laughingly--Mrs. Fox-Darriel had as yet seen no -hatchets. - -"No danger of your being taken for a blue-stocking, Camelia." - -"No, indeed! I see to that!" - -"You little hypocrite," said Perior. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eyebrows arched into her fringe. She got out of her -chair trailingly. - -"I will go into the garden. Lady Paton is there, Camelia? I think so. I -know that you have reminiscences. I am in the way." - -"You are, rather," said Perior, when she had gone out. "A very -disagreeable face that, Camelia; how do the women manage to look so hard -nowadays?" - -"Thanks. She is a dear friend." - -"I am sorry for it. I hate to see eyes touched up; it gives me the -creeps. I am sorry she is a dear friend." - -"I am afraid I shall often give you cause for sorriness." Camelia stood -by the mantelpiece, smiling most winningly. "Come, now, let us -reminisce. I saw you last in London. Why didn't you stop there longer?" - -"I had enough of London to last me for a lifetime when I lived there," -said Perior. "I do go up for a bout of concerts now and then," he added, -and looking away from her he took up a large photograph that stood on -the table beside him. "Is this the latest?" - -"How do you like it?" she asked, leaning forward to look with him. - -"It makes a very saintly little personage of you; but it doesn't do you -justice. Your Whistler portrait--the portrait of a smile--is the best -likeness you'll ever get." - -Camelia looked pleased, and yet a trifle taken aback. - -"What a nice Alceste you are this morning!" she said. "Tell me, what are -you doing with yourself down here? Growing more and more of the stoic? I -expect some day to hear that you have left the Grange and moved into a -tub. How do you get on without your pupil?" and Camelia as she stood -before him made ever so faint a little dancing step backwards and -forwards, expressive of her question's merriment. - -"I have existed--more comfortably perhaps than when I had her." - -"Now tell me, be sincere," she came close to him, her own gay steadiness -of look exemplary in the quality she recommended, "_Are_ you crunchingly -disapproving? Ready to bite me? Have you heard dreadful tales of -frivolity and worldliness?" - -"Not more than are becoming to a pretty young woman with such capacities -for enjoyment." - -"You don't disapprove then?" - -"Of what, my dear Camelia?" - -"Of my determination to enjoy myself." - -"Why should I? Why shouldn't you have your try like the rest of us? I am -not going to throw cold water on your laudable aspirations." - -Camelia still looked at him steadily, smilingly, and a little -mockingly. Their eyes at these close quarters could but show a -consciousness of familiarity that made evasions funny. Camelia's eyes -were gray, the sunlit gray of a brook--reflecting broken browns and -greens, _yeux pailletes_, as changing as her smile; and Perior's eyes, -too, were gray, but the fixed, stony gray that is altogether another -color, and they contemplated her fluctuations with an apparently -unmoved, though smiling calm. - -She laughed outright, and then Perior permitted himself a dry little -responsive laugh that left his lips unparted. - -"What are you up to, Camelia?" he asked. - -"We _do_ see through one another, don't we?" she cried joyfully. "I see -you are going to pretend not to mind anything. 'That will sting -her!--take down her conceit! I'll not flatter her by scoldings!' Eh! -Alceste?" - -"You little scamp!" he murmured, while Camelia, sitting down on the -sofa, swept her white draperies over her feet and motioned to the place -beside her. "You will not--no, you will not take me seriously." - -"If you see through me, Camelia," said Perior, taking the seat beside -her with a certain air of resignation, "you see that I am very sincere -in finding your behavior perfectly normal--not in the least surprising. -You are merely gay, and happy, and self-centred; and behaving as all -girls, who have the chance, behave," he added, putting his finger under -her chin with a paternal pat and a look of gentle ridicule. - -"Well done! That was very neat! Do you want me to show signs of -discomfiture. I won't. You know that I am quite individual, and that -for years you have thought me a selfish, hard-hearted little scoundrel." - -"Oh no; not so bad as that." - -"What have you thought, then?" she demanded. - -"I have thought that, like other girls, you can't evade that label----" - -"Oh, wretch!" Camelia interjected. - -"That, like other girls," Perior repeated with an unkind emphasis, "you -are going to try to make a 'good match.'" His face, for all its attempt -at lightness, took on a shade of irrepressible repugnance as he spoke. -"The accessories don't count for much. You may be quite individually -naughty, but in your motives I see only a very conventional conformity." - -"That's bad--bad and crude. The good match is, with me, the accessory; -therein lies my difference, and you know it. You know I am not like -other girls. You saw it in London. You saw," Camelia added, wrinkling up -her nose in a self-mockery that robbed the coming remark of fatuity, -"that I was a personage there." - -"As a noticeably pretty girl is a personage. You really are beating your -drum rather deafeningly, Camelia." - -"Yes; I'll shock you by mere noise. But, Alceste, I am not as conceited -as I seem; no, really, I am not," and with her change of tone her look -became humorously grave. "I know very well that the people who make much -of me--who think me a personage--are sillies. Still, in a world of -sillies, I am a personage. It does come round to that, you see." - -"Yes; I see." - -Camelia leaned back in her end of the little sofa, her arms folded, her -head bent in a light scrutiny of her companion's face. The warm quiet of -the summer day pervaded the peaceful room, a room with so many -associations for both of them. They had studied, read there together for -years; laughed, quarrelled, been the best of friends and the fondest of -enemies. Perior, as he looked about it, could call up a long vista of -Camelias, all gay, all attaching, all evasive, all culminating and -fulfilling themselves with an almost mathematical inevitableness, as was -now so apparent to him, in the long, slim "personage" beside him, her -eyes, as he knew, studying him, her mind amused with conjectures as to -what he really thought of her, she herself quite ready to display the -utmost sincerity in the attempt to elicit that thought. Oh no, Camelia -would keep up very few pretences with him. Perior, gazing placidly -enough at the sunlit green outside the morning-room, knew very well what -he thought of her. - -"Are you estimating the full extent of my folly," she asked presently, -"tempering your verdict by the consideration of extenuations?" - -This was so apt an exposition of his mental process that Perior smiled -rather helplessly. - -"See," she said, rising and going to the writing-table, "I'll help you -to leniency; show you some very evident extenuations." From a large -bundle of letters she selected two. "Weigh the extent of my influence, -and find it funny, if you like, as I do." - -"I wonder if you quite realize the ludicrous aspect of our -conversation," said Perior, taking a thick sheaf of paper from the first -letter. - -"Quite--quite. Only you push me to extremes. I must make you own my -importance--my individuality." - -"Ah, from Henge," said Perior, looking at the end of the letter. "He was -my fag at Eton, you know; dear old Arthur!" - -"Yes, and you quarrelled with him five years ago, about politics." - -"We didn't quarrel," said Perior, with a touch of asperity; "he was -quite big enough not to misunderstand my opposition. Must I read all -this, Camelia? It looks rather dry." - -"Well, I should like you to. He is one of the strongest men in the -government, you know." - -"Quite. He is the man for me, despite past differences of opinion. The -man for you, too, perhaps," he added, glancing sharply up at her from -the letter; "his devotion is public property, you know." - -"But my reception of his devotion isn't," laughed Camelia. - -"I am snubbed," said Perior, returning to the letter, and flushing a -little. Camelia noted the flush. Dear old Alceste! Shielding so -ineffectually, under his sharp blunt bearing, that quivering -sensitiveness. - -She put her hand through his arm, sinking down beside him, her eyes over -his shoulder following his, while he read her--certificate. Perior quite -understood the smooth making of amends. - -"Well, what do you say to that?" she asked when he had obediently read -to the very end. - -"I should say that he was a man very much in love," said Perior, folding -the letter. - -"You are subtle if you can trace an amorous influence in that letter." - -"It doesn't call for subtlety. Samson only abandons himself so -completely under amorous circumstances. I hope you are not going to -shear the poor fellow." - -"For shame," said Camelia, while Perior, looking at her reflectively, -softly slapped the palm of his hand with Arthur Henge's letter. "I am -his comrade. I help him; I am on his side, if you please, and against -the Philistines." - -"Oh, are you? And this? Ah! this is from the leader of the Philistines, -Rodrigg. Yes, I heard that Rodrigg was in the toils." Perior examined -the small, compact handwriting without much apparent curiosity. - -"That is simply nonsense. There was a time--but he soon saw the -hopelessness. He is my friend now; not that I am particularly fond of -him--the grain is rather coarse: but he is a good creature, far more -honest than he imagines, simple, after a clumsy fashion. He aims at -distinguished diplomatic complexity, I may tell you, and, I fancy, comes -to me for the necessary polishing. Read his letter." - -Perior had looked at her, still smiling, but more absently, while she -spoke. - -"Oh! Rodrigg is more cautious," he said glancing through the great man's -neatly constructed phrases. "You are not with the Philistines; he feels -that." - -"Politically no; but I have a good deal of influence with him. You see -those reviews he mentions; I went through a lot of heavy French and -Italian reading for him--sociology, industrialism--and saw the result in -his last speech." - -"Really." - -"Ah, really. Don't be sarcastic, Alceste, to me. One of those men will -probably be Prime Minister some day. You can't deny that they are -eminent men." - -"And therefore you are an eminent woman. Well, the logic isn't too lame. -I'll conclude, Camelia, that you may do quite a lot of harm in the -world." - -"You don't believe that a woman's influence in politics can be for -good?" - -"Not the influence of a woman like you--a--a _femme bibelot_." - -"Good!" cried Camelia, gently clapping her hands. - -"It is as that, you know, that these men court you. An _objet d'art_ for -their drawing-rooms." - -"You are mistaken, Alceste." - -"If I am mistaken--if they cherish ideals, they are unlucky devils." - -"No, Alceste, I am well justified in keeping my self-respect intact. It -is not for my _beaux yeux_ that I am courted--yes, yes--that wry look -isn't needed! I know in what hideously bad taste I am talking, but one -can't use artistic methods with you. As I say, I have my finger in any -number of pies besides the pie political. You should see the respect in -which I am held by the writers and painters. And I _have_ good taste; I -know that. You can't deny it, since you helped it to grow. What other -woman in London has a collection to equal mine? Degas--Outamaro--Oh, -Alceste, don't look so funnily! Do you really imagine that I am not -conscious of the baldness of my exposition? But what is the good of -putting on a wig for you!" - -"And all this to convince me----" - -"Yes, to convince you." - -"Of what, pray?" - -"That I am not a little insignificance to be passed by with indulgence." - -"Should you prefer severity?" and Perior, conscious that she had -succeeded in "drawing" him, could not repress "You are an outrageous -little egotist, Camelia." - -Camelia, her hands clasped over her knee, contemplated him with more -gravity than he had expected. - -"No," she demurred, "selfish, but not egotistic. There is a difference, -isn't there? Egotism is subjective, selfishness objective. I wonder," -she added, "what you _do_ think of me. Not that I care--much! Am I not -frank? I must care, since I am shuffling about before you; getting a -cuffing for my pains!" She rose suddenly, laughing, not in the least -bitterly, and walked to the window. - -"Mamma and Mary," she announced. "Did Frances evade them? They disconcert -her. Frances, you know, goes in for knowingness--cleverness--the modern -vice. Don't you hate clever people? Frances doesn't dare talk epigrams -to me; I can't stand it. You saw a lot of Mamma and Mary last winter, -didn't you? Took Mary out riding. Now, come here, Mr. Perior, and tell -me _how_ she looked on horseback." - -Camelia was smiling irrepressibly as he joined her, and they watched the -approach of the two ladies across the lawn. Certainly the angular, -thick-set form of the younger gave no hint of pleasing possibilities -under circumstances so trying as the equestrian. - -"_I_ never could wheedle Mary into the saddle. I should like to see her -on horseback immensely." Camelia's eyes twinkled: "A sort of cowering -desperation, wasn't it?" - -"No, she rode rather nicely," said Perior concisely. There was something -rather brutal in Camelia's comments as she stood there with such -rhythmic loveliness of pose and contour. - -"I wish Mary did not look so much like a milk pudding," she went on; "a -raisinless milk pudding--so sane, so formless, so uneventful." - -Perior did not smile. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Lady Paton was a thin, graceful woman, her slenderness emphasized, like -her daughter's, by a very small head. Since her husband's death she had -worn black, and even now it seemed to invade her delicate whiteness -rather overwhelmingly, rising closely about her throat, falling over her -fragile hands, enfolding her with a soft solemnity. Her white hair was -smoothed thickly under the transparent cambrics of an exquisite cap, and -framed the sweetness of a faded face, in profile like Camelia's. -Camelia's eyes were her father's, and her smile; Lady Paton's eyes were -round like a child's, and her smile half-frightened, half-explanatory. -With all the gentlewoman's mild dignity, her look was timid, as though -it besought indulgence for a lifelong sense of insignificance, a look -that aroused in Perior his grimmest scorn for a world in which such -flower-like moral loveliness is inevitably victimized by garish -egotisms. He had known Sir Charles, a charming companion, a good -fellow--in the somewhat widely licensed sense the term implies, but not -fit to untie his wife's shoe-strings when it came to a comparison. -Camelia now had stepped upon her father's undeserved pedestal, and -Perior, watching the new epoch of incense-burning, had smiled more and -more grimly. He was devoted to Lady Paton, and had been so since the -days when a raw, sensitive, high-strung youth, fresh from college, her -Madonna head had roused in him poetical idealizations, and her husband's -gay indifference a chafing resentment. With years he had grown rather -fond of Sir Charles, could make allowances for him, and, too, had no -longer idealized Lady Paton; but though he now saw her, sweet but dull, -lovely in unselfishness, yet weak in all except a submission noble in -its own way, the fragrant charm still stirred him with an almost -paternal tenderness, a pity, even a reverence. She was too obtuse to see -her own cramped and imprisoned life, but he saw it, and her -unconsciousness was part of the pathos. He was very fond of her, and she -of him, so that with all his protective partisanship there was, too, a -willing filial deference. - -This little corner of appreciation and affection was the softest spot in -Perior's character. He took both her hands now and said, looking at her -with a whimsical gentleness, "So you are back at last! And glad to be -back, too, are you not?" - -"Oh, very. And Camelia seems to like it so much," she smiled round at -her daughter; "she was beginning to look quite fagged; already the -country has done her good." - -Camelia smiled back with a humoring lightness. - -Mary Fairleigh stood quietly behind her aunt. Her expressionless face -certainly did suggest a lacteal dulness. The Fairleighs were not -responsible for her short nose and clumsily-cut mouth. Impecunious -Maurice Fairleigh, third son, had "done for himself" when he married his -younger sisters' nursery governess. Maurice had no money--and not many -brains, and poor Miss Hockey had neither brains nor beauty, nor family -nor money. Her flaxen hair and vacant blue eyes captured Maurice's -vagrant fancy during a lazy summer. He was very young, that fact was the -only excuse possible; but, as the Fairleighs said, there was no -accounting for Maurice's folly. Maurice himself, after a very little -time, could no longer account for it. He was a good-natured fellow, and -his wonder at himself did not become too painfully apparent to his wife; -but the short years of their married life were by no means a success. -Maurice was very delicate, and the struggle to make both ends meet was -but grudgingly aided by disapproving relatives. Lady Paton, only, was -sympathetic, practically sympathetic too; but during the greater part of -Maurice's matrimonial venture she was in India, and, as the other -Fairleighs said, Angelica never had the wit to resent anything. Maurice -died at Davos-Platz, and Mrs. Fairleigh, when her daughter was sixteen, -departed her seemingly very pointless existence. Her last years had been -sweetened by Lady Paton's devoted kindness, and she left Mary to this -guardian angel. Since that time Mary had lived at Enthorpe Lodge; a -grave, good little girl, solemnly submissive to her cousin, painstaking -in dutiful gratitude toward her aunt. Camelia had always found this -gratitude irritating, and Mary's manner--as of one on whom Providence -had laid the patiently-borne burden of obscurity and dependence, very -vexing. Camelia intended as little as her mother to recognize a -difference, and did not realize that her own dominant characteristics -necessitated Mary's non-resistance. - -She laughed at Mary's gravity, tried to tease her out of her stolid -acceptance of the role of poor relation, but, inevitably, she came to -treat Mary with the tolerant carelessness she seemed only to expect. As -for Lady Paton, she never surmised about Mary, nor analyzed her. Lady -Paton accepted people and things as they appeared, and without -conjecture. Mary was a dear, good girl. It was indeed impossible that -her uninteresting virtues should arouse enthusiasm, and her aunt's -appreciation from its very fulness was calmly unemotional. - -Lady Paton having become in these latter days a sort of decorative -adjunct to her daughter--for Camelia used her mother to the very best -advantage,--lace caps, sweetness and all,--it was upon Mary that the -duller duties fell. Mary managed bills and servants, and household -matters; wrote little notes, ran little errands, chose embroidery silks, -and sent for the books to Mudie's,--the tender books with happy -matrimonial endings that Lady Paton liked. She read these books aloud, -and talked to her aunt--as Camelia never did, never could. Lady Paton -listened to her daughter, but she and Mary talked about her. Mary's -conversation required no adjustment of amazed faculties, no quelling of -old-fashioned alarms, nor acceptance of a wondering incompetence. - -The little prattle of gardening and gowns, and Camelia's doings went on -happily, unless hushed in an absorbed observance of that young heroine -herself,--flinging pretty missiles of speech far above the heads of her -mother and cousin. - -Both dull dears; such was Camelia's realistic inner comment, but Mary -was an earthenware dear, and Mamma translucent porcelain. Camelia, who -appreciated and loved all dainty perfection, appreciated and loved her -mother, with much the same love that she would have given a slender -white vase of priceless ware, displayed on a stand of honor in her -knowingly grouped drawing-room. She was a distinctly creditable and -decorative Mamma. As for Mary, she was not decorative; a harmless, -necessary hot water jug. - -Camelia, now, as her mother spoke to Perior, went to her side and gave -the muslin that fell over her shoulder a little touch and settling. - -"You have had a nice walk round the garden?" she said, smiling, "your -cheek is just the pink of a sweet-pea." - -"And how are you, Mary?" Perior asked, turning to Miss Fairleigh. "You -might have more color I think." - -"Mary has a headache," said Lady Paton, the fluttering smile with which -she had received her daughter's commendation fading, "I think she often -has them and says nothing." - -"You must play tennis with the Mappuck girls. You need more exercise," -Perior continued. "They are at it vigorously from morning till night." - -"Oh--really," Mary protested, "it is only Aunt Angelica's kindness--I am -quite well." - -"And no one must dare be otherwise in this house," Camelia added. "Go -and play tennis at once, Mary. I don't approve of headaches." Mary -smiled a modest, decorous little smile. - -"Nor do I," said Perior, and then as Lady Paton had taken a chair near -her work-table, he sat down beside her, while Mary sank from her -temporary prominence, and, near the window, took up some sewing. Camelia -remained near her, looking out at the smooth green stretches of the -lawn, lending half an ear to the talk behind her, but keeping up at the -same time a kindly little flow of question and reply with her cousin. -How were the flowers getting on? and the hay making? Had she seen that -morning her poor village people? The questions were rather perfunctory; -and while she spoke Camelia aided the faltering march of a burnished -little beetle up the window, and helped him out on to the fragrant -branch of syringa that brushed the pane. - -"I hear that you are embarked on a season of parties," said Perior to -Lady Paton. - -"Yes, Camelia has so many friends. She thought she would like it here if -she could keep it gay with people." - -"You will like it too. You were lonely last winter." - -"Ah, Camelia was not here; but I was not lonely, Michael; you were too -kind for that; and I had Mary. You don't think Camelia looks thin, -Michael?" She had always called the family friend by his Christian name. -Perior had Irish ancestry. "She has been doing so much all spring--all -winter too; I can't understand how a delicate girl can press so many -things into her life--and studying with it too; she must keep up with -everything." - -"Ahead of everything," Perior smiled. - -"Yes, she is really so intellectual, Michael. You don't think she looks -badly?" - -"She is as pretty a little pagan as ever," said Perior, glancing at Miss -Paton. - -"A pagan!" Lady Paton looked rather alarmed. "You mean it, Michael? I -have been troubled, but Camelia comes to church with me. It is you who -are the pagan, Michael," she added, finding the gentle retort with -evident relief. - -"Oh, I wasn't speaking literally. I have no doubt that Camelia is a -staunch church-woman," he smiled to himself. Camelia was a brazen little -conformist, when conformity was of service. - -"No, not that. I don't quite know. I have heard her talk of religion, -with Mr. Ballenden, who writes those books, you know, scientific, -atheistic books, and Camelia seemed quite to overpower him; the -illusions of science, the claims of authority." Lady Paton spoke with -some little vagueness. "I did not quite follow it all; but he became -very much excited. Controversial religion does not interest me, it -confuses me. It is the inner change of heart, Michael," she added with a -mild glance of affection, "the reliance on the higher will that guides -us, that has revealed itself to us." - -Perior looked somewhat gloomily on the ground. The thought of Lady -Paton's religion, and Camelia's deft juggling with negatives, jarred -upon him. - -"You don't agree with me, Michael?" Lady Paton asked timidly. - -"Of course I do," he said, looking up at her, "that is the only -definition needful. We may interpret differently, from different points -of view." - -"You would find, I think, greater peace in mine, Michael. May you come -to it in time!" - -They were both silent for a moment, and both looked presently at -Camelia. - -"She is so much admired, and so unspoiled by it. So frank, so -unaffected. She is found so clever." - -"So she tells me," Perior could not repress. - -"And so humorous," Lady Paton added, taking his smile in its kindest -sense, "she says the most amusing things." - -"Mr. Perior," said Camelia, turning rather abruptly, "if Mamma is -singing my praises I give you leave to repress her sternly." She joined -them, standing behind Lady Paton's chair, and, over her head, looking at -Perior. "I know how trying such praises are, heard outside the family -circle." - -"In which I hope I may include myself. I enjoy Lady Paton's -interpretation." - -"Mamma would not believe the biting intention of that speech. Cuff! -cuff! cuff! _Il me fait des miseres_, Mamma!" - -Lady Paton's smile went from one to the other. - -"You have always teased Michael, Camelia, and he has always been so -patient with you." - -"Every one is patient with me, because I am a good girl. 'Be good, sweet -maid--' I believe in a moral universe," and Camelia over her mother's -head wrinkled up her nose roguishly as she made the edifying statement. -"Mamma," she added, "where is my flock this morning? I fancied that you -were shepherding some of them. I want to trot them out before Mr. -Perior. I want to study his expression as Sir Harry and Mr. Merriman -present themselves. Sir Harry the mere superlative of Mr. Merriman's -fatuity. I imagine that by some biological adaptation of function they -use their brains for digestive purposes, since I am sure they never -think with them." - -Lady Paton took refuge from a painful recognition of the inhospitable -nature of these remarks in a vague smile. Lady Paton had a faculty for -misunderstanding when either misunderstanding or disapproval was -necessary. If Camelia hoped by her brisk personalities to shock her -former preceptor she failed signally, for laughing appreciatively he -asked, "And for what purpose were these latest sports of evolution -imported?" - -"Purpose! Could one pin a purpose to such aimless beings? They came -because I like to have beautiful things about me, and, in their way, -they are beautiful. Then, too, with a plant-like persistency they turn -to the sun, and I do not flatter myself in owning that I am their sun. -It would have been cruel to deny them the opportunity of basking." - -"The hunting, dancing, yachting species, I suppose." - -"Yes; their lives comprise a few more movements, but very few. It is a -mere sort of rhythmic necessity." - -Perior laughed again, and his eyes met hers, as she leaned above her -mother's chair, in quite a twinkling mood. - -Mary, near the window, paused in her stitching to look at them both with -a seemingly bovine contemplation. - -"And who are your other specimens?" asked Perior, less conscious -perhaps than was Camelia of the purely dual nature of the conversation. -She enjoyed this little display before him, and her enjoyment was -emphasized by the presence of two alien listeners, it defined so well -the fundamental intellectual sympathy. - -Her smile rested on him as she replied, "You saw Mrs. Fox-Darriel." - -"Yes." - -"My only other guest just now is Gwendolen Holt, in appearance a -youthful replica of Mrs. Fox-Darriel, but in character very embryotic." - -"A very pretty girl," said Lady Paton, finding at last her little -foothold. - -"A spice of ugliness--just a something to jar the insignificant -regularity of her face, would make her charming. As it is, her -prettiness is a bore. You will stay to lunch, Alceste, and see these -people?" - -"I can't say that you have made me anxious to see them." - -"Have you no taste for sociology?" - -"You will stay and see _us_, however, will you not?" said Lady Paton, -advancing now in happy security. "I want a long talk with you." - -"Then I stay." - -"His majesty stays!" Camelia murmured. - -"How are the tenants getting on?" asked Lady Paton, taking from the -table a soft mass of white wool, and beginning to knit. She was one of -those women whose hands are always uselessly and prettily busy. - -"Mary and I drove past the cottages yesterday--I wish you had come, -dear--you would have liked to see them. So pretty they are, among their -orchards, with such beautiful gardens full of flowers." - -"Yes, don't they look well?" said Perior, much pleased. "I am trying to -get the people to devote themselves to fruit and flower growing. It pays -well." - -"And do the cottages themselves pay?" Camelia inquired mischievously. "I -hear that, asking the ridiculous rents you do, you need never expect to -make the smallest profit--or even get back the capital expended." - -"Thank Heaven the money-making epoch of my life is over," said Perior, -folding his arms and looking at her rather defiantly. - -"But what blasphemy against political economy! Cottages that don't pay! -It's very immoral, Alceste. It is feminine. You are pauperizing your -tenants." - -"I don't at all disbelieve that a little infusion of femininity into -political economy would be a very good thing. Besides, the cottages will -pay in the end." - -"The rents are lower than the lowest in the village. Lord Haversham was -telling me about it yesterday." - -"Oh, Haversham!" laughed Perior. - -"He was very plaintive. Said that times were hard enough for landlords -as it was, without your charitable visionaries and your socialistic -theories." - -"The two accusations don't fit; but of the two I prefer the latter." - -"It is a mere egotistic diversion then?" - -"Yes, a purely scientific experiment." - -"And your tenants have bath-tubs, I hear. Do they use them with Pears' -soap every morning?" - -"I flatter myself that they are fairly clean. That alone is an -interesting experiment. Dirt, I firmly believe to be the root of all -evil." - -"Ah, we come down to the bed-rock of ethics at last, don't we? Well, how -is the laboratory getting on? Have you found traces of original sin in -protoplasm?" - -"I think I have spotted perverse tendencies," Perior smiled. - -"What a Calvinist you are!" - -"Michael a Calvinist, my dear child!" Lady Paton looked up from her -knitting in amazement. - -"An illogical Calvinist. Instead of burning sinners he washes them! and -I've no doubt that to some of them the latter form of purification is as -disagreeable as the former. He puts them into model cottages, with -Morris wall-papers." - -"I beg your pardon. No Morris wall-papers." - -"Camelia, my dear, how extravagantly you talk," said Lady Paton, her -smile reflecting happily Perior's good-humor. Michael did not mind the -teasing--liked it perhaps; and though she did not understand she smiled. -Camelia sank down to a low chair beside her mother's, and taking her -mother's hand she held it up solemnly, saying, "Mamma, Mr. Perior is a -tissue of inconsistencies. He despises humanity; and he works for it -like a nigger." - -"You are an impressionist, Camelia. Don't lay on your primaries so -glaringly." - -"Confess that you are a philanthropist, though an unwilling one." - -"I confess nothing," said Perior, looking across the room at Mary with a -smile that seemed to invite her participation in his well-borne baiting. - -"Is not your life one long effort to help humanity--not _la sainte -canaille_ with you--but, and hence your inconsistency, the gross -_canaille_, the dull, treacherous, diabolical _canaille_?" - -"Not to hurt it, rather; and as one is oneself gross, dull, treacherous, -and diabolical, that may well engage one's energies. There would be less -cant and more comfort in the world if we would merely avoid treading -upon our neighbor's corns. Let us cultivate the negative virtues. What -do you say, Mary? You have a right to a strong opinion, since I never -saw you hurt anybody." - -Mary, thus unexpectedly appealed to, started, grew red, and laughed an -embarrassed and apprehensive laugh. Camelia cast a glance upon the long -strip of rather foolish embroidery lengthening under her cousin's -fingers. - -"My philosophy!" she declared. "People who make a row about things are -such bores." - -Lady Paton, still smiling, quite at sea, but conscious of a pleasant -atmosphere, bent her eyes upon an intricate turn in the futile garment -upon which she was engaged. - -"Do you avoid your neighbor's corns, my young lady?" Perior inquired. - -"I never think of such unpleasantnesses," Camelia replied lightly. "As I -haven't any corns myself, I proceed upon the supposition that other -people enjoy my immunity. If they don't, why, that is their own -fault--let them cut them and give up tight boots." - -Perior, looking on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his hands -clasped, laughed again. - -"Little pagan!" he said. - -"Frank, healthy paganism, an excellent thing. I don't own to it, mind; -but is not the soul in our modern sense a disease of the body?" - -"Oh, Camelia!" said Lady Paton, looking up with eyes rounded. Camelia's -smile reassured her somewhat, and she glanced for its confirmation at -Perior. - -Mary Fairleigh, in her distant seat, carefully drew her silk about the -contour of an alarming flower. - -"Never mind, Lady Paton, she doesn't shock me at all," said Perior. - -"I am glad of that, Michael; she will make herself misunderstood. -Camelia dear, it is one o'clock. The others must be in the drawing-room. -Shall we go there?" - -"Willingly, Mamma. I'm very hungry. Did you order a _good_ lunch, Mary?" - -"I hope you will like it." Mary paused in the act of neatly rolling up -her work. "Fowls, asparagus----" - -"_Don't_," Camelia interposed in mock horror; "the nicest part of a meal -is unexpectedness!" She laughed at her cousin; but Mary, securing her -work with a pin, murmured solemnly, "I am so sorry." - -"Mary, you are as silly as your own fowls!" cried Camelia; she gave her -cousin's flaxen head a pat, and then, as Lady Paton had taken Perior's -arm and led the way, she drew herself up in a mimicry of their stately -progress, and followed them demurely. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Michael Perior was an unfortunate man; unfortunate in his temperament, -which was enthusiastic, sensitive, and idealistic; unfortunate in the -circumstances with which that temperament found itself called upon to do -battle. To a man who had expected less of life the circumstances might -have been more amenable and far more endurable, but Perior had the -ill-luck to be born with an unmanageable instinct for the best, with an -untamable scorn for the second-best. It is not necessary to go into the -details of a life which had not spared these qualities nor improved -while disillusionizing him. Two blinding buffets met him at its -threshold. His father was ruined in a lawsuit, which by every ethical -standard he should have won, and Perior was in consequence jilted by the -girl whom he had enshrined in his heart as the perfect star of his -existence. At twenty-three he found himself under a starless sky, with a -heart stupefied at its own emptiness, and in a world of thieves and -murderers--for his father died under the shock of disaster, and Perior -did not pick his phrases. - -The abject common-sense of his ex-_fiancee_ could be borne with perhaps -more philosophy. He accepted the starlessness as in the nature of -things, and his own brief belief in stars as typifying the ignorance of -youth; but his father's death--the crushing out of life rather than its -departure--was tragedy, and it was with the sense of inevitable and -irretrievable tragedy that he began life. He had been thought clever at -Oxford, and had considered himself destined for Parliament. With a huge -load of debts upon his back, and an unresigned mother to support, all -thoughts of the career for which he had fitted himself were out of the -question. He turned to its only equivalent, and took up journalism. He -was much in earnest; he believed in a right and in a wrong, and was -intolerant of expediency. In a world of interested motives he bore -himself with unflinching disapproval. He would limit his freedom by no -party partiality, and in the laxity of public life his keen -individuality made itself felt like a knife cutting through cheese. At -the end of years of very bitter struggle he found himself in a position -of some eminence, editor of a courteous, caustic review, whose chief -characteristics were a stubborn isolation and a telling of truths that -made both friends and foes blink. No half-measures, no half-truths. -Conformity with the faintest taint upon it was intolerable to him. His -idealism had not evaporated in the storm and stress, it had condensed, -rather, into a steely resistance to ugly reality. Insincerity, -injustice, meanness, hurt him as badly in middle-age as they had at -twenty-five, but he now expected them, and by a stoical presage braced -himself against disappointment. The stoicism was only a rather brittle -crust, hastily improvised by Nature's kindly adaptation; he was soured, -but his heart was still soft; he expected nothing, and yet he was hurt -by everything. It was now some time since he had promised himself that -Camelia should never hurt him. Camelia had occupied his thoughts for a -good many years. The pretty child, with her face of subdued saint-like -curves, and her smile of frank unsaintliness, had seemed to claim him -from the very first home-coming. By a final irony of fate poor Mrs. -Perior died only a few months before the Grange was freed from its last -encumbrances. She had not made life easier for her son. She had always -refused to believe in the necessity for letting the Grange, had always -resented the lodgings in South Kensington, had always considered herself -injured, and had not been chary in demonstrations of injury. Perior had -looked forward with pride to the time when he should reinstate her in -her own home, and her death made a mockery of his own home-coming. - -It was in Camelia's early girlhood that ill-health, overwork, and a -violent row with the powers of political darkness, made this home-coming -definite. The battered idealist sought rather sulkily a retreat from the -intolerable contemplation of a wider world's misdeeds. Young Camelia, so -different from her dully worthy ancestors, so different even from her -dashing but not intellectual papa, charmed him as the woods and flowers -of spring charm eyes weary with city winter. She was too young to be -taken seriously; that was a lifted weight, in the first place. The -joyous receptivity of her mind afforded to his scholarly instincts just -the foothold he required to excuse to himself an indulgent and -thoughtless affection. As friend and adviser of Lady Paton, he drifted -easily into a paternal attitude towards the fatherless Camelia; he was -over twenty years her senior, and her eagerness for knowledge appealed -to him. As she had said, he taught her nearly everything she knew; she -rebelled against other methods, and Perior himself would have felt -robbed had governess or tutor supplanted him. During those quiet and -pleasant years he felt that on a melancholy walk he had picked a handful -of primroses--their pale young gold irradiated his solitude. He did not -say to himself that Camelia would never disappoint him, nor own that the -handful of primroses meant much in his life, but hopefulness seemed to -emanate from her, and insensibly he lived in the sunny impression. Her -very defects were charming, the mere superfluity of exuberant vitality, -and with this conviction he observed her happy, youthful selfishness as -one observes a kitten's antics, and treated her claims for dominion with -gentle ridicule. Camelia laughed with him at herself, and this gave them -an irresistible sense of companionship; consoling too, since no defect -so humorously recognized could be deep; his primroses still kept their -dew. But as she grew older, Perior began to realize uncomfortably that -Camelia could laugh at the deepest defect, recognize it, analyze it, and -stick to it--a deft combination. This faculty for firm sticking despite -obstacles gave the paternal Perior food for reflection, and, as he -reflected, he felt with a sudden little turn of terror that he was in a -fair way to take Camelia seriously after all. His terror struck him as -very cowardly, a shrinking from responsibilities--his, of a truth, to a -certain extent. That lightly assumed guardianship meant much in her -life. Had he failed in some essential? Was she not the product of her -training? He owned with a sigh that the note of true authority it had -not been his right to emphasize; yet in defending himself from the -probable pain of a deep affection, had he not weakened his claim to a -moral influence? And had he defended himself? Perior turned from the -question. Camelia respected him, he knew that; and yet his very -frankness with her--he, too, had laughed at himself for her benefit--had -given her a power over him. He was not at all afraid of seeming -priggish, but he was shy before certain contingencies; he knew that he -should blunder if he preached, and that Camelia would force him to smile -at the blunder and to blur the sermon. - -At the age of eighteen he caught her more than once managing, -manipulating the plastic elements about her with a skill approaching -deceit. The very absence of a necessity for deceit alarmed him; she had -so few temptations, there was no way of testing her, yet, that once or -twice, when circumstances by a little twist or turn opposed her, he had -caught her--too dexterous. Perior had not controlled himself, nor taken -the advantage he might have seized. He had immediately lost his balance, -exaggerated what Camelia regarded as a quite permissible and pretty -compromise into a fault worthy of biting denunciation, and in so doing -had given her a point of vantage from which she laughed--not even -angrily. Perior for many years had thought most goodness negative, and -preferred to see it tested before admiring, but he had forgotten to -apply his philosophy in this case. He lost his temper, and Camelia kept -hers, kept hers to the extent of soothing him by a smiling confession of -her misdoing, an affectionate declaration that she was wrong and he -quite right--"But don't be cross, dear Mr. Perior." What was he to do? -She did not care if she were wrong. Perior thought he would be wiser in -the future; he would give Camelia no further opportunity for facile -confession; but though the first sting of unexpected disappointment was -over, many unmerited aches were still reserved to him--all the more -painful from the fact that he had never intended to ache for Camelia. -Mary Fairleigh had come to the Patons when Camelia was sixteen, and -Camelia's treatment of her cousin was another and more constant cause -for growing discontent. Perior could not define the discomfort with -which he watched Camelia's indifferent kindness, or, worse still, an -unkindness as unintentional. He assumed by degrees an attitude of -compensatory gentleness towards poor Mary; it held, however, no sting -for Camelia; she seemed to watch his doing of the things she left undone -very complacently. It was by degrees that his dismay took refuge in a -manner of unshocked indifference which he hoped would prove salutary. It -did seem to irk and perplex her somewhat, and he had the consolation of -thinking that many of her perversities might be intentionally engineered -for his benefit. Perior, too, had learned to smile, and Camelia was -baffled. He would not scold her. After all, he counted for very little, -so Camelia assured herself as she entered upon her London life, and he -should see that she could be indifferent with far more effectiveness. -Perior saw little of her during those years. The little he saw on his -rare visits to London confirmed his grim conviction. She was a pretty, -clever, foolish, worthless creature; her frankness threw no dust into -his eyes. She might own herself a self-seeking worldling, and she did -not overshoot the mark. Many were the corns she danced over in her quest -of power and happiness. Her sincerity was insincere--it adapted itself -too cleverly. Perior had seen her flatter, when only he and she knew -that she was flattering; had seen her make her effect by pliancy or by -resistance; had watched her smile light for those who could serve her, -or stiffen to a sweet blankness for the incompetent. He recognized in -her his own scorn for the world without his ideal, which would not -permit him to stoop and use it; but, so Perior thought, Camelia knew no -ideals; reality did not hurt her--she met it with its own weapons. One -did not conquer an immoral world by moral methods; and if one lived in -it, not to conquer it would be intolerable. The scorn no doubt excused -her to herself, but it hedged her round with a sort of stupidity from -which Perior's quick recognition of moral beauty preserved him. Ethical -worth had come to be everything to him. Camelia simply did not see it. -He himself had armed her with that scientific impartiality before which -he felt himself rather helpless, before which good and bad resolved -themselves into very evasive elements. She told him that her science was -more logical than his, it had made her charitable to the whole world, -herself included, whereas he was hard on the world and hard on himself. -His very kindness lacked grace, while her unkindness wore a flower-like -color. He was sorry for people, not fond of them--but Camelia was -neither fond nor sorry. They were shadows woven into the web of her -experience, her business was to make that experience pleasant, to see it -beautifully. It was this love of beauty--beauty in the pagan sense--that -baffled him in her. She had put appreciation and an exquisite good taste -in the place of morality. Life to her was a game, to him a tragic, -insistent conundrum. These, at least, were Perior's reluctant -conclusions. - -When he walked away from Enthorpe Lodge his mind was to a certain extent -already reverting to the daily preoccupations of cottages, perverse -protoplasm, and his weekly article for the _Friday Review;_ but also -dwelling with the dual peculiarity observable in our meditations, upon -the people he had just left, Lady Paton, Mary, Camelia's guests, and -Camelia herself. It seemed really unnecessary to remind himself of that -promise he had made himself some time ago; Camelia could not disappoint -him; he knew just what to expect from her; she could not hurt him. Yet -the promise had been made at a time when she was hurting him very badly, -and even now, while he recalled it with some vehemence, he was feeling a -most illogical smart. - -The country road wound among dusty hedges and through the little -village. About half a mile beyond it lay a remnant of the Perior estate, -once large, second only in importance to the Haversham's, now sadly -shrunken and dislocated. By degrees, and during years of only meagre -competence, he had built upon this pretty bit of land a cluster of -cottages, his playthings; to make them unnecessarily delightful was his -perverse pleasure. - -Perior was by no means a paternal landlord; the lucky occupants of the -cottages were never reminded of the propriety of gratitude. Indeed -Perior had enraged neighboring landowners by remarking that the cottages -were none too good for the rent--a saying big with implications, and -perhaps intentionally spiteful. Indeed intentional spite was attributed -to many of his actions. It was a great fox-hunting country; and one of -the finest coverts, rich in foxes lovingly preserved by Perior's -forefathers, lay on his estate. Now it was currently reported that -Perior had had all the foxes shot! A murder would have made him less -unpopular. Malicious insanity seemed the only explanation. - -He did not scruple to proclaim his blasphemous heresies on the sacred -sport. He grew angry, said he abominated it, would do all in his power -to stamp it out, and at least would see that no animal should be -"tortured" on his property. The foxes had certainly disappeared from -Mandelly Woods, and good, honest sportsmen could hardly trust themselves -to mention the criminal fanatic's name. It must be owned that Perior's -love of animals approached the grotesque. He entertained at the Manor a -retinue of battered cats and outcast dogs, many garnered from London -streets. He could hardly bear to have surplus kittens drowned, and only -by the firmness of the housekeeper was the necessary severity -accomplished. He was exaggerated, peculiar, unpractical; the kindest -said it of him. He had sent two clever village boys to the University, -one the son of the village poacher and ne'er-do-weel, a handsome lad -with a Burns-like streak of genius, who had distinguished himself at -Oxford, and disappointed many pessimistic prophecies by turning out more -than creditably. At the present moment the son of one of Perior's -field-laborers came every day to the Grange for a coaching in the -humanities. Perior was a fine master, and Camelia was none too well -pleased when she heard of her successor. These experiments in sociology -aroused only less hostile comment than the black affair of the foxes. - -Our misanthropic gentleman paused at an angle of the road to survey his -cottages, each set in its own happy acres, stretching flower-beds and -young orchards into the sunny country. His tenants all had a pleasant -look of successful adaptation. One was a cobbler, and made most of -Perior's boots; a fact rather apparent. - -It was evening by the time he reached the tall gates through which the -roadway led up to the Grange, a high-standing, unpretentious, gray stone -house, rather bleakly situated on its height, but backed by a further -rise of wood, and, despite its vineless severity of outline, gravely -cheerful in aspect. An immaculately-kept lawn stretched in a gradual -slope before it, shaded by two yew trees, and the light grace of -beeches. Under the windows of the ground floor were beds of white and -purple pansies, and at one side, near the shrubberies, were long rows of -irises, also purple and white. From the other side of the house the -ground descended very abruptly, giving one the realization of height, -and a long view over woods, hills, and valleys to the distant sunset. - -The house within carried out consistently the first impression of -pleasant bareness. The wainscotted walls were reflected in the gleaming -floors. No tenderness of draperies, no futile ornament. In the -drawing-room three old portraits of three dead Mrs. Periors looked -quietly from the walls; some good porcelain was on shelves where there -was no danger of its breaking; the faded brocade of the furniture was -covered with white chintz sprigged with green. The library, where the -light came serenely through high windows, was lined with books; here and -there on the peaceful spaces a good engraving or etching; philosophical -bronzes above the shelves. The writing-table was spacious; opposite it -was Perior's piano--he played well. This was the room he lived in. Now, -when he entered, an old setter, glossily well-groomed, looked up with an -emotional thudding of the tail, and of two cats curled exquisitely in -the easy-chair, one only opened placid eyes, while the other, after -arching itself in a yawn, advanced towards him with a soundless mew. - -Perior was devoted to his cats, and adored his dogs. After stooping to -pat these animals, he took up a letter from the table. Arthur Henge's -writing was familiar, though of late years Perior had rarely seen it. -The old friendship had borne pretty sharp twinges--had survived even -Perior's ruthless handling of Henge's pet measure some years ago: Henge -had believed ardently in the bill, and thought Perior responsible to a -certain extent for its failure. That Henge had not been embittered by -this political antagonism had deeply touched Perior. He always -remembered the fact with a delightful, glowing comfort. His respect and -fondness for Henge were a staff to him. The two men were intrinsically -sympathetic, though they had hardly an opinion in common. Arthur Henge -was an optimist, and deeply religious, his wide humanism going hand in -hand with a fervent churchmanship. He was aided towards a happy view of -things by happy circumstances. He was one of the richest men in England, -and one of the most powerful; he held a high place in the present -Government. No sword of Damocles in the shape of a peerage hung over his -career in the Lower House, and at the same time the baronetcy, hoary -with an honorable antiquity, had the consequence and standing of many -greater but less significant titles. He was young, handsome, and -serious. Above all small cynicisms and hardness, his experience of life -seemed only to have taught him a wise, fine trust, and, perhaps in -consequence of this attitude of mind, it was impossible not to trust -him. - -This was the man who had fallen in love with Camelia Paton. The fact was -town talk, though it was surmised that despite his evident absorption he -had not yet given her occasion to accept him. That he was courting her -was not yet apparent, but his devotion remained gravely steady. Lady -Henge was supposed to be the cause of this adjournment of decisive -measures. Lady Henge was even more serious than her son, and her -influence over him was paramount. - -Now with all her ready qualities Camelia seldom pretended to -seriousness. To Perior there was something highly distasteful in the -whole matter. That Camelia should be the object of such comment, that -her achievement of the "good match" should be canvassed, infuriated him. -No blame could attach itself to Arthur's reticence; if reticence there -were it was on the highest grounds. It was the world's base, -materialistic chatter that jarred, its weighing of her charm and -loveliness against his wealth and prominence merely. Perior weighed -Camelia's merits against Arthur's. In his heart of hearts he did not -consider Camelia fitted to make a high-minded man happy--and some dim -foreboding of this fact no doubt chilled her lover's resolution. Perior, -however, was not logical. He might not approve of Camelia, but that Lady -Henge should disapprove nettled him. Arthur no doubt was a fool in -loving Camelia, but Perior wished to be alone in that knowledge. As for -the world's gross view of Henge as one of the greatest "catches" in -England, of Camelia as lucky if she got him, Perior's blood boiled when -he thought of it,--and that Camelia, with all her reliance on her own -attractions, was quite aware of the world's opinion and was not angered -by it. - -She, too, thought Henge a great "catch," no doubt; a great catch even -for Camelia Paton. - -Perior read the letter now, standing near the window and frowning very -gloomily. It was natural that Henge should write to him in this strain -of only thinly-veiled confidence. - -Henge knew of the long paternal intimacy with Camelia, and relied -perhaps too much on a paternal sympathy. Henge and his mother were -coming down to Clievesbury to spend some weeks at Enthorpe. He avowed -no intention, but the whole note, its very restraint, was big with -intention. He seemed, too, to emphasize his mother's pleasure in coming, -and Perior felt in the emphasis a touch of triumph. He hoped to see a -great deal of Perior, there was in the concluding passages of the note -quite a prophecy of future relationship, nearer than any they had known. -But through it all Perior fancied just the hint of an appeal--a quite -unconscious appeal, none the less significant for that. - -Camelia was to be put on trial before Lady Henge, and to Arthur the -process would be painful. The Henges had stately requirements; and -although Perior imagined that, were these requirements not satisfied, -Arthur had almost determined to overlook them, he felt the keenness of -the hope that all would be satisfactory, the support that the hope found -in Perior's intimacy with Camelia. - -Lady Henge shared her son's respect for Perior, and to her Perior's -friendship could interpret many phases in Camelia's charming character -perplexing to the anxious mother's unaided vision. - -"I am glad my mother is to know her better; she has seen only the -surface as yet," wrote Arthur. Arthur's love was a surety not quite -trustworthy, but the lifelong friendship of a man like Perior must -convince grave Lady Henge of many depths. Perior felt that his rigidity -was to be made use of. His well-known earnestness was to vouch for -Camelia's. His brow was very black as he finished the letter. He was -nearly angry with Arthur. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -"Mrs. Jedsley is in the drawing-room," Camelia announced, "so I ran -away. I am really afraid of her." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel laughed slightly; she put down the book with which she -was solacing a lazy afternoon on the sofa, and, looking at Camelia's -cloth dress and sailor hat, asked her if she had been out again. - -"Yes, just back. I only stayed in the drawing-room long enough to show -Mrs. Jedsley that she scared me. It's those eyebrows, you know, that -lack of eyebrow rather, emphasized by an angry redness in the place -where they should be. No, I cannot face her." - -"She is rather _epatante_. I suppose you were walking with your brace of -suitors." - -"No, I don't know where they are. I was walking by myself. I think I -must have walked eight miles," Camelia added, stretching out her feet to -look at her dusty shoes. - -"You certainly are an unsociable hostess, but those boys are becoming -bores. Whom do you expect next week? You must have something to leaven -the lump of pining youthful masculinity." - -"That poet is coming--the one who writes the virile poems, you know, and -whose article of faith is the _joie de vivre;_ and Lady Tramley, dear -creature, Lord Tramley, and--would you specify Sir Arthur as leaven?" - -"Do you mean to imply that he _isn't_ pining?" - -"I imply nothing so evident." - -"Wriggling, then--that you must own." - -Camelia was sitting near the window, opened on its framing magnolia -leaves, and said rather coolly as she took off her hat-- - -"No, _I_ am wriggling. _I_ must decide now." - -This was a masterly assurance. Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflecting that nothing -succeeds like unruffled self-confidence, and that Camelia's had never -shown a ripple of doubt, owned to herself that her slightly stinging -question was well answered. - -"Don't wriggle, my dear; decide," she said, accepting the restatement -very placidly, "you could not do better. To speak vulgarly--the man is -rich beyond the dreams of avarice." - -"Beautifully rich," Camelia assented. - -"Ah--indeed he is." - -"And he himself is wise and excellent," Camelia added; "I like him very -much." - -"He is coming alone?" - -"No, Lady Henge comes too." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel gave her friend a sharp glance. - -"That's very serious, you know, Camelia. I think you must have -decided--to suit Lady Henge." - -Camelia smiled good-humoredly. "I will suit her--and then see if he -suits me." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel lay reflecting on the sofa. Camelia accepted frankness -to a certain point, beyond that point she repulsed it. It was rather sly -of her, Mrs. Fox-Darriel thought, to keep up these needless pretences. -Camelia must be anxious for the match--anxious to a certain degree, and -her careful preservation of the false dignity of her position was really -rather mean. As for Mrs. Fox-Darriel, she desired the match with a -really disinterested fervor. She felt a certain personal pride in -Camelia's success; she had resigned supremacy, and only asked Camelia to -uphold her own. Camelia as Lady Henge would, from a very charming -person, have become a very important personage, a truly momentous -friend. Her fondness for the child would ensure the child's loyalty. A -near friend of the Prime Minister's wife--who knew? The thought flitted -pleasantly through Mrs. Fox-Darriel's mind, and the thought, too, of all -that Camelia, in an even less exalted position, could do for the -impecunious Hon. Charlie, Mrs. Fox-Darriel's husband. There was really -no possibility of a doubt in Camelia's mind. Mrs. Fox-Darriel simply did -not believe her, and regretted her lack of candor; but at the same time -she felt a little anxiety. There were certain phases in Camelia that had -always baffled her investigations, an unexpectedness that Mrs. -Fox-Darriel had encountered more than once. - -"It is really the very best thing you could do," she observed now, "and -I wouldn't play with him if I were you. I know that he is the image of -fidelity, and yet the Duchess of Amshire is very anxious for him to -marry her girl, that ugly Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Henge favors that -match, and he really is under his mother's thumb." - -"Decidedly I must waste no time," said Camelia, laughing, "and decidedly -it would be the best thing I could do, since the Marquis was snapped up -by the American girl--swarming with millions. I think I should have been -a Marchioness, Frances, had not that strange look, between a squint and -a goggle, in his eyes made me hesitate." - -"Oh, the Marquis! You know that this is far better. This man means a -lot." - -"He swarms with millions too," said Camelia. "Come, Frances, preach me a -nice little worldly sermon on the supreme utility of riches--without the -gloves now." - -"I usually remove them when I approach the subject," Mrs. Fox-Darriel -sighed with much sincerity. "My poor Charlie! How we keep our heads -above water I really don't know, and, as it is, the sharks are nibbling -at our toes! Supreme! Money, my dear, is the only thing! Once you've -that foundation you may begin to erect your sentiments, your -moralities." - -"And how few people are honest enough to say so. You and I are honest, -Frances; it buys everything, of course." - -"Well, almost everything. One must thank Nature for beauty and -cleverness." - -"Beauty and cleverness in rags have a sorry time of it in this world. -But money, of course, especially if not too new, buys friends, power, -good taste, morality. Poverty makes people base and cringing--makes -criminals. One is jumped on in this world, scrunched into the earth, -into the dirt, if one hasn't money, and yet the hypocrites talk of -compensation! Of all the sloppy, canting optimism with which people try -to make themselves comfortable that is the sorriest! And while they -talk they go on scrambling and scrunching for all they are worth; nasty -beasts! They kick a man on the head, and say 'the stupor compensates for -the pain.' That is the current theory about the lower classes." - -"Yet you enjoy the world, Camelia." - -"I am not jumped on." - -"You jump on other people, then?" - -"Not in a sordid manner; I don't have to soil my feet. Why shouldn't I -enjoy it?" - -"And you think that Sir Arthur's millions would emphasize the -enjoyment?" - -"Widen it, certainly. But don't be gross, Frances. A great deal depends -on him. I am not offering myself for sale, you know." - -"No, I don't think you would. You have no need to." - -"He would really be glaringly golden, wouldn't he, were he not draped -with the mossy antiquity of his name?" said Camelia, drawing a white -magnolia flower within the window frame, and bending her head to the -scented cup. - -"An ideal husband, from every point of view," Mrs. Fox-Darriel resumed; -"clever, very clever, and very good--rather overpoweringly good, -Camelia." - -"I think goodness a most charming phenomenon, I shouldn't mind studying -it in a husband." - -"Mrs. Jedsley is good. Why don't you study her?" - -"There is nothing phenomenal in her goodness, it is a product of -circumstance only. There is Mary," Camelia added, tipping her chair a -little towards the window for a clearer view of the lawn below. "Mary -in a Liberty silk, of yellow-green, and smocked. Why, Mary, why wear a -Liberty gown, especially smocked?" - -"I have sometimes suspected that your colorless little cousin is here to -play the part of a discord that resolves into and heightens your -harmony," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel; "or is it the post of whipping-boy that -she fills?" - -Camelia continued to look from the window placidly, only raising her -eyebrows a little. - -"No, Mary never gets a whipping, not even when I deserve one. Mamma is -very fond of Mary; so am I," she added. Mrs. Fox-Darriel took up her -book with a little yawn that Camelia for all her placidity resented. - -"How can you read that garbage?" she inquired smilingly, glancing at the -title. - -"The _bete humaine_ rather interests me." - -"Even interpreted by another? The man is far more insupportable than -Zola, inasmuch as he is clever, and an artist." - -"That's why I read him. You seem to know a good deal about garbage, my -dear." - -"I know a good deal about everything, I fancy!" said Camelia, with her -gayest laugh. "I took a course of garbage once, just enough to make up -my mind that I did not care for the flavor. We have a right to choose -the phases of life we want to see represented." - -"I like garbage," Mrs. Fox-Darriel said stubbornly. - -"Yes, you are very catholic, I know. I am more limited." Camelia still -eyed the lawn, sniffing at the magnolia. Now she rose suddenly and went -to the mirror. - -"Mary puts on a sailor hat--so," she said gravely, setting hers far back -at a ludicrous angle. "Poor Mary!" She tilted the hat forward again, and -briskly put the pin through it. "I am going down to harry Mrs. Jedsley. -Good-bye, Frances." - -"Good-bye. I shall be down to tea presently." - -"The _bete humaine_ will spoil your appetite!" laughed Camelia as she -went out. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel heard her running down the corridor and the light -rhythm of her feet on the stairs. - -"Pretty little minx!" she said good-humoredly; and her thoughts turned -to Sir Arthur. What a lucky girl was Camelia! It was rather tiresome, -perhaps, to sit by and watch her triumphs. Mrs. Fox-Darriel found the -role of second-fiddle a little dull; still, it was well worth while to -play it. She got up and went to the window, where the magnolia still -swayed faintly from the suddenness of Camelia's departure. Tapping the -sill lightly with her finger-tips, Mrs. Fox-Darriel looked out, yawning -once more, at the translucent blue of the sky, the still shining of the -little lake beyond the trees, the sun-dappled lawn, and at Mary -Fairleigh on the lawn in the funny Liberty dress. Mr. Perior was walking -beside her, in riding costume, a whip in his hand. Mrs. Fox-Darriel -surveyed them as they walked slowly away from the house. He had -evidently just joined Mary; and as Camelia herself appeared on the lawn -her departure took on an amusing aspect. - -Now it really was too bad of Camelia, she could have no use for him -herself. The sun flashed from her hair as she bounded gaily across the -turf and caught Perior's arm with a schoolgirl familiarity. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel drew back sharply, but still observed from the screen of -magnolia leaves Mary's slow return to the house, and Camelia's skipping -step as she led Mr. Perior towards the garden. He held the whip clasped -in his hand behind his back, and, as he walked, switched his calf in its -leather gaiter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel fancied some temper in the action. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -When Mrs. Fox-Darriel descended to the drawing-room a quarter of an hour -later, she found Lady Paton and Mary alone with Mrs. Jedsley, who as yet -showed no intention of departing. Mrs. Jedsley was very stout, but of a -vigorous bearing. Her firm, wide face was dashed with rather choleric -notes of red on cheeks, chin, and eyebrows. Her eyes were witty and -humorous. Mrs. Fox-Darriel, very indifferently, felt these quickly -travelling eyes taking in every gleam and glitter of her tea-gown. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel always jingled a little as she walked; she was one of those -women who dangle lorgnettes at the ends of swaying neck-chains, and -circle their wrists with a multitude of bangles, and now, as she sank -into a chair beside Lady Paton, and smiled a languid acceptance of tea, -the infinity of pendent jewels and the linked gold that draped her -person, chimed out quite a harmonious clatter. Mrs. Fox-Darriel always -gave Lady Paton a fluttered look, the look of a child shrinking from a -too persistently obtrusive rattle, and she handed her the tea and bread -and butter with gently scared glances. - -"What delicious tea," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel affably, "and the pouring of -tea is an art in its decadence. Really, dear Lady Paton, you have -spoiled me for all cups poured by other hands. Your aunt's hands add a -distinct charm, do they not?" she added, looking at Mary,--"and her -cap." Indeed Lady Paton's caps and hands resembled one another in -blanched delicacy. - -"Oh yes," Mary replied hastily; she was not accustomed to this suave -mode of address from Mrs. Fox-Darriel. - -"I saw you walking in the garden just now," pursued that glittering -personage; "you made quite a picture in your pretty dress, I assure -you." - -"Oh! do you like it?" Mary's face was transfused by a blush of surprised -pleasure. - -"It is really charming," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel unblinkingly, while Mrs. -Jedsley's eyes travelled up and down poor Mary's ungainliness. - -"Against the deeper shades of green, you know, and with your golden -hair, you looked quite--quite like an Albert Moore. Has your friend, Mr. -Perior, gone? I saw him with you." There was a subtly delightful -intimation in this question that filled Mary with a half painful, half -delicious embarrassment. - -"Mr. Perior is with Camelia," she said, the crude fact hardly jarring on -the dulcet echo of Mrs. Fox-Darriel's question. He was her friend, Mary -knew, felt it with a wave of gratitude that quieted many aches, but was -it then so evident--so noticeable? - -"Ah yes! Camelia is rather fond of teasing him, I am afraid," said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, observing Mary's flush, and noting as an unkindness of -nature that her hair, the only grace she possessed, should grow so -thickly at the back and with such unbecoming scantiness around the high -brow. Mary's whole being had been quivering with the pain of her -dispossession, but a grateful warmth now stole through the chill of -bereavement. - -Her flush had not died when Camelia came in, Perior following her. -Camelia's face was imperturbably gay, but from a certain severity and -tension in Perior's expression, Mrs. Fox-Darriel surmised that the -pastoral promenade had not been altogether peaceful. - -It was hardly possible, of course, that the indifference of this stiff -provincial should pique Camelia into an attitude that might compromise -real interests; no, hardly possible; yet Mrs. Fox-Darriel, with some -acuteness, determined that all her efforts should tend to make such an -absurdity impossible indeed. - -Ugly Mary was evidently in love with the unattractive Diogenes; but -Camelia need not know that. Mrs. Fox-Darriel almost laughed at herself -while she meditated; Camelia could hardly intend more than the -purposeless capturing of Diogenes; Camelia's head was perfectly sound -when it came to decisive extremes. Only--well--women, all women, were -such _fools_ sometimes. That bounding, pursuing step across the lawn had -given Mrs. Fox-Darriel a new impression of Camelia. - -"Look, Mamma, is not this beautiful? Look, Frances." Camelia held out a -branch of white roses, buds and leaves climbing on lovely curves to a -heavy, swaying flower;--"it is such a perfect spray that I am going to -attempt a Japanese arrangement with this bit of pine. Mary, will you -fetch me that bronze vase out of the morning room--with its little -stand, you know--and have it filled with water; and, Mary,--" Mary was -departing obediently, "a pair of scissors--don't forget. If there is -anything I dislike," Camelia went on, hers was always a temperate manner -of speech, "it is a heavy mass of flowers bunched together with all the -individuality, all the form and vitality, of line quite lost." - -She smiled at Mrs. Jedsley as she spoke, skimming caressing finger-tips -over her rose branch, and adding, "You may see me at your place -to-morrow, Mrs. Jedsley. Mr. Perior has been giving me a dreadful -scolding on my neighborly deficiencies. To-morrow I make a conscientious -round of calls--and pour balm into all the wounded bosoms." Mrs. -Fox-Darriel glanced quickly at Perior to see how he relished this -offensive obedience; Perior, as he stood before the fireplace, was -looking at his boots. Mrs. Jedsley's eyebrows grew very red. - -"I won't be at home to-morrow," she said decidedly, "and if I were -conscious of wounds I'd keep at a good distance from you, Camelia." Lady -Paton looked from her daughter to Perior, an alarmed appeal, but he did -not raise his eyes nor seem to notice Camelia's graceful promises. - -"Mrs. Jedsley, _why_ are you always so unkind to me?" Camelia asked, -laughing. "I assure you that you may trust my balms. Mrs. Jedsley, I -will wager you--do you ever bet?--that by to-morrow night the whole -county-side will be singing my praises. I like people to sing my -praises--I like to feel affection and sympathy about me; now Mr. Perior -has been telling me that there is a distinct absence of these elements -in my atmosphere. I begin to feel the vacuum myself. Won't you help me -to fill it--help my regeneration?--No, Mary, that is the wrong vase--how -could I arrange flowers in that? On the stand, was it? The house-maid's -stupidity, then; and I bought together the stand and the proper vase to -go with it. No; don't take the _stand_ back with you, you goosie! put it -here. Now, Mrs. Jedsley," she added, when Mary had once more departed, -Perior having relieved her of the stand and carried it, not at all -graciously, to Camelia, "tell me how I can best please every one most? -You know them all so well--their pet pursuits, their pet hobbies. Mrs. -Harley has orchids, of course; I shall immediately ask her to take me to -the conservatory. And Mrs. Grier--that pensive little woman with the -long, long nose--has she not a son at Oxford, a boy she dotes on? Isn't -she very fond of music?" - -Mrs. Jedsley was stirring her third cup of tea with an entirely -recovered composure. "Yes, Mrs. Grier plays the violin, and has a son -she dotes on; if you flatter her nicely enough, she will certainly join -in the 'Hallelujah.'" - -"Well, that is nice to know." Mary had now brought the correct Japanese -vase, and Camelia neatly trimmed from her branch while she spoke a few -superfluous leaves and twigs. - -"Is not Mrs. Grier a dear friend of Lady Henge's?" Mrs. Fox-Darriel -asked in an aside to Lady Paton--to the latter a very welcome aside, as -in murmured acquiescence she found a momentary refuge from the -bewildered sensations her daughter's projects gave her. - -Yes, Lady Henge and Mrs. Grier were great friends, both musical, both -deeply interested in charitable work. Mrs. Grier, a sweet woman,--"and -you know," said Lady Paton, bending gently towards her guest, "her nose -is not so long. That is only Camelia's droll way of putting things, you -know." - -"Oh, yes,"--Mrs. Fox-Darriel's smile was very reassuring--"you and I -understand Camelia, Lady Paton. It doesn't do to take her _au grand -serieux_." Indeed, Mrs. Fox-Darriel smiled inwardly, feeling that all -disquiet on Camelia's account was very unnecessary, and convinced that -she knew her very thoroughly. - -"You won't be at home to-morrow, then?" asked Camelia, looking around -from her vase as Mrs. Jedsley rose to go. - -"No, my dear; and I'm afraid you won't find me of use at any time. I -haven't any particular foibles. You won't discover a handle about me by -which to wind me up to the required musical pitch." - -"You traduce yourself, Mrs. Jedsley; with your charitable heart, do you -mean to tell me that, were I to wrap Clievesbury in red flannel, fill it -with buns and broth, you wouldn't think me charming, and make sweet -music in my ears?" - -"I never denied that you were charming, balefully charming, you naughty -girl," said Mrs. Jedsley with a good humor that implied no submission. - -"Here is a rose for you. May it give you kind thoughts of me." Camelia -fastened one of the rejected buds in the lady's portly bosom, and when -she was gone, Lady Paton, leaving the room with her, she added, "Mary, -is the piano tuned?" - -Mary went to the Steinway. "Lady Henge is a composer, as you know." She -turned a face sparkling with mischief to Perior, who maintained his -silence beside the mantelpiece. - -"You have heard her? Yes? Well, you shall hear her again. That's enough, -Mary," she added, lightly; "we hear that the piano needs tuning." - -Now Mary had a certain little pride in the neat execution of Beethoven's -Sonatas, that many hours of faithful practice had seemed to justify, and -while Camelia stood back to admire her flower arrangement, both Perior -and Mrs. Fox-Darriel noticed the flush that swept over Mary's face. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -By the time Sir Arthur and Lady Henge arrived, Camelia had fulfilled her -prophecy and become a popular person. Under the blighting indifference -of her first appearance Clievesbury had naturally retaliated with -severity, but that the first impression had been erroneous the most -severe owned--after Camelia had called on them. Camelia found the -process of winning the whole neighborhood great fun, and its success -gave her a delicious sense of efficiency. She cared nothing, absolutely -nothing, for her neighbors, but once she determined to be cared for by -them she found the facility of the task highly flattering to -self-esteem. - -She drove from place to place, sweet, modest, adaptable. She dispensed -pretty compliments with a grace that disarmed the grimmest suspicion. -She showed a pretty interest in every one. Indeed why should they not -like her? Camelia thought she really deserved liking; and though she -laughed at herself a little for the complimentary conclusion, her -kindness struck her as rather nice. It was motiveless, was it not? -almost motiveless, a game that it pleased her to play. Certainly she did -not care to appear before Lady Henge on a background of unpopularity; -the background must harmonize, become her; she would see to that. At -the bottom of her heart Camelia cared very little for Lady Henge's -approval or disapproval; Lady Henge was part of the game; but Camelia -had determined that the game required Lady Henge, like everybody else, -to find her charming; the game required Arthur Henge to propose--then -she might accept him; but she must make quite secure the possibility of -refusing him. So Camelia aimed steadily at one result, and was not at -all sure of her own decision once the result was reached, and this -indecision gave her a happy sense of freedom. - -She must capture Sir Arthur; this visit was definite, the last test; but -once captured, Camelia wondered if she would care to keep. Theoretically -she owned to a hard common-sense ambition that would make rejection -doubtful; but when the moment for decision finally arrived, Camelia felt -that this trait in her character might fail her; she did not really -believe in it, though she paraded it, flaunted it. Every one might think -her a hard-headed, hard-hearted little worldling--as far as practice -went they were right, no doubt, in all honesty she must own that she -gave them no occasion to think anything else; but she reserved a warm -corner of unrevealed ideals--ideals she never herself looked at, where a -purring self-content sat cosily. - -Lady Henge and her son arrived on a Monday. Lady Henge was nervous, -though her massive personality concealed the tremor, and unhappy--for -she felt Arthur's fate to be a foregone conclusion. She was not a clever -but an immensely conscientious woman. She lived up to all her -principles, and she took only the highest view of everything. Her son's -love for the pretty Miss Paton, who meddled frivolously with politics -(Lady Henge meddled ponderously), and made collections of Japanese -pictures, had thrown her into a dismal perturbation. She could not like -Miss Paton; her cleverness was not disinterested; her sense of duty was -less than dubious, she lived for pleasure, for admiration; she was no -fit wife for a Henge. - -The most imperative of the Henges' stately requirements was that solemn -sense of duty which Lady Henge embodied so conclusively. - -She felt the tremor quieted, the unhappiness soothed, however, on seeing -Camelia in her home. Indeed, Camelia's background was masterly. By the -end of the first day Lady Henge was owning to herself that the glare of -London had perhaps been responsible for her former unfavorable -impression. Camelia's manner was perfect; she was quiet and gentle; her -wish to please was frank but very dignified. Lady Henge felt that in no -way was her favor being courted, and she was quite clever enough to -appreciate that. Lady Paton was left to take all the initiatives, and -behind her mother Camelia smiled with an air of happy obscurity. - -The following days emphasized the initial approval. The image of the -excellent Lady Elizabeth faded by degrees from Lady Henge's mind, and -the ache of disappointment with it. She wonderingly expanded into -confidence under Camelia's gentle influence. - -She was a shy woman; she had been afraid of Camelia; but with tender -touches the shyness and the fear seemed to be pressed away. There was -nothing to be afraid of. Was it possible? She doubted sometimes, when -alone and deeply thoughtful; but with Camelia quiet satisfaction was -irresistible. - -Perior watched the little comedy, convinced of its artificiality. That -doubt of her final choice which preserved for Camelia her sense of -independent pride free from all tarnish of self-interested scheming, he -could not have believed in. Her motives were, he thought, very clear to -him--as they must be to everybody else. He could not credit her with -love; a girl so dexterously managing her hand was held by no compulsory -force of real feeling. She was going to marry Arthur Henge, because he -was a good match, not because she loved him; any girl might have loved -him certainly, but Camelia was capable of loving no one. He was very -sore, very angry, very moody. Lady Henge's transparent bids to him for -sympathy in irritating his scorn for Camelia irritated him, too, against -her, against Arthur even. Why couldn't they let him alone? They should -get neither yea or nay from him, for, after all, Perior was -inconsistent; the scorn did not shake his rather negative loyalty to his -pupil, and beneath that there lay another and a deeper feeling, the -feeling that made it possible for Camelia to hurt him. - -"I was talking to her--to Miss Paton--about Woman's Suffrage to-day," so -Lady Henge would start a conversation, "she seems to have thought rather -deeply on the subject of a widened life for women--the development of -character by responsibility--the democratic ideal, is it not?" Lady -Henge combined staunch conservatism with a devout belief in Humanity. - -Perior answered "Yes, I suppose so," to the question. - -"She has, I see, a great deal of influence down here in the -country--more than I could have expected in such a gay young creature. -Mrs. Grier spoke to me of her good-heartedness, her generous help in -charitable matters. Mrs. Grier, as you know, is deeply interested in the -improvement of the condition of the laboring classes. I shall count upon -Miss Paton next year; her aid would be very effective; she could help me -with some of my clubs--a pretty face, a witty tongue, popularize one; -she has promised to address the Shirt Makers' Union. She takes so much -interest in all these absorbing social problems,--interest so -unassuming, so free from all self-reference." - -They were in the drawing-room after dinner. Perior seemed, in watching -Camelia fulfil herself, to find a searing fascination, for he was often -at Enthorpe Lodge of late. The faint flavor of inquiry in Lady Henge's -assertions only elicitated, "I'm sure she'd be popular." No; he would -not be held responsible for Camelia; and again he determined that Lady -Henge should on the subject of Camelia's full fitness get from him -neither a yea or a nay. - -Lady Henge's clear brown eyes had turned contemplatively upon her son -and Camelia, who were sitting on an isolated sofa in a frank -_tete-a-tete_. - -Perior's glance followed hers, and while she read in Arthur's absorbed -attitude and expression the wisdom of submissive partisanship--the utter -futility of further resistance, Perior studied the half grave, half -playful smile with which Camelia received her lover's utterances. She -seemed to feel Perior's scrutiny, for her eyes swerved suddenly and met -his, and the smile hardened a little as she looked at him. - -"She is very lovely," Lady Henge said with an irrepressible sigh. "It is -a very unusual type of loveliness," at which Perior looked away from -Camelia and back at his companion. "He is very fond of her," Lady Henge -added--a little tearfully, Perior suspected. - -"He has taken it seriously for quite a while, I believe." - -"Oh yes, yes indeed," Lady Henge, conscious of having herself made the -only barrier to an earlier declaration, spoke a little vaguely. -"Arthur's wife will have many responsibilities," she went on; "I think -that--if she accepts Arthur--Miss Paton will prove equal to them." The -"if she accepts Arthur" Perior thought rather noble, "and her gaiety -will be good for him, he needs such sunshine. I must not be so selfish -as to think that _I_ could give it him. And then--with all her gaiety," -here a recrudescence of the vein of urgency crept once more into Lady -Henge's voice, "she has depths, Mr. Perior--great depths, has she not? -Neither Arthur nor I take life lightly, you know," and Lady Henge held -him with a waiting pause of silence. - -"Yes, I know you don't," he said, and then found himself forced to add, -"there are many possibilities in Camelia." - -At all events, he might have said much more. Again he looked across at -Camelia as he spoke, and again her eyes met his. She rose abruptly, and -crossed the room. - -"Lady Henge," she said, standing before her guest in an attitude of -delicate request, "won't you play for us? We all want to hear you--and -not as mere interpreter, you know--one of your own compositions, -please." - -If there were a vulnerable spot in Lady Henge's indisputable array of -virtues it was a touching egotism in regard to her musical capabilities. -She fancied herself the pioneer of a new school, and hoped for a rather -shallow smattering of form and polyphony to more than atone by an -immense amount of feeling. She smiled now, drawing off her gloves -immediately, even while saying, with the diffidence of a master-- - -"I am afraid my _poemes symphoniques_ are not quite on the after-dinner -level, my dear. You know I can't promise a comfortable accompaniment to -conversation." - -"Don't degrade us by the implication," smiled Camelia; "we are at least -appreciative." - -"My music is emotionally exhaustive," said Lady Henge, shaking her head -and rising massively. "In my humbler way I have tried to do for the -abstract what Wagner did for the concrete. I do not depict the sea, but -the psychological sensations the sea arouses in us." Lady Henge was -moving towards the piano, her very back, with its serene, brocaded -breadth, imposing by its air of large self-confidence a hush upon the -babble of drawing-room flippancy. - -"Oh, good gracious!" Gwendolen Holt ejaculated in an alarmed whisper to -her neighbor Mr. Merriman. - -"Poor dear Lady Henge," murmured Lady Tramley, leaning back in her -delicate thinness, and fixing sad eyes upon her musical friend. - -"Awfully bad, is it?" Mr. Merriman inquired. - -"Awfully," said Gwendolen. - -"Well, it's all one to me," said Mr. Merriman jocosely. - -"I paint the soul of man, as influenced by the forces of nature," still -delivering explanatory comments, Lady Henge had seated herself at the -piano. "My symphonic poem--'Thalassa,' shall I give you that?" and from -a careful adjustment of the piano-stool, she looked up at Camelia, who -had followed her. - -Sir Arthur, on his solitary sofa, showed some dismay at the imminence of -his mother's performance. Perior, who had heard Lady Henge play, fixed -enduring eyes on the cornice. Camelia dropped into the vacant seat -beside him. - -"Hold your breath, Alceste," she murmured, her smiling eyes still gently -observant of Lady Henge, who, after a majestic turn up and down the -key-board, had paused in a menacing attitude, one hand lifted in a -heavily pouncing position. - -"She'll have our heads under water in a minute. Ah! here comes the -splash!" The very walls quivered as that fierce hand fell. A volcanic, -incoherent volume of sound hurtled forth upon the stillness. From -thenceforward they might have been sitting amidst the clamorous -concussions of a thunder-storm, Lady Henge, high priestess of terrified -humanity, making valiant warfare with the angry gods. The wind, or -rather the effect of the wind upon the shrinking mind of man, shrieked -in long sweeps down the key-board--Lady Henge's execution with the flat -of her hand being boldly impressionistic; the waves beat out their -stormy rhythm in crashing chords of very feeble construction, but in -noisiness immensely effective, leaping, bounding, shouldering, -swallowing one another with a splendid inconsequence as to time or key. -A chaos of stammering phrases cried out fitfully above the steady -bellowing of the bass. - -Physically the composition was most certainly exhausting. Lady Henge's -fine, flushed profile, bent with brooding intensity above the key-board, -evinced a panting effort to cope with the mighty requirements of her -creation. - -"It sounds as if she were being tossed in her cabin, doesn't it?" -Camelia's soft voice murmured under the safe cover of the tumult, her -face keeping the expression of grave attention, "and horribly seasick. -One hears the bottles breaking, and the basins clashing, and the boots -being hurled from side to side. Anything but abstract. Intimately -descriptive rather--don't you think?" A side glint of her eye evidently -twinkled for sympathy; but Perior solemnly stared at the ceiling. - -"The construction too," Camelia said more soberly, "she plunged us into -the free fantasia--and perhaps at the end she may fish us out with the -dominant phrase--but I haven't caught it yet; ah, this thudding finale -announces the journey's end." And she jumped up as Lady Henge, with a -fine, tense look of soul-experience, rose from the piano. The dazed and -wilted listeners chimed out the polite chorus usual on such occasions. -Camelia led Lady Henge to her chair. "Thank you--so much," she said. -Lady Henge smiled dimly, her eyes fixed on vacancy. - -"It was like a glorious wind blowing about one. It made me think of -Wordsworth's sonnets--of the soul in nature," said Camelia. Perior still -looked stolidly at the ceiling, and she felt his silence to be ominous. - -"Such music," she added, "gives one courage for life." She was angry -with Perior. Lady Henge pressed her hand. - -"Thanks, my dear. Yes--you _felt_. One must hear, of course, a -composition many times before entering into the sanctuary of the -artist's meaning." Camelia's mouth retained its sympathetic gravity. -Perior said nothing; and faint, relieved little groups of talk twittered -like birds after a storm. - -"And you, Mr. Perior," Lady Henge, fanning herself largely turned to -this silent critic. "You, too, are a musician as I know, a musician at -least in appreciation. What do you think of my 'Thalassa'? Frankly -now--as one artist to another." Perior moved his eyes slowly from the -ceiling, and dropped them to Camelia's face. He grew very red. - -"Frankly now," Lady Henge reiterated with genial urgency. - -"I think it is very bad," said Perior. The sentence fell with a thud, -like a stone. - -Lady Henge flushed, and her fan fluttered to stillness; Camelia, her -eyebrows lightly lifted, met Perior's square look. - -"Bad," Lady Henge repeated, with a pathetic mingling of deprecating -pride and pain, "really bad, Mr. Perior?" - -"Very bad," said Perior. - -The unmitigated sentence reduced her to feeble plaintiveness. - -"But why? This is really savage, you know." - -"Excuse me, I know I seem rude," he looked at her now with something of -an effort. "You see I tell you the uncompromising truth. Your piece is -weak, and crude, and incoherent!" - -Now that she met his eyes, Lady Henge saw that it gave him pain to speak -so. Camelia standing over them smiled unruffled. - -"It is a case of Berlioz and the Conservatoire, Schumann and the -Philistines, Lady Henge. Mr. Perior is an old classicist--understands -nothing outside strictest adherence to form. Your more modern march of -the _Davidsbuendler_ could say nothing to him." Perior did not look at -her. - -"If you will allow me, Lady Henge, I will come some day and go over a -lot of Schumann with you. I think you will recognize the difference. His -power and genuineness are apparent. And Schumann has a great deal to -say." - -He smiled at her as he spoke, a very sweet smile--asking tolerance for -the friend in spite of the critic's unwilling arrogance. Lady Henge was -soothed, though decidedly shaken. - -"You are severe, you know." - -"But you prefer severity to silly fibs." - -"I may be silly," Camelia here put in with a touch of coldness, "if so, -I stand convicted with you, Lady Henge, for I found your 'Thalassa' -neither crude, nor weak, nor incoherent; but I can't be accused of -fibbing. You will play your symphonic poem to me again, won't you? and -we will leave Mr. Perior to the pleasures of iconoclastic conservatism." -After so speaking, Camelia went back to her seat beside Sir Arthur. - -He had a book in his hand, and was turning the leaves vaguely, he put it -down as he looked up at her. For a man well over thirty, Sir Arthur had -certain boyish traits, as a frank nervousness of glance now revealed. - -"Well?" Camelia smiled, feeling a something in the silence. - -"It was bad, wasn't it?" said Sir Arthur. - -"Bad?" - -"Yes, poor mother." - -"I don't think it bad." - -Sir Arthur surveyed her with pained hesitation. - -"Why do you say that?" he demanded, with an abruptness of wounded -tenderness that put Camelia alertly on her guard. - -"Why do you say _that_?" she asked, rounding innocent eyes at him. - -"I saw you laughing at it, with Perior--not that he laughed. I heard -what he said too, I prefer that, you know." - -Camelia herself was feeling wounded, was smarting under a sense of angry -humiliation. This added and unexpected blow brought the blood vividly -to her face, and the sincerity of her discomfort seemed even to herself -to warrant the sincerity of her quick question. - -"You suspect me of lying?" - -Camelia hardly thought that she had lied; neither the flush nor the tone -of voice was acted. - -Sir Arthur looked away. "I saw you laughing," he repeated. - -"I _was_ laughing," Camelia declared. "Not at Lady Henge," she added. - -Sir Arthur kept a silence in which doubt and a longing to believe -evidently struggled. - -"I said to Mr. Perior that the rocking passage with the chord -accompaniment made me feel seasick--from its realism; that touch of -levity doesn't imply insincerity in my admiration--I always smile at the -birds in the 'Pastoral.' Why should I be insincere? If I had not liked -it, I would have said so." - -Sir Arthur's long breath escaped with the relief of recovered joy. - -"Don't be insincere;--dearest," he added, looking at her; and seeing the -surprise with which she received the grave, impulsive word, he went on -quickly, yet gently. - -"You know you often want to please people--to make every one like -you;--even I have fancied it--forgive me, won't you, at the price of a -little falseness. When one feels as I do, the least flaw cuts into one -like a knife." With Camelia's triumph there now mingled a bitter -distaste; she could hardly bring herself to look into his honest, -adoring eyes; the quickness of her breath and wavering of her glance -were, again, quite spontaneous, and that she knew them to be effective, -deepened her humiliation. - -"To see you laugh at mother--and then praise her--I thought it; and I -can't tell you how it pained me. You forgive me?" - -Her self-disgust now seemed to lend her a certain sense of atoning -self-respect. "How good you are!" she said, looking at him very gravely, -and this recognition of his goodness restoring still more fully that -sick self-respect, she was able to smile at him, to think that she must -not exaggerate the little _contretemps_, and to ask herself whether she -might not fall in love with Sir Arthur--simply and naturally. Dear man! -The words were almost on her lips--her eyes at least caressed him with -the implication. - -He looked embarrassed, but very happy. "No--no! Please don't say that! -How divinely kind you are. I have been insufferable. It is noble of you -to understand--. Can't we get away from all these people--if only for a -moment. Let us go into the garden--it is very warm." She would rather -not have gone into the garden, but she could not refuse him, she felt -that to some extent she would like to justify his faith in her, and to -shake from her that snake-like imputation of baseness. She glanced at -Perior as she went out; he was talking most affably with Lady Henge, and -did not look at her. His lack of faith stung perhaps more than Sir -Arthur's faith. It was unmerited too, more unmerited than Sir Arthur's -trust, so she told herself, stepping down from the terrace on to the -gravel-path, and the sense of unmerited scorn sharpened that wish to -justify herself--as far as might be--to the kinder judge. - -"No, Sir Arthur, you are good," she went on, pausing before him, her -hands clasped behind her after a little-girl fashion habitual with her; -"and I am horrid--it's quite true--but not as horrid as you thought me. -I do like to please people. I am often pettily, impulsively false; it's -quite, quite true. I do like your mother's piece, but probably not as -much as I implied to her by my praise--not as much as greater things: -and Mr. Perior's silence made me angry too; but I probably was a little -insincere, and that every one is the same is no excuse for me. I don't -want to be like every one, and you don't want me to be, do you? But if I -had _not_ liked it, you would not have wished me to express myself with -the bludgeon-like directness of our rugged friend, would you?" Camelia -asked the question with real anxiety, conscious though she was that she -had thought the composition quite as ridiculous as Perior had declared -it. After all, his ugly sincerity justified her kindly fibbing; and as -for the laughing, she was sorry she had laughed, since Sir Arthur had -seen her. His erectness of moral vision would so distort that -unintentional meanness that she could not be asked to confess it; but -her partial confession, all the same, left her confused by the stinging -of small, uncomfortable compunctions. These, however, did not show -themselves in her eyes, nor in the pure lines of her face. Her silvered -garments and exquisite whiteness gave her in the moonlight an angelic -look that might well humble modest manhood before her. Sir Arthur had -never felt himself so near to the girl he loved, nor his love so well -justified. - -"No, I don't think it's necessary to give a person the truth like a box -on the ear," he said, and he would have taken her hands, but Camelia -again put them behind her back, and stood smiling at him. - -"Poor old Perior," he added, and they walked slowly for a little way -down the path. "You can understand it, though, can't you? He thought you -were fibbing, and that made him give mother the ruthless _coup de -dent_." - -This was very true, and so Camelia knew, knowing, too, that she _had_ -been fibbing. "But that didn't justify the _coup de dent_," she -declared, "and why should he think I was fibbing?" The bit of audacity -was so inevitable that she hardly felt a qualm over its enunciation. On -Perior's loyalty she relied as she relied on the ground beneath her -feet. - -"Well, he knows that you are clever, and that your taste has not been -distorted--as mother's has--by fancied talent." Sir Arthur was all -candid confidence. - -"He was _very_ nasty," said Camelia, "and I shall tell him so. And now -that I have made my little confession, and that you have absolved -me--for I am absolved, am I not?--shall we go in?" Camelia drew back -from the proposal she saw looming in the moonlight; there was time, -ample time, for that, now that she was sure of him, quite sure. A warm -little thrill of pleasure went over her at the thought that it was she -who was not ready, was not sure, though she had never liked him more. - -"Must we go in?" Sir Arthur looked up at her as she stood on the step -above him. He was very handsome Camelia thought with some complacency. - -"I think we must," she said prettily, adding, "I promised to do my skirt -dancing for them, you know. You must tell me it is delightful when I -have done, even if you laugh at me while I am dancing." Sir Arthur had -held out his hand, and she put hers in it. - -"You absolve me, don't you?" he said. "You forgive me? You are not -angry?" - -"Angry? Have I seemed angry?" - -"You had the right to be." - -"Not with you," said Camelia, and at that he kissed her hand, and they -went back into the drawing-room. - - * * * * * - -Camelia as she undressed that night decided that Perior was responsible -for her still smarting irritation. It was too tiresome. Of course, -apparently she had not behaved nicely; but, in neatly analyzing the -whole affair, she could find herself guilty of nothing worse than a -little humorous gaiety--that took an old friend's sympathy for -granted--(could one not think things one did not say? she had only -thought aloud--to him), and a little kindly hypocrisy practised every -day by models of uprightness. Perior's rudeness set a standard by which -social conventions were guilty of black falseness. It was too bad of -him, and her anger put him aside with a sense of relief. The only really -serious part was the stinging sequel. How closely Arthur Henge must have -watched her to catch that irrepressible glint of the eye. He had caught -it, though, and she had lied about it--well, yes--lied, deliberately -lied to a man she respected. - -Of course it made her feel uncomfortable--of course it did. "I am not -the vain puppet _he_ thinks me," she said, leaning on her -dressing-table, and looking gravely at her illuminated reflection--the -_he_ being Perior--"the very fact of my worrying over such a trifling -incident proves that I am not. It is _his_ fault that I should feel so." -She paused for a further turn of silent meditation before adding, "My -only fault was in having trusted to his sense of fun, in having been -amused. The rest followed inevitably. I could not have told Arthur Henge -that I found his mother ridiculous, now _could_ I, you foolish -creature?" and irrepressibly Camelia smiled at her lenient accuser in -the glass. At this point of the colloquy a gentle tap at the door -ushered in Mary. Mary, in a dressing-gown of just the wrong shade, was -not an interesting object, and Camelia glanced over her reflection in -the mirror without turning. She continued her own train of thought, -hardly listening to Mary, though vaguely conscious that the awkward -inquiries after her comfort were rather pointless. - -"I thought you might want something, Camelia. I thought you looked -rather pale," said Mary, drawing near with some timidity. - -"No, thanks. I should have asked Grant, you know," replied Camelia, her -elbows still on the dressing-table. She absently watched Mary lift her -discarded gown from the floor, fold it, and lay it neatly over the back -of a chair. "Don't mind about picking up those things, Mary," she -added, yawning a little, and wishing rather that Mary would go. "Grant -can do all that." - -"I like to tidy up after you." Mary's smile was slightly forced. "See, -Camelia, you need me to look after you--your pearl necklace under a -chair." - -"It must have caught in my bodice," said Camelia, glancing at the -necklace as Mary laid it on the dressing-table. "That certainly was -stupid of me. Thanks, dear." Mary still lingered. - -"You don't want anything, you are sure? You feel quite well--and--happy, -Camelia?" The question was so odd that Camelia turned her head and -looked up, surprised, at Mary's rather embarrassed countenance. - -"Happy?" she repeated. - -"Yes; I fancied you might have something to tell me." This initiative -was certainly amazing in the reserved Mary, and Camelia stared. - -"Something to tell you?" Then her deliberate departure for the moonlit -_tete-a-tete_ with Sir Arthur coming luminously to her mind, she began -to laugh. "Why, Mary, did you come in a congratulatory mood?" - -Mary's badly mastered nervousness melted somewhat. "Oh, Camelia--_may_ -I?" her face lighted to an almost charming eagerness--a charm that our -aesthetic heroine was quick to recognize. "_May_ I?" - -"May you? No, you little goose," Camelia said good-humoredly. "Upon my -word, Mary, you should have had your portrait painted at that moment; -you never looked so--significant. Are you so anxious to get rid of me -then?" The charming look had crumbled into inextricable confusion. - -"Oh, Camelia, how can you?--how could you think----?" - -"Now, Mary, imaginative efforts are bad for you; don't indulge them." - -"I hoped--I only wanted----" - -"Yes, of course, you want me to be happy; and very nice it is of you -too. Be patient, Mary; you shall congratulate me some day. I haven't -decided _when_ that shall be. I haven't really quite decided _how_ I -shall be happy--there are so many ways--the choice of a superlative is -perplexing. When I choose you need not come to me, I promise you." -Camelia rose, stretching her arms above her head, and smiling very -kindly at her cousin. - -Her own words made her feel comfortable. Still smiling, she put her arm -around Mary's neck and kissed her. "I shall tell you _immediately_. Now -run to bed, dear, for _you_ look pale." When Mary was gone, Camelia -finished undressing, and got into bed in a frame of mind much reassured -as to her own intrinsic merit. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -The little moonlit episode had very thoroughly mended the rift within -the lute. Camelia's seeming frankness of confessional confidence more -than atoned for every doubting qualm. Sir Arthur evidently put doubts -and distresses behind him. He allowed himself to be wholly in love. He -wondered resentfully at himself for the mixed impulses he had known, -since all were now merged in one fixed determination. - -The country influences of green trees and summer sky seemed to have -breathed a heretofore unrealized gentleness into his fair one. Her -playful sallies, her little audacities, delighted him now unreservedly, -for under the tantalizing shifting and shimmering of surface moods, the -translucent depths of a loyal and lovely nature, were at last fully -revealed to him. - -Camelia felt the resultant ardor hovering during all their constant -companionship, but she evaded it. The conquest had been so easy, was so -complete, that fitness seemed to require a compensatory dallying. The -atmosphere of adoration, submissive in its certainty of ultimate -success, felt as flatteringly around her as the warm sweetness of a -summer breeze. Conquest was delightful, so was dallying, so was her own -indecision; that was the most delightful part of all. She felt, too, in -the loving warmth that encompassed her, a consolation, a refuge from -cold and rugged depreciation. - -Perior had not reappeared since the musical _melee_, and, while enjoying -the sunny harbor where she rocked so peacefully, Camelia was conscious -that thoughts about that rough, that unsympathetic sea outside -preoccupied her amidst the kinder waters. Her gaiety was therefore a -little forced, absent-minded, in a sense a mask; her gentler mood was -the result of inner cogitations, so involved at times as to give to her -manner a dreamy sweetness. Her moral snubbing, though she rejected it as -undeserved, subdued her. - -Lady Henge's vanity was of no petty or immovable order. Far from -antagonizing, Perior's judgment had aroused in her an anxious -self-doubt, an anxious respect for her candid critic. Despite Camelia's -sympathy--for Camelia stuck to her colors, entrenched herself behind a -staunch fidelity to a false position, listened with absorption to -frequent renderings of the "Thalassa," thoughtfully discussed its -iconoclastic merits, the high value of its full flavored modernity, and -felt a certain ethical elevation from these painful sacrifices to the -only constancy permitted her--despite this steady sympathy, Lady Henge -perversely longed for a further expression of unsympathetic opinion from -the ruthless Perior. And one morning she told Camelia that she had -written to him, had asked him to fulfil his promise, to bring some music -of his choosing that might, with his aid, be useful to her. - -"I had hoped to see him every day," she owned, and Camelia realized the -power of a negative attitude--how flat beside it, how feeble, was her -exaggeratedly affirmative one. All her pretty conciliations were as -nothing to Lady Henge beside the stinging interest of Perior's dislike. - -"I think he may help me about so many things, I so often feel a -helplessness in self-expression; the idea is there--but the form! the -form! ah, my dear, art, after all, is form." (This piece of information -was certainly bitter to our martyrized heroine.) - -"As you said, his severity may, to a certain extent, be conservatism, -academic narrowness, but I have always heard of him as widely -appreciative." - -Camelia could answer for the width of appreciation that her resentment -had falsified on the unlucky night of the first performance; she -remembered now, with a little flush, that her saddling of him with -tastes not his own must have seemed to him the culmination of spiteful -pettiness. And then he had not rejoined--had not defended himself, even -against that intimation of academics opposed to his dearly loved -Schumann. Camelia could soothe herself with an "I don't care! He -deserved it. He was horrid;" but all the same the memory brought a -hotness to her cheeks. She felt very angry, too, with Lady Henge, and, -while smiling pleasantly, found some satisfaction in various cynical -mental comments on the weighty intricacy of her cap, and the vast -stupidity of her self-absorption. - -"Do you know, my dear, that phrase," and Lady Henge struck it out -demonstratively from the piano near which she stood; "that phrase does -sound a little weak." Weak! Camelia could have capped the criticism -very pungently. With a good deal of disgust at a situation which had so -neatly turned the tables upon her, she said, "Mr. Perior may tell you -so; I really can't." Her fate evidently was to support Lady Henge by a -fraternity in inferior taste; and to be branded with inferior taste, -even in Lady Henge's eyes, was certainly rather galling. She had not -bargained for it at all, nor dreamed that Lady Henge's complacency would -go down like a ninepin before Perior's brutal missile. Her little -perjury had not been in the least worth while. - -Perior, having the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, arrived next -morning with an impressive roll of music, and Camelia laughed, with some -acidity it must be confessed, as she heard in the drawing-room the -convincing energy of his demonstrations. Fragments of the poor _poeme -symphonique_, panting from their cruel dissection, reached her ears -while she strolled about the lawns with Sir Arthur. - -She foresaw that Lady Henge would prove a humble convert, and that she -herself, if not to be convicted of gross insincerity, must remain -gibbeted in a stubborn unconversion. - -"Your mother is very patient," she said, as, from the distant piano, the -dogged repetition of a phrase emphasized its feeble absurdity. "Mr. -Perior as mentor is in his element." - -Sir Arthur laughed with a good-humored recollection of his own political -rebuff at Perior's hands. - -"He is uncompromisingly honest. If you ask for his advice he'll give it -to you." - -"Give it to you unasked sometimes," said Camelia. - -Sir Arthur had told her all about that lost cause, and all about his -plans for the future. There was a very delightful plan for the very near -future; the next session would decide the fate of the Factory Bill that -went by her lover's name, and Camelia, under her attentive quietness, -felt a heaving sigh of ambition gather. Sir Arthur's grave eagerness -showed that after his winning of herself, his political campaign filled -the chief place in his hopes and thoughts. Her interest delighted him, -and the intelligence of her comments. - -He had himself an almost reverent belief in the bill, and Camelia's -sympathetic affirmatives seemed to chime deliciously with his own deep, -active pity for the dim, toiling masses the bill was to reach and -succor. Such a common object was a sanctification; he could hardly, he -felt, have loved a woman who did not feel his own deep pity. They talked -now of the coming struggle, of the rather dubious success of the second -reading that might yet be enhanced for the third. - -"And do you know," he said, "Perior, positively Perior, approves; he is -buckling on his armor for the final fray. An individuality like that -counts, you know. A few leaders in the _Friday_ would rally many -waverers." - -Camelia flushed suddenly when he said this; it delighted her sense of -proprietorship in Perior to hear his praise--to hear that for others, -too, he counted. And yet a touch of pain came with the delight, -reminding her that under present conditions the delight was very -generous, and proprietorship very unassured. - -How he evaded it! Yes, he certainly was horrid; but her breath came -quickly, and with a deft persistence she kept Sir Arthur still talking -of him, finding in his answers to her questions on his youth glimpses of -Perior's. - -"Always generous, always intolerant, always tripping into ditches while -star-gazing," said Sir Arthur; "he has an exaggerated strain in him; it -must be that Irish ancestress. He feels everything more acutely than -thicker-skinned mortals, sees everything, the good and the bad, -magnified--a trifle grotesquely. But it is a noble nature;" and he went -on, as they walked back and forth over the lawn, Perior's pianoforte -exposition, firmly insistent, coming to their ears at broken intervals: -"Perior is staunch on individualism, as you know; believes in the -hygienic value to the race of the combat--a savage creed, I tell him; -but he has amended it; he is not one jot afraid of seeming inconsistent; -he owns to the scientific logic of our attitude. I was afraid he would -accuse us of socialistic methods, tyrannical kindness, State -intervention," and so from Perior Sir Arthur went back to the -all-absorbing topic of the bill; he could allow the bill to absorb him. -For all Camelia's evasions and smiling warnings to patience, he was -deliciously sure of the ultimate end of all. He could afford to be -patient with the luminous sympathy of her eyes upon him, afford to talk -of the unfortunate women-workers whose long hours the kind tyranny of -the bill would restrict, while this woman listened with such a sweet -chiming of pity. - -"If you could only count on a fair following among the Liberals," -Camelia said, phrasing his keenest anxiety, "horrid egotists! They all -have factories, I suppose. Mr. Rodrigg may wrest your dubious majority -from you; he is the lion in your path, isn't he? and he has a whole town -of factories. What chance has a moral conviction against a town of -factories? And he is such a bull-dog; I did wrong to dignify him by the -leonine simile." - -"Such a clever chap, too," said Sir Arthur; "bull-dog cleverness, I -mean." - -"And bull-dogs are so dear," Camelia said, as a small brindled member of -the race, his head haloed by a ferociously bristling collar, came -bounding to them over the lawn. "Dear, precious beastie," she put her -hand on the dog's head as he stood on his hind-legs to greet her, "we -must indeed find another epithet for Mr. Rodrigg, not that I dislike -him, you know. He shares some of your opinions," she added rather -roguishly. - -"Not one, I fear." - -"Yes, one," she insisted. Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt on her charming look; -it carried him into vagueness as he asked-- - -"What one?" not caring at all for Mr. Rodrigg's community of taste, and -smiling at her loveliness. - -"I think he is rather fond of me," Camelia owned. Sir Arthur could -afford a generous laugh. - -"Poor old Rodrigg! He has then a vulnerable point in his armor?" - -"Yes, indeed, yes. I don't know that it amounts to a weakness. I fear I -couldn't wheedle him. But, you might convince him, and I might -help,--and, he is coming down next week." She laughed out at his look -of surprise. "That is news, isn't it?" - -In her very heart of hearts Camelia was rather complacently convinced -that Mr. Rodrigg's fondness _did_ amount to a weakness. Mr. Rodrigg's -devotion was in our young lady's fastidious opinion his one redeeming -quality. She had kindly, but thoroughly, she thought, nipped in the bud -certain too aspiring attempts; but the man was all the more her friend. - -His devotion was built upon a fine hopelessness that really dignified -him. - -She was an Egeria who hovered above him, gently smiling at his -earthiness. Yes, she was kind; for Mr. Rodrigg was a most important -person--emphatically, personally important just now, it seemed; and -though Camelia's thoughts of him were merely humorously tolerant, she -felt quite sure of a wealth of unreturned friendship, ready to transmute -itself into golden action at her bidding. She could but pride herself a -little upon her intellectual influence over her unpresumptuous Numa, and -thought that she could, through that dignified influence alone, by all -means wheedle him, if wheedling became necessary. Sir Arthur would -hardly approve of these personal methods, and therefore he need not know -of the little game that might win his cause; a perfectly innocent game, -she assured herself, since it hurt no one and helped Sir Arthur; and if -Mr. Rodrigg were to be convinced, Sir Arthur must fancy himself sole -winner. - -He did not seem to recognize the possibility, for after his pause of -surprise he laughed again, saying, "Is he coming on _my_ account?" - -"Not on _his_, I am sure!" - -"You know, it won't do any good," he smiled fondly at her, as one smiles -at the folly of a loved woman; "Rodrigg is too deeply pledged, has his -whole party behind him. I could no more convince him, even in these -enchanted premises, than in the dry precincts of the House. Political -conversions are very rare." - -"But you _may_ convert him," Camelia urged. "I will give you every -opportunity." - -"And it is rather unfair, you know." Sir Arthur paused in their -strolling to look at her face, half shadowed in the sunlight by the brim -of her white hat. "He perhaps imagines that he is coming for purposes -far removed from the political." - -"Oh no, no, no. I tell you, dear Sir Arthur, that--well--since you must -have it--I refused him. He hasn't a hope; I pinched the last pangs out -of him a long time ago. In fact, I let him see that I found his audacity -rather funny than piteous. I have laughed him into most submissive -platonics. He will come, because he really is my friend, and really -likes me; and I want him to come, because he must like you." - -"Camelia!" Sir Arthur had used her name more than once of late, and she -let it pass with a half-merry, half-menacing little glance. - -"You dear little schemer," he added. Though spoken in tenderest teasing, -Camelia was just enough conscious of a certain applicability to say with -some quickness-- - -"Not _really_. You know I'm not. I only want to help you--legitimately, -I would not lift my little finger to win your cause if you did not want -me to." - -"Really, I know you're not!" Sir Arthur's voice retained the teasing -quality, but the tenderness had deepened; Camelia was listening all the -while to those dogged passages from the piano. They ceased now, and a -certain gravity and determination of look that had succeeded Sir -Arthur's last words quite justified a sudden retreat. - -"I must go and make Mr. Perior stop to lunch. One only gets him out of -his lair by force and wheedling! I wheedle _him_!" She left Sir Arthur -rather disconsolately cut short, and ran off to the house, her own words -ringing reassuringly in her ears. Yes, she could wheedle him. Despite -unreason, stupid unreason, despite rebellious crossness and pretended -indifference, she had the mastery. He cared so much; that was the -fundamental fact that upheld Camelia's assurance; he cared enough to be -very angry. He would try to hide his anger of course. Her heart had -beaten rather quickly when Sir Arthur's face took on that look of -resolve--she was not ready, not quite sure, not yet, but flight from his -purpose had been only a secondary impulse. She must see Perior. She ran -through the morning-room and met him coming down the stairs, and panting -a little, laughing a little, she leaned against the banisters and -opposed his passage. - -"Well, have you taught her how bad it is?" - -"I think I have," said Perior, looking over Camelia's head at the open -doorway. She stood aside to let him join her. - -"What have you to teach me this morning--_caballero de la triste -figura_?" she said as he came down the stairs and stood beside her. - -"I don't propose to teach you anything. I am not responsible for you." - -Camelia had not analyzed his probable mood incorrectly; he was angry, -and he was trying to hide his anger, fearing for his self-control. But -more than that--though this the acute Camelia had never quite -divined--he was feeling very unhappy. That he was angry she saw, -however, with a little thrill of triumph running through her veins. -Smiling an even smile she said, slipping her hand through his arm-- - -"Ah! but you _are_ responsible. Come into the morning-room." - -"Is Lady Paton there?" Perior asked gloomily. - -"Yes." Camelia had seen her mother and Mary walking safely away into the -garden with Gwendolen Holt and Lady Tramley. She threw open the door and -ushered him in. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -Perior surveyed the emptiness; it hardly surprised him, and well -understanding her determination to wheedle him, he felt an added -strength of determination not to be wheedled. - -"What have you got to say, now that you've got me here?" he asked, -putting down his music and looking at her. - -"You bandersnatch!" Camelia still held his arm. "I am sure you look like -a bandersnatch; a biting, snarling creature. You have a truly -_snatching_ way of speaking." - -"What have you got to say, Camelia?" Perior repeated, withdrawing his -arm from the circling clasp upon it. - -"I have got to say that you must stay to lunch." - -"Well, I can't do that." - -"Then you may sit down and talk to me a little--scold me if you like; do -you feel like scolding me?" - -"I have never scolded you, Camelia," said Perior, knowing that before -her lightness his solemnity showed to disadvantage; but he would be -nothing but solemn, ludicrously solemn if necessary. - -"You were never sure I deserved it, then," said Camelia, stooping to -gather up her dog for a swift kiss, and laughing over his round head at -Perior's stiffness; "else you would have done your duty, I am sure--you -never forget your duty." - -"Thanks; your recognition is flattering." - -"There, my pet, go--poor Sir Arthur is lonely, go to him," said Camelia, -opening the window for Siegfried's exit, "you know your sarcasm doesn't -impress me one bit--not one bit," she added. - -"I don't fancy that anything I could say would impress you," Perior -replied, eyeing her little manoeuvres, "and since I have seen -Siegfried receive his kiss, I really must go," and at this Perior took -up his music with decision; to see him assuming indifference so badly -was delightful to Camelia. - -"_Why_ were you so rude to poor Lady Henge the other evening?" she -demanded, couching her lance and preparing for the shock of encounter; -"you were hideously rude, you know." - -"Yes, I know." Perior still eyed her, his departure effectually checked. - -"Then, why were you?" - -"Because you lied." - -"Oh, what an ugly word!" cried Camelia lightly, though with a little -chill, for the unpleasant sincerity of Perior's look she felt to be more -than she had bargained for. "What a big, ungainly word to fling at poor -little me! You should eschew such gross elementary forms of speech, -Alceste; really, they are not becoming." - -"I hate lies," said Perior tersely, thinking, as he spoke, that by the -logic of the words he should hate Camelia too--for what was she but -unmitigated falseness personified? He had lost his nervousness, now that -the moment for plain speaking had arrived. - -"And you call _that_ a lie?" - -"I call it a lie." She considered him gravely. - -"I tried to give pleasure, you tried to give pain." - -"I tried to restore the balance." - -"I cannot think it wrong to slight the truth a little--from mere -kindness." - -"And I think it wrong to lie. And," Perior added, his voice taking on an -added depth of indignant scorn, "you lied to Arthur; I saw you." - -"You saw!" Camelia could not repress a little gasp. - -"I saw that he caught your humorous and hospitable comments on his -mother's performance, and I saw your cajolery afterwards. I am sure I -can't imagine how you hoodwinked him. It was neatly done, Camelia." - -Camelia felt herself growing pale, losing the victor's smiling calm. -Here he was brutally voicing the very scruples she had laid to rest -after moments of most generous self-doubt--atoning moments, as she felt. -The playful game in which she would tease him into comprehension--absolution, -had been turned into an ugly punishment. The wrinkled rose leaves of -self-accusation that had disturbed her serenity had actually--in his -hands--grown into thorny branches, and he was whipping her with them. -She had never felt so at a loss, for she could not laugh. - -"You would have had me pain him too!" she cried, her anger vindictively -seeking a retaliatory lash. "Well, you are a prig!--an insufferable -prig! I did nothing wrong!--except mistake your sense of humor." - -This was certainly on her side a less dignified colloquy than the one -with the looking-glass; she fancied that Perior looked with some -curiosity at her anger. - -"Was it wrong to smile at you, then?" she said. - -"Yes, it was wrong." Perior had all the advantage of calm, and she was -helplessly aware that her excitement fortified his self-control. - -"I thought the piece funny. Was I to tell her so?" - -"You should have kept still about it. You mocked your guest behind her -back and flattered her to her face. That is mean, despicable," said -Perior, planting his slashes very effectively. - -"To laugh with you was like laughing to myself," said Camelia, steadying -her lips, and wondering vaguely if victory might not yet be wrested from -this humiliation; his inflexible cruelty forced from her that half -appeal. "It was merely thinking aloud, and to tell a few kindly little -fibs--as every woman does, a hundred times a day--is not flattery." - -"To gain a person's liking on false pretences is base; and I don't care -how many women do it--nor how often they do it. I shan't argue with you, -Camelia. We don't see things alike. Follow your own path, by all means; -it will lead you to success no doubt, and for a nature like yours there -will be no bitterness in such success." - -He looked away from her now, as if, despite her immunity from it, he -felt that bitterness. He felt it, though she did not. He looked away in -the depth of his disgust and pain, conscious, though, of the golden -blur of her hair, the indistinct oval of her face, the cool vague gray -of her linen dress, as she stood still, not far from him. Camelia felt -herself trembling. She beat off his cruel injustice--but it was hurting -her--it was making her helpless. - -"For what success do you imply that I am scheming?" she asked, and even -while she spoke angry tears rushed to her eyes. To be misjudged was a -new sensation; a hot self-pity smarted within her. - -Perior did not see the tears, for he still looked away, saying in a -voice that showed how clearly cut, how definitely perceived was the -conviction, "The success of marrying a man you love little enough to lie -to. Henge could not forgive you if he knew that you had lied to him and -to his mother, yet he adores you--you have that on false pretences too. -There is the truth for you, Camelia; and, upon my soul, I am sorry for -Arthur. I pity him from the bottom of my heart." - -"How dare you! how dare you!" cried Camelia, bursting into tears. "It is -false--false--false!" - -Taken aback, Perior stared blankly at her. It was the first time that he -had reduced her to weeping. "Oh, Camelia!" he stood still--he would not -approach her; he felt that since she could cry her helplessness was -fully armed, and he quite helpless; his supremacy robbed of all value. - -"Every word you say is false!" she said, returning his stare defiantly, -while the tears rolled down her cheeks. "I am _not_ scheming to marry -him! I have not let him propose to me yet! I am not sure that I shall; -I am not sure that I shall accept him, and if I do, it will be because I -love him!" - -Perior hardly believed her, and yet he was much confused, especially as -with a fresh access of sobs her face quivered in the pathetic grimace of -loveliness distorted; before that the real issue of the situation seemed -slipping away; her repudiation of the greater dishonesty effaced, for -the moment, the smaller; he had nothing to say--she probably believed in -herself; and those helpless sobs were so touching to him that, -notwithstanding his unappeased anger against her, he could have gone to -her and taken her in his arms to comfort her, at any cost--even at the -cost of seeming to ask pardon. He did not do this, however, but said, -"Don't cry, don't cry, Camelia; you mustn't cry. I'm glad you feel it in -that way; I am glad you can cry over it." He did not go to her, but his -very attitude of nervous hesitation told Camelia that he was worsted--at -least worsted enough for the practical purposes of the moment. - -She got out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, still feeling very -sore-hearted, very much injured; but when the tears were gone she came -up to him saying, while she looked at him with all the victorious pathos -of wet lashes and trembling lips, "You are not kind to me, Alceste." - -He moved away from her a little, but took her hands. "Because you are -naughty, Celimene." - -"I will be good. I won't tell fibs." - -"A very commendable resolution." - -"You mock me. You won't believe a liar." - -"Don't, please don't speak of it again, Camelia." - -"Say you are sorry for having said it." - -"Oh, you little rogue!" Taking her face between his hands he studied it -with a sad curiosity. "I am sorry for having _had_ to say it." - -"Oh, prig, prig, prig." She smiled at him now from the narrow frame, her -own delicious smile. - -"And bandersnatch if you will," said Perior, shaking her gently by the -shoulders, and putting her away with a certain resignation. - -"My good old bandersnatch! _Dear_ old bandersnatch! After all, I need a -bandersnatch, don't I, to keep me straight? Yes, I forgive you. I must -put up with you, and you must put up with me, fibs and all--fibs, do you -hear, not lies. Oh, ugly word!" She clasped her hands on his arm, poor -Perior! "And you will stay to lunch?" - -"No, I won't stay to lunch," said Perior, smiling despite himself. - -"Why?" - -"I am busy." - -"You are a prig, you know," said Camelia, as if that summed up the -situation conclusively. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Whether Camelia were decided on accepting Sir Arthur or not, every one -else, under a waiting silence, considered the engagement an accomplished -fact. Poor Mr. Merriman departed disconsolately when the reality of his -utter ruin forced itself upon his unwilling understanding. Sir Harry -contemplated the hopeless situation more compliantly, oscillated for a -few days between feeble despair and jocular resignation, and then -finding it impossible to utterly tear himself away from his charmer's -magnetic presence, he settled down to a melancholy flirtation with Mrs. -Fox-Darriel that masked his inability to retreat. Lord and Lady Tramley -went on to another visit, and the poet who wrote the virile poems and -believed in the joy of life, finding Miss Paton less sympathetic than -usual, penned a laconic, psychological verselet for her benefit, and -departed. - -Camelia seemed rather vague in the furtherance of hospitable projects, -and the merest trickle of visitors went through the house, affecting -very slightly the really placid routine. - -Lady Paton's whole personality expanded in prettiest contentment; the -calm so far surpassed her expectations, and Camelia seemed very happy. -Lady Paton could but take for granted her happiness. - -Camelia was living the most poetical moment of life; she made no -confidences; but Lady Paton's trust walked in a sadly sweet dream where -her daughter's courtship mingled with tearful memories of her own. -Charles Paton's smile; the first fluttering consciousness that the smile -came oftenest for her; she still blushed as she remembered the moment -when he had murmured to her as they danced that she had the prettiest -throat in England; it had seemed so daring to little Miss Fairleigh, who -had read her first novel only six months before; the very memory still -had the glamour of daring. And Camelia was feeling all those tremulous -delights, with their deep undercurrent of sacred solemnity. - -Camelia was not demonstrative, Lady Paton had sighed over the accepted -fact, but she could trace all such natural emotions on Sir Arthur's face -when he watched or spoke to her daughter. She already felt a maternal -tenderness for him, and his exquisite courtesy, that already implied -rights, was nothing less than filial. - -Lady Henge's dignified intellectuality she found indeed rather awesome, -but she hoped by careful listening to expand her powers of -comprehension, and Lady Henge delivered her expositions of social ethics -with a pleasant faith in their tonic effect upon the suppressed mind of -her hostess-- - -"Suppressed, repressed, Arthur, not shallow," she said to her son, "and -you could not ask a daintier, truer gentlewoman for your wife's mother, -dear." Lady Henge sighed just a little--though quite resigned to the -future--for the Duchess of Amshire's mind was neither suppressed nor -shallow, but as expansive and capable an organ as her own, and -infinitely sympathetic. Lady Elizabeth, too!--Lady Elizabeth, who had -worked at shirt-making in the slums for two weeks, and had caught -typhoid fever at it--even Camelia's sunny charm could not efface the -thought of Lady Elizabeth's almost providential fitness. But in spite of -inevitable regrets Lady Henge was resigned, and the two mothers got on -together very pleasantly, since moulding capability can hardly carp at a -gentle, clay-like receptivity. - -Mr. Rodrigg seemed the only new guest intended for any permanence of -stay. He duly arrived at the given date and hour, a punctual man, very -much aware of his own importance, and of the importance to him, and to -others, of every moment. - -And Mr. Rodrigg was really a very important personage and his moments -weighty with significance. And this iron-gray, middle-aged man had not -at all foolishly fallen in love with the brilliant Miss Paton. A wife so -beautiful, so capable, so charming, would be the finishing touch to his -influence; matter-of-fact motives may well have underlain Mr. Rodrigg's -amorous determination, which Camelia thought so effectually snuffed out. -But indeed Mr. Rodrigg's determination was far too strong to credit -hers. His self-confidence smiled kindly upon a pretty coquetry. The -exquisite grace of Camelia's rebuff--she had almost thought it worthy of -publicity, so felicitous had been its delicate sweep round a corner -dangerous to friendship--had merely impressed Mr. Rodrigg's -unappreciative bluntness with a reassuring conviction of trifling and -postponement. - -The lightness of touch, the deft cleverness upon which our poor Titania -so prided herself, were surveyed in this instance by an ass's head; the -effect she thought so prettily made was quite missed, and she herself -its only spectator. - -The portentousness of Arthur Henge's presence at Enthorpe did not in the -least weigh with Mr. Rodrigg against the final choice he considered as -expressed in Lady Paton's invitation. Miss Paton had put him off--but -she had not let him go; so Mr. Rodrigg interpreted the Egeria attitude; -she demanded patience--and she should have it. She was too clever a girl -to tolerate whining commonplaces; she would appreciate his whimsical -calm; he would not whine--he would wait and humor her. - -She liked to have important people about her, and Mr. Rodrigg explained -Sir Arthur very much as Camelia had explained Mr. Rodrigg. It was -platonic friendliness--quite hopeless. He realized that Camelia might -dally with his own hopes, that skill might be necessary to win her -finally, and he intended to be very skilful, to show no jealousy or -carping that might indispose her towards his future marital authority. -And Mr. Rodrigg hardly felt the fitness of jealousy. He was, he thought, -a cleverer man than Henge, a man of more intrinsic weight. Henge had a -light and pretty talent, spoke with conviction, but was not the man to -sway the world with socialism rewarmed in Tory saucepans; whereas Europe -trembled at Mr. Rodrigg's nod, at least so Mr. Rodrigg, not -unreasonably, was convinced. The "good match" theory in explanation of -Camelia's motives only fortified his own quiet consciousness of -supremacy. He quite gave Camelia credit for an undazzled directness of -vision that would surely apprise her of the side on which her bread was -most thickly buttered. So Mr. Rodrigg arrived in an atmosphere of -blue-books and business unavoidable, though with a minor effect of a -great mind unbending to lighter mundanities. His face was typically -British; ruddy, with broad features clearly hewn; keen eyes, a tight -mouth, and an expression of sagacious toleration of things in general. - -Camelia met him with her prettiest air of mutual understanding that -would warrant the neatest epigrams. Her penetration of Mr. Rodrigg's -character had never quite realized his tenacious conceit. - -He had been anxious, he had been hurt; but he had never imagined that -Camelia thought him hopeless. Her complacent conviction of intellectual -conquest was far indeed from his suppositions; the results of her -Italian reading had been adroitly thrown into his speech as a piece of -pretty flattery, that a great man might harmlessly permit himself -towards a wilful, easily flattered woman. So the two stupidities met -quite unconscious one of the other. - -Mr. Rodrigg was to stop for a fortnight at least, and as Sir Arthur had -to absent himself at intervals during the period, Camelia was all the -more content. She feared that Sir Arthur's attitude of independence and -non-expectancy might antagonize Mr. Rodrigg. She relied upon her own -arguments, her own flattering influence. She sat up late at night -cramming the pamphlets, reports, and books with which Sir Arthur -supplied her. The resultant pallor at breakfast deepened the effect of -an intellectual atmosphere in which she wrapped herself serenely. Mr. -Rodrigg smiled, paternally almost, and with his most tolerant calm, upon -these efforts. He cut her a large slice of cold beef at the side-board -and advised her to take a glass of port; "You mustn't tire yourself, you -know, my dear young lady." - -He rather resented Henge's evident influence when he saw how deeply -Camelia was determined on the bill, but not really troubled by it. -Camelia's fervor of sympathy seemed really personal; girlish -emotionalism, a futile but pretty pity quite interpreted her tenacity. -He was rather pleased that she should be on the side of the factory -women, though anxious to explain to her that the logic of his own -position need not exclude that partiality. - -He thought it safer, however, to argue as little as possible, and -listened attentively and pleasantly, quite willing to go this far in -humoring. Meanwhile Camelia's delay in announcing an engagement imposed -a general silence; no one spoke of Sir Arthur as an accepted lover, and -Mr. Rodrigg might perhaps be pardoned if no such instinctive intimation -penetrated his thick self-confidence. Sir Arthur coming down for a -Saturday and Sunday in Mr. Rodrigg's visit, and going off again on a -Monday, rather avoided an encounter. - -Mr. Rodrigg himself good-humoredly introduced the subject of the bill -one evening in the smoking-room, and they talked of it amicably and -impersonally for a little while. But after this talk Sir Arthur said to -Camelia-- - -"I see very plainly where he stands. He will be firmly against me; his -reticence doesn't conceal that." - -"Are you sure?" asked Camelia. She herself was not at all sure. In a -walk with Mr. Rodrigg that morning she had certainly observed promising -leaf-blades break the stiff soil of his non-committal attitude. Camelia -did not imagine that her own beaming smile might well allure those -vernal symptoms. - -"Quite sure," said Sir Arthur, who was really getting rather tired of -Mr. Rodrigg and his utility, "and--now that I won't see you again until -next Thursday--won't you talk of something as far removed from the bill -as possible." - -"That would be a very uninteresting something," said Camelia. "No, I can -think of nothing but politics just now. Whose fault is that, pray? Did -you see the report Mr. Dobson sent me this morning? You don't want to -see it! Fie, you lukewarm reformer. Now pray be patient--we will talk of -something else on Thursday, perhaps." So she warded him off, conscious -always of that trembling retreat when the momentous question approached -her. She was almost glad when Sir Arthur was gone again. At all events, -she would make a good fight for his cause whether or no she accepted -him. - -"And you are on our side too, are you not?" she said to Perior, for -Perior, more silent than ever, and revolving inner cogitations on his -own laxity, still made an almost daily visit. - -He owned that he was on "their side." - -"And you will support us in the _Friday_." - -"I am going to do my best." - -"But not because I ask you!" laughed Camelia, who still felt a little -soreness since that uncomfortable interview where she had so much -surprised herself. She was still rather resentful, and sorry that her -tears might have implied confession. She was conscious now of a touch of -defiance behind the light smiling of her eyes as he owned that her -asking formed no compulsory element in his decision. - -"Don't you think that Mr. Rodrigg may be malleable?" Camelia pursued, -"Sir Arthur is to convert him, you know." - -"You or Sir Arthur?" She laughed at this. "Would it be terribly wicked -if I tried my hand at it?" - -"It would be terribly useless," Perior remarked; but Camelia looked -placidly unconvinced. - -"I am justified in trying, am I not?" - -"That depends;" Perior was decidedly cautious. - -"Since I believe thoroughly in the bill; since only intellectual forces -will be brought to bear on our stodgy friend,--there is nothing of the -lobbyist in it." - -"I am sure that Henge wouldn't like it," said Perior, with the certain -coolness he always evinced in speaking to her of Sir Arthur. - -"Why not?" - -"It would put him in a false position towards Rodrigg. Rodrigg will -imagine that you are bribing him." - -"_Bribing_ him!" Camelia straightened herself. - -"Yes; that the price paid for his apostasy will be your hand," and this -indeed was exactly what Mr. Rodrigg, with some alarm, was beginning to -think. - -"Apostasy! If the creature won't be sincerely convinced we don't want -him!" cried Camelia. - -"Very well, you have my opinion of the matter." Perior's whole manner -had of late been particularly irksome to Camelia. - -Lady Henge meanwhile, seeing her son's foe within the gates, most -seriously and conscientiously, and openly, made good her opportunity. -She took her mental mastery far more gravely than Camelia took hers, and -poor Mr. Rodrigg began to think that he was asked to pay a heavy price -for his hymeneal visit when Lady Henge cornered him in the drawing-room -and stupefyingly admonished him. Lady Henge's arguments were all based -on superbly moral grounds, and levelled with severity at the iniquity of -individualistic theories, which she demonstrated to be scientifically -and ethically unsound. He at times found it very difficult to keep his -temper. But under the exquisite warmth of Camelia's urgency his hopes -were high. He could regard with humoring half compliances this pretty -whim of his pretty Camelia. Camelia would have raged could she have -known Mr. Rodrigg's real impressions--impressions accompanied by the -fatherly tolerance of that "pretty Camelia." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -Sir Arthur was back again on Thursday, alertly conscious of a half -promise, and he intended to put it to the test while he and Camelia rode -together in the afternoon. The party was made up: Mrs. Fox-Darriel, -Gwendolen Holt, Sir Harry, and another young man--but Camelia did not -go. The horses were already before the door, and she, fully equipped in -riding costume, engaged before her mirror on the final details of veil -and gloves, when Perior rode up; Camelia saw him through the window, and -heard him decline to join their party, as he had come for Mary. Mary was -not a good rider, nor could she be urged beyond the dullest trot, and -Perior's refusal was no doubt on her account. Poor Alceste! Condemned to -Mary for a whole afternoon! In a rapid change of project Camelia dashed -out of her habit and into her prettiest white dress, sent down a note to -Sir Arthur pleading sudden headache, and commanding him to go without -her, saw the five depart obediently, and placidly descended to capture -Perior. Mary was getting ready; Camelia, as she passed her room, saw her -sewing a button on a glove, her habit laid in readiness on the bed. -Camelia would have liked her ride; it was only from the impulsive wish -for ten or fifteen minutes with Perior that she had sacrificed it, and -she saw with satisfaction that Mary would take quite that time. - -"Well, how do you do?" she said, finding him as usual in the -morning-room, "I _think_ we have got him," she added, picking up the -threads of their last conversation. - -"That is Rodrigg, of course," said Perior, looking with a pleasure he -could not conceal at her charming appearance. He felt for a moment like -telling her that in that dress she was bewitchingly pretty, but checked -the impulse with some surprise at it. - -"Yes, I argued out the whole third clause with him yesterday," said -Camelia, smiling her happiest smile, for she was quite conscious of -those unspoken words. - -"Dear me!" - -"He seemed impressed--though you are not. Sit down." - -"He seemed what he was not, no doubt--I haven't the faculty." Perior -spoke quite good-temperedly. Indeed, Camelia's political manoeuvres -did not displease him--consoled him in a sense. There was a pretty folly -about them quite touching, and her earnestness seemed to vouch for some -real feeling. - -"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, taking the place -beside him on the sofa and leaning forward, her arms on her knees. - -"The man wants to please you," said Perior, looking at her white hands -hanging idly together. He wondered again whether egotism or a real -fondness for Arthur moved her. - -The long delay of the engagement excited and made him nervous. It had -usually been so easy to see through Camelia, and he did not like the -perplexity. Still, the thought that she hesitated pleased him; she would -accept Arthur, doubtlessly, but at least she would imagine that she -cared for him. Camelia had gained some moral value in his eyes from that -pause. - -"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, feeling -delightedly that the atmosphere was much less chilling than usual. - -"The man wants to please you." - -"Well, and what then?" - -"He expects to marry you." - -"Nonsense!" she said with a laugh of truest sincerity. - -"Tell him that you are engaged to Arthur, and see." Perior's curiosity -made that little probe, and the eyes of both showed a mutual -self-consciousness; both thought of the last scene in the morning-room. - -"I can't make the experiment yet, even to please you," said Camelia, -satisfied that her cheeks showed no rising color. "Mr. Rodrigg is really -attached to me. He would do a great deal for me." - -"Your smile for all reward." - -"Exactly." - -"You are a goose, Camelia." - -But she was pleasing him; her conceit amused him almost tenderly, and he -laughed. - -"You think me fatuous, no doubt," said Camelia, laughing too. - -"Yes, rather fatuous. Not as clear-sighted as usual." - -"Mr. Rodrigg knows that I could never marry him," said Camelia more -gravely; "he can only hope for my smile, and, if he helps me through, I -shall always smile." - -"I don't credit Mr. Rodrigg with the faintest flavor of such humility." - -Camelia's smile, confidently unconvinced, now shifted to a humorous -little grimace. "He never really hoped. As though I _could_ have married -a man with a nose like that!" - -"I maintain that he does so hope--despite his nose; an excellently -honest nose it is too." - -"So broad at the tip! as though he had flattened it against adverse -forces all his life. It is a plebeian trait, an inheritance from -money-getting ancestors who held theirs conscientiously to the -grindstone." - -"Mine should show the peculiarity," and Perior rubbed it, "it has been -ground persistently." - -"Ah--a merely acquired tendency; besides, you are not going to ask me to -marry you--so you may carry your nose fearlessly." Camelia's eye, -despite the light audacity of her tone, fixed him with a certain alert -hardness. - -Perior bowed, his hand on his heart. "Thanks for the intimation. I shall -carry it quite fearlessly, I assure you." - -Camelia laughed. "But I like your nose," said she, leaning towards him; -and, very much as a kitten gives a roguish paw-tap, she drew a finger -briskly down the feature in question. - -Perior grew a little red, and drew back rather sharply. - -"What a staid person you are," said Camelia, quite unabashed; "you don't -take a compliment gracefully, Alceste; not that it was a compliment, -exactly, since your nose is not at all handsome; a poor thing but to my -taste. I like its dominant ruggedness, and that nice lift in the -bridge." - -"Well, Camelia, I came to take Mary out riding, you know," said Perior, -who still showed signs of uneasiness under her scrutiny. - -"Yes, I know; you are so good to Mary. She is getting ready." - -Camelia contemplated Perior's paternal relation towards Mary most -unsuspectingly, yet she really did not like it. She could not like -anything that withdrew a very important tributary from the river-like -receptivity of her existence. Mary's narrow channel was quite unmeet for -such a complimentary contribution, and Camelia was sincerely convinced -of the mere charitableness of Perior's attitude. Then, above all, Perior -was her own especial property; Mary might profit by him when she did not -feel the want of him, and this afternoon she wanted him--very much, as -it now struck her. To have sacrificed her ride for this bare ten minutes -had been hardly worth while. She had not looked beyond the impulse of -the moment, and the lonely hours stretched in long inconsistency before -her. She thought of them now with some surprised dismay, and her eyes, -still contemplating Perior's nose, grew vague with conjecture. Perior -certainly, despite his latter severity, would rather spend his afternoon -with her than with Mary. He could not own to it, of course, nor would -she force him to such an issue; but it might be managed--pleasantly for -every one, for all three. Camelia's life, so wide in its all embracing -objectivity, had little time for self-analysis, little time therefore -for putting herself in other people's places. Her lack of sympathy was -grounded on a lack of all self-knowledge. Therefore her mind turned the -matter quickly in the direction that best suited the desire of the -moment, good and bad being to Camelia external facts that either pleased -or displeased herself, and she said without one inner compunction, -"Shall I hurry her up? And I must see that she puts her hat on properly. -Mary has an unerring instinct for the unbecoming." - -"Has she?" said Perior, in the tone that Camelia well understood as -being altogether unencouraging and perhaps disgusted. "Don't hurry her. -I can wait." - -"See how unkindly I dress my best impulses," said Camelia, smiling. "I -really want to help her, and to make her smart and tidy. A few touches -of my fingers about Mary's unfurnished forehead, and her face assumes a -certain grace and prettiness. Alceste, you must not take my flippancy -_au grand serieux_--you are in danger of becoming ridiculous, Alceste, I -warn you of it." She had certainly succeeded in making "Alceste" smile, -and with a reassured and reassuring wave of the hand she left him, -delighted with her own ability for forcing him to swallow her -naughtinesses--for swallow them he must; she would feign nothing for -him; she would exaggerate even the defects he saw so solemnly. She was -quite sure now that she must not be left alone, and that Perior must -spend the afternoon with her. She ran upstairs quickly, conscious of -how prettily she sprang from stair to stair, of how charmingly with its -silk and muslin rustle her white dress swayed about her, conscious even -of the distinguished elegance of her white hand gliding up the hand -rail; for Camelia had always time for these aesthetic notes, and her -grace, her dress, and her hand were so many reasons for keeping Perior -to admire them. Mary was quite ready, and looking really nice; a pretty -color, and the dull fairness of her hair smoothed neatly beneath her -hat. - -Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed -aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the -barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that -Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of -appreciation. - -Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the -threshold. - -"Were you going with them? They are gone, dear!" - -Mary turned from the mirror, her habit skirt falling from her arm; on -her face a dismal astonishment, that Camelia, absorbed in the mental -completion of her arrangement, hardly noticed. - -"Sir Arthur, Gwendolen, the others--you were going out with them." She -scarcely knew why she hedged her position with this pretence of -ignorance. But Mary's face brightened happily. - -"Oh no, Mr. Perior is going with me. You haven't seen him, then. He came -for me." - -Camelia had the barrel-organ all in readiness, and prepared to roll it -forward without delay. - -"Oh! did he? Well, Mary, I have another plan for you this afternoon, -you will like it just as well, I know. I promised Mrs. Grier to make -that charitable round of visits to her poor people with her this -afternoon. We were to go to the almshouses, and I have a basket of -sweets for the children in Copley, and now I must give up going because -of this dreadful headache, and knowing that nothing would please you -more----." - -It was quite true that Camelia had made the appointment with Mrs. Grier, -but on agreeing to go out riding with Sir Arthur, she had intended to -ride to Mrs. Grier's house and make charming apologies--of which Sir -Arthur's tyrannous monopoly would bear the brunt. By her present plan -both Mary and Mrs. Grier would be pleased. She congratulated herself on -her thoughtful dexterity. Mary liked Mrs. Grier so much, liked -almshouses and poor children, and especially liked the distributing of -goodies among them; Mary gained everything by the little shuffle, and -she was not at all prepared for a certain stiffening and hardening in -her cousin's expression. "It is a lovely basket, and tea and curates -galore," she added, turning on the final roulade of the barrel-organ, -rather wondering, for the coldness of Mary's look was apparent, though -Camelia did not divine the underlying confusion. - -Mary was well trained in self-abnegation, but she turned her eyes away -without replying for a moment: "Could you not send word to Mrs. Grier?" -she asked. - -Camelia felt quite a shock of surprise at the tone, and a sense of -injury that hardened her in advance against possible opposition. - -"Oh, it is too late, my dear--she would be terribly disappointed--and -the children--and the tea prepared for me--the people invited. Why, -Mary, don't you want to go?" - -"I wanted the ride," said Mary in a low voice; and growing very red she -added, "I am afraid Mr. Perior will think me rude." - -"Oh, I will make your excuses!" Camelia, in all the impetus of her -desire, was much vexed by this ungrateful doggedness. - -"Mr. Perior and I could ride over and explain," Mary added. - -Camelia had never met in her cousin such opposition, and a certain -dryness mingled with the real grievance in her voice as she said-- - -"Is your heart so set on this ride, Mary? Mr. Perior will take you out -again, and you know that the pleasure is always rather one-sided, since -he particularly likes a good gallop across country. It isn't quite like -you, I think, to disappoint a friend like Mrs. Grier--you are so fond of -Mrs. Grier, I thought." - -During this speech Mary's face grew crimson. Setting her lips, she began -quickly to draw off her gloves; Camelia felt suddenly a sense of -discomfort. - -"You will enjoy it, I am sure, Mary." - -Mary made no reply, and silently unbuttoned her coat. - -"I beg of you, Mary, not to go if you are going to feel aggrieved about -it. I do not see what I am to do. I thought it would be quite a treat -for you." - -"Thanks, Camelia." - -"You will go, then?" - -"Oh yes, Camelia." - -Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she -could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the -unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She -lingered, however. - -"You are right to keep on that straw hat--it is very becoming to you. -Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make -conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table. -Shall I order the dog-cart for you?" - -"Thanks very much, Camelia." - -"Mary, you make me feel--horridly!" - -Camelia could not check that impulse. "Do you _mind_? You see that I -can't get out of it; you see that it wouldn't do--don't you? I hope you -don't really _mind_." - -"Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless--very -ungrateful." The conventional humility rasped Camelia's discontent. "And -you will tell Mr. Perior?--you will explain?" - -"Yes, yes, dear." - -Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left -her with the assurance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly. -But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the -stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had -been decidedly spoiled by the candle's unmanageable smoking and -guttering. Mary's decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for -feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of petty -falsities for which Perior would have scorned her. - -Remembering that to account comfortably for Mary's absence she must lie -to him, she came to a sudden standstill outside the door of the -morning-room. How badly she had managed everything! She did not want to -lie to him. Why had not Mary been delighted to go--as she should have -been? Only the thought of Mary's general disagreeableness fortified her -a little. - -Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor, -as she entered. - -"Oh, Camelia," he said disappointedly. - -"Only Camelia." She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing -red. - -"Where is Mary?" - -"I have come to make Mary's excuses. She can't go--is so sorry." With an -effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that -to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the -matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her -credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching. - -"Can't go?" he repeated staring. "Why she sent me word that she would be -ready in twenty minutes." - -"She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone--" -(it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), "but couldn't -because of my headache--I have a horrible headache. I would have put her -off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round -of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children, and afterwards -tea and curates galore--" Camelia realized that with a confused -uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. "Mary likes tea -and likes curates," she went on, pushed even further by that sense of -confusion--she had never told her old friend so many lies, "and the -curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a -choice among them." Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny -for suspicion, yet Perior still stared. - -"What a vacuous look!" laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been -forced to cross quite so many Rubicons. - -"I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself--as usual," he said -slowly. - -"Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against -half-a-dozen curates--reinforced by tea and sandwiches?" - -"Mary likes our rides immensely--and I never saw any signs of a fondness -for curates." - -"No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the -Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined." - -Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, "I don't -think she is looking over well--you know her father died of -consumption." - -"Don't; he was my uncle!" Camelia exclaimed. "Still, my chest is as -sound as a drum." She gave it a reassuring thump. - -"That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary's?" - -She looked at him candidly. - -"You foolish, fussy old person! Mary is solidly, stolidly well; who -could associate the lilies and languors of illness with Mary? You are -trying to poetize Mary's prose to worry me, but you can't rhyme it, I -assure you." - -"I don't know about that!" Perior was again, for a moment, silent. "I -don't think Mary has a very gay time of it," he said, speaking with a -half nervous resolution, as though he had often wished to speak and kept -back the words. "She doesn't go out much with you in London, does she?" - -Camelia did not like his tone, but she replied with lightness, "Not -much, Mary is a home-keeping body. She is not exactly fitted for worldly -gaieties, and she understands it perfectly." - -"How trying for Mary"--the nervousness was quite gone now--once he had -broached a delicate subject Perior could handle it with little -compunction. - -"Mary is very happy, if you please. She adores me, and is devoted to -Mamma. Mamma is certainly nicer to her than I am--that is an affair of -temperament, for Mary does bore me tremendously--I think she knows that -she does, but she adores me, since I don't deserve it--the way of the -world--a horrid place--I don't deny it." - -"Happy Mary! allowed to adore your effulgence--but at a distance--since -she bores you, and knows she does!" And over his collar Camelia could -observe that Perior's neck had grown red. She joined him at the window, -and said, looking up at his face-- - -"Why do you force me to such speeches? I am not responsible for the -inequalities of nature--though I recognize them so cold-bloodedly. The -contrast does not hurt her, for she is a good, contented little soul, -and then--for nature does give compensations--she has no keen -susceptibilities;" she locked her hands on his shoulder, and smiling at -him, "Come, you know that I am fond of Mary. You should have seen how -prettily I arranged her hair to-day--it would have softened your heart -towards me. Come, we are not going to quarrel again." - -Perior's eye turned on her, certainly softened in expression, "By no -means, I hope," and he smiled a little, "especially as I must be -off--since I have missed my ride." - -Camelia's face at this unlooked-for consummation took on an expression -of sincerest dismay. - -"Going! you will leave me all alone! They have all gone!" - -Perior laughed, looking at her now with the same touch of irrepressible -pleasure she could usually count on arousing. - -"Poor little baby! and it has a headache, too?" - -"Yes, it has; please stay with it." - -She was quite sure that he wanted to stay; indeed, Camelia's certainty -of Perior's fundamental fondness for her was an article of faith -untouched by doubt. - -"Very well, you want to show off your dress, I see." Perior's smile in -its humoring coyness was charming; Camelia felt that she quite adored -him when he so smiled at her. "A very pretty dress it is; I have been -taking it in." - -"And we will have tea in the garden," said Camelia, in tones of happy -satisfaction, "and you will see how good I am--when you are good to me. -And I'll tell you all about the people who are coming--for I must have -more of them--droves of them; in batches, artistic batches, 'smart' -batches, intellectual batches, political batches. You and I will look at -them." - -"Thanks; you don't limit me to a batch then?" - -They were still standing near the window, and she kept a hand on his -shoulder, and looked at him now with the gravity that made her face so -strange. - -"No, dear Alceste, you know I don't." - -He returned her look, smiling with a little constraint. - -"We must be more together," Camelia went on, "we must take up our -studying. No, Mr. Rodrigg, I can't walk with you this morning, I am -reading the Agamemnon with Mr. Perior." Camelia's eyes, mouth, the -delicately long lines of her cheek, quivered with the half malicious, -half tender smile that tilted every curve and every shadow from calm to -roguery. - -"How Mr. Rodrigg will hate me, to be sure," said Perior, who at that -moment felt that he would like to kiss his bunch of primroses--an -illusion of dewiness possessed him. - -"And now for tea under the copper beech. And I will read to you. What -shall I read? It will be quite like old days!" - -"When we were young together," said Perior, smiling at her so fondly -that she felt deliciously reassured as to everything. - -The gods always helped a young lady who helped herself. Such had been -Camelia's experience in life, even when she helped herself to other -people's belongings. - -At all events, with hardly a qualm of conscience, Camelia enjoyed the -afternoon she had wrested from poor Mary. - -The tea-table was duly installed under the wide shade of the -copper-beech. Perior carried out an armful of books and reviews from -which to choose. They drank their tea and ate their bread and butter, -and Camelia read aloud from the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. And it cannot -be denied that Perior, sitting in the cool green shadow, listening to -the perfect French accent, looking at the white figure sprinkled with -the pale shifting gold that filtered through the leaves above them, -enjoyed himself a great deal more than he would have done with Mary. -Truly at times the way of transgressors is very easy. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -But retribution followed Camelia's manoeuvre. On the advent of Mr. -Rodrigg, very red and hot after a long country walk with Lord Haversham -(who also had axes to grind), Perior said good-bye, remounted his horse, -and rode off. It was six o'clock, a warmly rosy evening. The hot gold -was gone, but in the sunset influences there was a certain oppression. -Perior yawned and rode slowly along the strip of turf that bordered the -dusty road. But though he felt physically very indolent, his mind was -delightfully alert, weaving busily, with a sense of freedom and -joyousness, a web of hopeful imaginings, swinging the illusive, -intangible filaments from point to point of the afternoon's experience. -Nothing, in his estimation, could raise Camelia much above the level to -which that cluster of frivolous lies had sunk her; his very heart ached -when he thought of them--especially of the lie to Arthur; but the tears -of last week, though his reason denied their influence, had in reality -touched, surprised, and softened him, and made him hopeful. And now came -the smiles, the sincerity, the sweetness of this afternoon; he could not -distrust them. The idealist impulse--the master mood of his nature, -though reined in so often by bitter experience, began to evolve an ell -from the supposititious inch of excellence. The possibility of moral -worth; the implication of some real rectitude of soul, that her truth to -him seemed to justify; the formative power of a real affection for -Arthur: so Perior wove his spider web, working as the spider does, from -the merest foothold, and bridging chasms with a shining thread of trust. - -Yet alas! for Camelia--that afternoon had certainly been a bungling -piece of mismanagement, a covetous snatching at the present, a foolhardy -forgetting of the future. - -Perior met Mary returning in the dog-cart. He had not forgotten Mary, -nor his suspicions of self-sacrifice. He turned his horse's head again -and proposed to ride back with her. Yes, he had plenty of time; and in -assuring her of it he smiled his kindest smile, and the pony and the -horse fell into a walk. The hours under the copper-beech, with Camelia's -white dress, and Camelia's shining head to look at, had seemed -delightfully cool and pleasant, yet the autumn afternoon had been a hot -one, and Mary's face was flushed, tired, and to her own knowledge, even -a little tremulous. - -"Did you have a nice afternoon?" he asked her. - -"Oh, very, thanks," the habit of submissive gratitude was too strong to -be mastered at the first moment, though she added, "Camelia told you how -_sorry_ I was?" - -"Yes, but I am still wounded. I did not think you would have deserted me -for the babies of Copley." - -It was rather useless to attempt humor with Mary, for even he could -interpret as alarmed and distressed the look of her face as it turned -to him. - -"Oh! but I did not want to go!" she exclaimed; "you know that! Camelia -wished it--she had a headache, and said Mrs. Grier expected her, so, -though I was quite ready for our ride, looking forward to it so much, I -had to go; but I didn't want to--indeed I was dreadfully disappointed--" -And then suddenly the sense of injury, of resentment, of dismay at -herself that she should wish to display that resentment--should wish to -retaliate for humiliations too deep for display, getting altogether the -better of her, two large tears--and Mary had been swallowing tears all -the afternoon--rolled suddenly down her cheeks and splashed upon her -dusty gloves. - -"Why, Mary! _Mary!_" said Perior, aghast. - -She searched for her handkerchief in hasty confusion. "How silly I am! I -can't help it; it has been so hot, I am so tired." - -"My poor child!" But Perior was more stricken than the sympathy of his -tone made manifest. His pity sprang comprehendingly to Mary, but a -deeper emotion underlay it. It was as if Mary had thrust that dusty -dog-skin glove right through his beautiful, fragile spider web, and as -he was dashed from his illusion his thoughts gathered themselves in -quick bitter avengefulness. - -"You were ready? dressed, you say?" he was already sure of Camelia's -falseness, but he wished to define it, to see just how much she had -lied, to see just how far went her heartlessness. - -"Yes," Mary could not restrain the plaintive note, though she was -drying her eyes in a sort of terror over her weakness. - -"And Camelia forced you to go?" - -"Oh, don't think that!" Mary had thought it, but the words spoken by him -shocked her. "She did not know how much I had set my heart on the ride, -and it would have been a pity had Mrs. Grier been disappointed. That is -what Camelia thought of--" and Mary quite believed Camelia as far as -that went; but the cruel manner of discharging her duty! the deep injury -of the forces brought to bear! The memory of them rose irrepressibly, -poignantly. - -"How considerate of Camelia!" Perior's anger made any careful analysis -of Camelia's motives impossible. She had shirked an irksome duty, and -kept him to entertain her laziness. The latter fact did not in the least -mollify him; it was of a piece with her grasping selfishness, Mary's -pleasure not weighing a feather's weight against the momentary wish. She -had gone to "hurry" Mary, and on her return from the cousinly little -errand, had given him the impression of Mary's uninfluenced change of -plan--even implying curates as its cause! Liar! The word almost choked -him as he kept it down, for he did not want Mary to know her a liar. - -"She went to your room to ask you to go?" he pursued, choosing a safe -question. - -But his persistence aroused in Mary a certain dim suspicion. - -"Yes," she said; "she was surprised to see me dressed. She did not know -I was going with you." The very force of her inner resentment--a hating -resentment, as she felt with terror--made her grasp at an at least -outward loyalty. But hardly had she spoken the words when the suspicion, -definite, tingling with probability, leaped upon her. She looked quickly -at Perior. He was white to the lips. This revelation fairly silenced -him. He put his horse to the trot, and the dog-cart, hastening its pace, -kept beside him. - -Mary could hardly have spoken. Her mind was in a whirl of broken, -distracted thoughts, that only grew to coherence when the wave-like -conviction of Camelia's mean robbery broke over her. - -Perior's scorning rage meanwhile hurried forward to wreak itself on -Camelia; he was conscious only of its scorching. - -They reached the park gates in silence; then Mary was able to say, "Are -you coming in?" - -"Yes, I will come in for a moment." - -"You--you won't say anything about--my silliness?" - -"My dear Mary, I must speak to Camelia; but you have accused her of -nothing, nor shall she think you have. I will come for you to-morrow," -he added as he helped her down from the dog-cart at the door; "we will -have our ride. Don't be persuaded out of it either. Let other people do -their own charities. It won't harm them." - -Lady Paton was in the hall, a cool, gentle embodiment of the evening. -"Mary brought you back?--You are going to dine, Michael?" she asked. - -"No; I only want to see Camelia for a moment." - -"I have just come from her. She is with Mr. Rodrigg, talking politics," -and Lady Paton's smile implied the softest pride in Camelia's prowess in -that pursuit. "She says you have had an old-time afternoon, reading -together. You must take up your reading again, Michael--for the time -that she is left to us." - -Mary, going slowly up the stairs, bent her head as she heard, "Yes: he -had stayed with Camelia all the afternoon." He did not care to ride with -her--no, for all his kindness, the pleasure of the rides was poisoned -forever. That was the thought that, at the sight of him, had cut her to -the quick, bringing the tears to her eyes. More than Camelia's lie, -Camelia's cruelty in dealing her that humiliation, burned. When she -thought of it the blackness of her own heart terrified her. She felt -that she hated Camelia, and when she reached her room, she bolted the -door and fell on her bed in an agony of weeping. - -Camelia perhaps counted a little too confidently upon Mary's "adoration" -for her. To Mary, Camelia had always seemed the bright personification -of beauty, cleverness, joy. She had wondered at her, rather than admired -her. Her attitude of mind had been as that of a child staring at the -unattainable moon, shining silvery-gold, and sailing far above in a wide -clear sky. - -She had seldom been conscious in the past of any slight or injury. Her -most constant feeling was one of quiet duty. Camelia's little kindnesses -surprised her; her unkindnesses she took as a matter of course. But now, -in this dreadful clash of ill-matched interests, her life against -Camelia's game, all the sense of duty, of gratitude, of admiration, -went down in black shipwreck. She found that they had been flimsy -things, after all, that under their peaceful surface there had been for -many weeks a lava-like heaving of resentment. And the worst terror was -to see her life bereft of all supports--to see it unblessed, all hatred -and despair. For even at the moment she could judge herself, measure how -much she had lost in losing her blind humility--that at least gave calm -and a certain self-respect--could accuse herself of injustice. Camelia -had lied; but then Camelia could never have divined the rash folly of -Mary's secret--must never divine it; and the cruel humiliation of that -one blighting intimation of Perior's charity hurt more than the lie; and -Camelia's ignorance of the hurt she had inflicted only made it ache the -more. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -Meanwhile Perior marched off to the garden. He passed through the -morning-room where Mrs. Fox-Darriel was writing. - -"So you didn't get your ride either?" said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, who had her -own reasons--and not at all complex ones--for disliking Mr. Perior. "It -_was_ rather hot." - -Perior in his indifference did not even divine the suspicion that saw in -his arrival, and Camelia's defection and amusing headache, a -portentousness threatening to the object she had set her heart upon. - -Perior replied shortly, and it was with very little love that she -watched him walk over the lawn. Camelia really was a fool, and who knew -how far her folly might not go. - -Camelia was still under the copper-beech, and still talking to Mr. -Rodrigg. Perior perforce acknowledged her innocence of flirtatious -methods. Her earnest pose--elbows on the arm of her chair, hands -clasped, head gravely intent--denoted the seriousness with which she -took her role. - -Mr. Rodrigg's smile might have warned her. He balanced a teaspoon neatly -on his cup, and looked from it to her, vastly unimpressed as to the real -purport of the conversation. - -Perior's mood was too miserable, too savage, to allow him more than a -mere dart of cynical amusement at her folly. Camelia turned her head, -surprised at seeing him. Smiling a complacent little smile she patted -the chair beside her. - -"So you came back after all." - -"Yes." The nipped monosyllable, like a sudden _douche_ of icy water, -told her that since he had left her their relations had changed, and -changed very much for the worse. Her conjectures sprang immediately to -Mary. Bother Mary! what had she said? But at the thought of what she -might have said Camelia knew that her heart was shaking. Her look, on a -first impulse, would have been entreating, but in the presence of a -third person it grew cold in answer to his, and she turned again to Mr. -Rodrigg. - -"Go, on, please; I want your answer. I have still that one fallacy to -demolish, you know." - -Mr. Rodrigg observed Perior affably; he was a really important opponent. -"Miss Paton wishes, I believe, to institute a sort of eighteenth century -role for women in politics," he said, "the role that obtained in France -during that ominous century. She expects to rule England through her -_causeries_." - -"Indeed, I fancy that England would be very prettily ruled!" said -Camelia, laughing. - -Perior switched the dust on his boots and made no reply. - -"You have been reading, I hear," Mr. Rodrigg continued, seizing -gratefully the chance of escaping from the bill, "a very interesting -number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. I looked at it a day or two -since: the serial romance is quite a new departure in style. There is -certainly new leaven working in French literature. The revolt from -naturalism is very significant, very interesting, though some of the -extremes of opposition, such as symbolism, tend to become as unhealthy." - -"Symbolism, mysticism, in the modern naturalistic French writer, is -merely the final form of decadence," Camelia observed with some -sententiousness, feeling Perior's silent presence as an impulsion -towards artificiality in tone and manner, "the irridescent stage of -decay--pardon me for being nasty--but they are so nasty! I have had -quite enough of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_--so to business, Mr. -Rodrigg." But though Camelia was quite willing to ignore the new-comer, -Mr. Rodrigg insisted on dragging him into the running, until at last, -perceiving a most unencouraging unwillingness, he rose and left him to -the _tete-a-tete_ for which he had evidently returned, going off to the -house very good-humoredly. Perior's position was altogether unique, and -not one of Camelia's lovers gave his intimacy a thought. - -As Mr. Rodrigg's wide back disappeared through the morning-room windows -Camelia turned her head to Perior. - -"Well," she said, leaning back in her chair and putting her finger-tips -together with a pleasantly judicial air, "what have you to say? You look -very glum." - -"I met Mary, Camelia." - -"Ah! Did she have a good afternoon?" - -"No; I fancy it was as dull to her as it would have been to you." - -"Impossible. Mary loves such things; besides, I do not find them dull." - -Perior looked at her. - -"What a liar you are," he said. If hate and scorn could wither, Camelia -felt they would then have withered her; she quite recognized them in his -tone. - -But she was able to say with apparent calm--not crediting the endurance -of those unkind sentiments towards her, "indeed; you have called me that -before." - -"Will you deny," said Perior, looking at her with his most icy -steadiness--Camelia keeping her eyes on his, and feeling that for the -moment the best thing she could do was to hold firmly to their calm and -luminous directness of expression--"will you deny that you went up to -ask Mary to take your place? that you found her ready to go with me? -that you pretended not to know that I had come for her?--she let that -out in excusing you from my disgust!--didn't suspect you!--that to me -you pretended she had gone to Mrs. Grier's of her own accord?" - -The withering had begun to operate. Camelia felt his outward and her -inner press of feeling vanquishing the mild inquiry of her look. She -dropped her eyes. "Will you tell me why you take the trouble to debase -yourself--for such a trifle?" - -Camelia gazed at the grass. She had cried when he accused her unjustly; -but now that her own hurrying, searching thoughts could find no -loop-hole for denial she felt no wish to cry. She was not touched, but -silenced, quelled. The enormity of her misdeeds made her thoughtful, now -that they were put so plainly before her. She felt herself contemplating -the sum of lies with an almost impersonal curiosity. - -"Camelia!" The odd pitch of his voice, sharp with a sudden, -uncontrollable emotion, made her look up. - -He rose, paused, looking back at her. "You are breaking my heart," he -said. He had not intended to say it, nor known the truth that now came -imperatively to his lips. How she had hurt him, after all! He felt that -he was almost appealing to her, that indignation, scorn, hatred of her -baseness, were as nothing compared with that appeal--not to hurt him; -and he grew very white. An answering pang shot through Camelia's -heart--whether pain, pity, or triumph she could not have told; but she -said quickly, her eyes rounded in unfamiliar solemnity, still on his-- - -"Breaking your heart?" - -"I care for you," said Perior; "I only ask for a mere cranny, where a -friendly tenderness might find foothold--one ray of sincerity, of -honor--to make me feel that my fondness for you is not a--a -contemptible, a weakening folly. It's as if you dashed me down on the -rocks--just as I fancy I've found something to hold on by!" he spoke -brokenly, clutching and unclutching his hands on his riding cane. "And I -have to watch you dragging yourself through the dustiest meannesses; -would I care if it was another woman!--no--let her be contemptible, -ugly, puny, I could give it a laugh--one can only laugh; but you! to be -fond of you! to watch you growing more and more greedy, soulless; a -liar, a flatterer! Oh, it makes me sick!" - -Camelia had again lowered her eyelids, but her eyes stared, startled at -the grass. A creeping coldness went through the roots of her hair; she -knew that her face was pale. For quite a long time there was perfect -silence. - -"To rob that poor child of her little pleasure," Perior said at last, -"to lie to her--to me; and for what? What use had you for me? Were you -so anxious to read me the _Revue des Deux Mondes_? _Why_ did you lie?" - -"I don't know," said Camelia feebly. - -"_You don't know?_" he repeated. - -"No--I thought Mary would not mind. I thought she would like to go." - -"And you left me intending to ask her?" - -"Yes." - -"Telling me you were going to hurry her?" - -"Yes." - -"Pretending to her that you did not know I had come for her?" - -"Yes." There was an impulse struggling in Camelia's heart--frightening -her--but worse than fright, the thought of not freeing it. "One ray of -sincerity." Mary had been noble enough not to tell him--she must be -noble enough to tell. - -"More than that--" she added, feeling her very breath leave her. - -"More!" - -"Yes; I let Mary think you would rather stay with me;--that you didn't -care to ride with her----" - -"_Camelia!_" They were in full view of the house, but his hand fell -heavily upon her shoulder; and so he stood for a long moment, too much -stupefied by the confession to find another word. - -But Camelia took a long breath of recovery; sighed with it, and felt the -blood come back gratefully to her heart. - -"But why?--why?--why?" Perior said at last, in a voice from which anger -seemed to have ebbed despairingly away, leaving only an immense and -wondering sadness, "_Why_, Camelia?" - -A faint, appealing little sparkle lit her face as she glanced up at him; -that weight gone, all the buoyancy of her nature rose, ready to win -smiles and rewarding looks of caressing encouragement. - -"I wanted to read you the _Revue des Deux Mondes_." - -He stared at her, baffled and miserable. - -"And though I was a viper--it was true, wasn't it? You _would_ rather -stay with me." - -"Yes, no doubt I would," said Perior with a gloom half dazed. - -"And you see I did want you so much! Mary could not have wanted you -nearly so much! Why, I gave up my ride to stay with you! I had no -headache!" she announced the fact quite joyously; "I simply thought -suddenly how nice it would be to spend the afternoon with you--like old -days--when we were young together! I really thought Mary would prefer -Mrs. Grier--really I did! And once embarked on a fib--for I did not want -her to think that I cared so much to have you--I had to go on--they all -came one after the other," said Camelia, dismally now, "and even when I -saw how disappointed she was I hardened my heart in its selfishness--a -perfect devil, of course; yes, I see quite well that I was a devil. So -there is the truth for you. Really the truth. More than _one ray of -sincerity_, is it not? And I need not have told you, since good old Mary -was such a trump. There! I have lain down under your feet--and you may -scrub your boots on me if you want to!" - -"Alas, Camelia!" said Perior. He sat down again. Her confession had -indeed forced upon him a certain resignation. For some moments he did -not speak. "I believe I am the only person in the world to whom you -would humble yourself like this," he said at last. "I am a convenient -father-confessor for you. You find yourself more comfortable after -dumping your load of sins on me. It's a corner in your psychology I've -never quite understood--another little twist of egotism my mind is too -blunt to penetrate. I am not worth while deceiving--is that it?" and as -her eyes rested on his in mute, but unmistakable pain, he added, the -note of resignation deepened, "You do not repent, that is evident. You -confess; but it is very much as if I particularly hated dirty -finger-nails, and to please my fastidiousness you washed yours." - -"I might have hidden them," Camelia murmured, glancing down at the -translucent pink and white of those _objets d'art_. - -"Yes, you might; that is your advantage. The speck of dirt worried you, -knowing my taste. The matter to you is just about on that level of -seriousness. You are not sorry for Mary; you are merely preening -yourself for me. It is that; your heartlessness, your selfishness, your -hard indifference to other people's feelings that makes me despair of -you. For I do despair of you." - -"Am I so heartless, so selfish, so hard?" - -"I am afraid you are." - -"And it breaks your heart?" - -Perior laughed shortly. - -"Ah; you find compensation in that! I shall survive, Camelia. I have -managed to survive a great many disagreeable experiences." - -"And I am one. Don't you feel a little more kindly towards me? Are you -not a little flattered by the realization that my misdeeds arose -entirely from my affection for you?" Camelia smiled sadly, adding, "It's -quite true." - -"You want to monopolize me, as you monopolize everything, Camelia. If -there was a cat that did not devote itself exclusively to you, you would -woo the cat. In this case I am the cat." - -"Dear cat!" she stretched out her hand and put it on his arm. "May I -stroke you, cat?" - -"No, thanks. You shall not enthral me." He rose as he spoke. "Good-bye." - -"Good-bye? Will you not stay to dine?" - -"No; I am in no dining humor." - -"Haven't you forgiven me--absolved me--one little bit?" - -"Not one little bit, Camelia." - -His farewell look she felt to be steeled against her in its -resoluteness, though weak in its long dwelling. She knew that when he -was gone the resoluteness would remain with him; the weakness would -leave him with his departure from her presence. She enthralled him by -the mere fact of being before him, baffling and exquisite; therefore he -was leaving her. There was an air of finality in his very way of turning -from her in silence. She watched him walk away over the lawn, and sat on -in the dusk. She was a little dazed, and an evening dreaminess veiled -from her the poignancy of her own fear. She evaded it, too, by the -thought: he cares so much, so much. Then, too, what difference did it -make? She could always wrap herself, in case of a shivering emergency, -in that cloak of carelessness; but the fact of his caring so very much -kept her now from shivering. When she went into the house at last she -found Mrs. Fox-Darriel still alone in the morning-room. - -"My dear Camelia," she said, looking round at her young friend, "when -next you submit to being shaken by Mr. Perior, I really would choose a -more secluded spot. The whole house might have been staring at you; and -I can assure you that the spectacle you offered was highly ludicrous. A -rabbit in an eagle's claws." - -"And, really, if I choose to be whipped up and down the drive by Mr. -Perior, I shall do it, Frances, notwithstanding your disapproval." -Camelia was in no temper for smarting advice. - -"The man is insufferable," said Mrs. Fox-Darriel, "_il porte sa tete -comme un saint sacrement_; provincial apostolics. Your flattering wish -to please him is not at all in character." - -"Your knowledge of my character, Frances, is very restricted," Camelia -replied, walking away to her room. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Camelia during the next few days was conscious of an expectant pause. -There was a page to be turned. She kept her own hand from it; for a day -or two, at least, she would not stir a finger; and if Perior chose to -turn it, the turning bound her to nothing--would probably reveal mere -blankness, whereon he might inscribe an affectionate dedication for her -new life. In that case the new chapter would be hymeneal; indeed, it -seemed inevitable that she should marry Arthur Henge; the waiting volume -seemed inevitably that of her married life. - -But her thoughts were not with Arthur. They fixed themselves -persistently on Perior. Let him come--write the friendly dedication, -certify, by his blessing, to the sincerity and wisdom of her choice; or -else, was it not possible that he might dash the volume out of her -hands? No doubt she would pick it up again. Still, to see him dash it -down would be eventful. Therefore, she waited, more breathlessly than -she quite realized. - -The last act of the drama had left her with no spite at all against -Mary--its chief but insignificant factor. She was not resentful on the -score of Mary's revelations; on the other hand, Mary's charitable -reticence did not move her to gratitude. After all, it was a very -explicable reticence; her own confession to Perior had lent it the -kindest glamour. For Mary to have told Perior all would have been a -humiliating plea for his negative; and the negative he could not have -given with sincerity. Mary had felt that. No; Camelia's analysis -disowned any obligation; but neither was she conscious of the least -anger. A mean revengefulness was not in her nature, she was as easy -towards Mary as towards herself; she quite saw that to Mary she must -have seemed horrid, and that perfectly atoned for the whines in which -poor Mary had probably indulged. She was sure the whines had not been -spiteful. She could imagine Mary injured, but not at all spiteful; and -on their first meeting after the portentous dressing-room scene, her -eyes rested in blankest serenity upon her cousin's flushed and miserable -face. - -She felt serenity and blankness to be tactful kindnesses, and they were -very easy. The thought of Mary hardly stirred her deep, still absorption -in the purely dual problem, for, after Mary's ride--and Camelia missed -him then--Perior did not come again. - -The trial of strength in silence, they the two opponents facing one -another for the test, filled her days with an excited sense of contest. -It was not made more complex by outer jars. Mr. Rodrigg was unavoidably -called away for a fortnight, and Sir Arthur might still be evaded, -though Lady Henge's brow had grown gloomy. Camelia rather enjoyed the -grave inquiry in the looks bent upon her by her future mamma (oh yes, -almost without doubt, future mamma); but she did not intend to brighten -them by the announcement of that fact until her own good time. Lady -Henge's gloom and Arthur's patience touched only the outer rings of her -consciousness. For Perior did not come. At the end of the first week her -patience was out-worn; the detachment of mere contemplation became -impossible. She essayed a flag of truce. Let it be peace, or, at all -events, more close, more keenly realized warfare. - -"Are you never coming to see me again?" she wrote. "Please do; I will be -good." - -Perior laughed over the document. It was merely the case of the cat -again dignified by its persistent absence. His reply was even more -laconic. "Can't come. Try to be good without me." The priggishness of -this pleased him, and would probably amuse her. He did not want to hurt -her. Neither did he intend that she should hurt him. She probably -guessed that. - -The note gave her a mingled thrill, anger and pleasure. That he should -not come showed more than the priggish intent to punish; that pedagogic -mask did not hide his fear; and that he should fear meant much. He -wanted to punish her, yes; and that he could succeed was very -intolerable; but that was his only strength, held to amidst a weakness -he would give her no chance to exploit. His cowardice was complimentary, -but since she was helpless against it Camelia was angry with her cat. -Strength, after all, is largely a matter of situation, and to stand in -the street vainly cajoling one's pet on the house-top gives one all the -emotions of acknowledged inferiority. To turn her back and walk away -was the natural impulse of Camelia's exasperated helplessness; she hoped -that the cat would watch her, and feel badly as she turned the corner, -for she determined to delay no longer decisions of far more importance, -as she assured herself, than the ridiculous dwelling on such a trifling -matter as a recalcitrant cat. The acceptance of Arthur Henge could be no -longer evaded after this fortnight of evasions, each turn and twist -leading her more inevitably to the centre of the labyrinth. Sir Arthur -could hardly have a doubt of the final answer, though its postponement -and her son's attitude of smiling patience might bring the gloom to Lady -Henge's forehead. - -"I do not like to see you played with, Arthur," she confessed; and her -look said as much to Camelia, who, in her absolute security, only -frolicked the more in her leafy circles. - -"I enjoy it, mother," Sir Arthur assured her, "it's a pretty game; she -enjoys it and so do I. She is cutting up a surprise cake, and I am sure -of her giving me the slice with the ring in it." - -"A rather undignified game, Arthur," said Lady Henge in a deep tone of -aggrievement, and Sir Arthur was sorry that Camelia, for the moment, had -effaced that first good impression; but he would not see that he was -aggrieved. He knew that he sat in the heart of the dear labyrinth, and -Camelia's peeps at him through the hedges, her slow advances and swift -retreats, were all charming, and not too bewildering when one was -trained to them. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel, however, was both aggrieved and impatient. Her long -visit bored her badly, and Camelia's smiling impenetrability irritated -her. Her impatience almost descended to grossness. - -"What a hostess you will make, Camelia, at Laversley Castle. I see you -on that background of Grinling Gibbons and Titian. To be almost the -richest, probably the cleverest, certainly the prettiest woman in -England. What a future! An unending golden vista--widening. And for a -base of operations, Laversley. Such tapestries, my dear, such -porcelains, such a library and park. All in the hollow of your hand." - -Camelia stretched it out. "Yes," she said, surveying its capabilities, -"I have only to close it." - -"You will close it, of course." - -"No doubt," said Camelia blandly, a blandness that snubbed and did not -satisfy her friend's grossness. - -But under the blandness something struggled. Must she close the hand? -Would no power outside her hold open and unstained by greed that pretty -palm? The absurdity of the accusation gave her the melancholy comfort of -an only half reassuring smile. Sir Arthur's excellence, not his -millions, had turned the scale; yet the accusation, for all its folly, -cut. And Perior did not come. He too joined forces with fate, made the -closing of the hand inevitable. She defied him with the sustaining -thought, "Sir Arthur is best, best in all. I close my hand on his heart -because no better heart could be offered me." - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -A week had passed since Perior had received the first pleading note from -Enthorpe, and one afternoon, when he was busy in his laboratory, another -arrived, more a command than a supplication. - -"Come at once. I must see you. I am very unhappy." - -Camelia indeed was very unhappy. She could hardly recognize or define -the unusualness of the unfamiliar sensation, and her ignorance helped to -hurt her, make her more bewildered under it. She had accepted Sir Arthur -that morning, hurried by no impulse, but conscious as she walked with -him in the garden of an ill-tempered recklessness, of a fate more easily -accepted than evaded uselessly. If he would have it--if every one would -have it, including herself, of course, let it be so. She said yes with -almost a sigh of exhausted energy, smiled with lifted brows over Sir -Arthur's ensuing rapture, and then wondered that under the lightness -with which she braved the decisive moment a sudden sickness of fear, of -sorrow, should seize her. Reality this, then. No more choice. No more -playing. The game ended. She was not being led into the Garden of Eden, -but out of it, and a new world, a world bleak, leaden, a sunless -immensity of dreariness stretched before her. She was frightened, and -the lesser feelings of the next hour were dazed by her effort to dismiss -this fear. She knew that her mother's tearful, speechless joy, Lady -Henge's elevated approbation, Mary's gasping efforts after fitting -phrases, Frances' cool, close-lipped little smile of satisfaction, and -the background of congratulatory faces were all very irritating, and -that she herself was unreasonably angry with them all. - -She was glad to find herself alone in the library with Sir Arthur, even -though strangely helpless before his joyous possessorship. His arm was -about her, and she could hear Lady Henge thundering on the piano in the -drawing-room. - -"The dear mater is improvising an epithalamium," said Arthur, with a -laugh. To Camelia it seemed cynically in keeping with her jarred and -jangled mood that her marriage should be interpreted by this pretentious -music. It symbolized so much. Her own flimsiness and falseness, the -immense distance from anything like perfect union. She turned her -thought to the attainable pleasures of the future, tried to shut her -soul on the lamenting ideal that Lady Henge's music mocked, and her mind -rested for a moment on the reassuring certainty of her own appreciation -of Sir Arthur's excellence. Strangely enough, though his possessorship -frightened, his arm about her waist consoled her; a warm sense of his -kindness and stability held her from inner terrors; she was glad to have -him there; she foresaw in solitude an on-coming and chilly stupor. She -felt it well to sit beside him, protected from her own fear by his -devoted nearness. "There now, you are smiling," said Sir Arthur; "you -seemed sad, as though you were conscious of responsibility--and didn't -like it." When he spoke of responsibility Camelia felt more keenly that -she had received an injury from fate. The "Yes" that had been spoken -only a few hours before had belonged to the game, was it quite fair that -this solemnity should result? Yet why not take it gaily? Force it into a -dancing ring of happy lightness? - -"Responsibility? Oh no, you can't saddle me with that!" she said, -returning his look, and smiling still more easily as she felt how much -his handsome face pleased her; its very expression, an unaccented, -humorous gaiety, worn for her sake, was a homage, a warrant of most -chivalrous comprehension. "You alone are responsible"--and following her -mental picture of the game of hide-and-seek in a Watteau landscape--"You -caught me--that was all!" - -"That was all!" he repeated; "and you were difficult to catch. Now that -you are caught I shall keep you." - -"No, I am not sad," Camelia pursued, "I only feel as if I had grown up -suddenly." - -"No, don't grow up. I must keep you always my laughing child." - -"Lady Henge wouldn't approve of that!" said Camelia, yielding to a -closer enfolding, but facilitating it by no gracious droopings. - -"Ah, mother loves you," said Sir Arthur, with a touch of added pride in -his capture. - -"Does she?" Camelia's brows lifted a little; the enfolding continuing -she was conscious enough of a dart of irritation to wish to add, "I -don't love her!" but after a kiss he released her and she checked the -naughty impulse, merely adding, with some perversity, keeping him now at -arm's length though she abandoned her hand for the purpose, "Would you -have dared to love me had she not?" - -"Camelia, you know that I did." The perversity had grieved him a little. -His clear brown eyes, that always reminded her of a dog's in their -widely opened sincerity, dwelt on her, questioning her intention. "She -did not know you, that was all." - -"Nor did you, quite." Camelia laughed at him gently, and put her hand on -his shoulder, half as a reward for the pang, half to still keep him -away. - -"No, not quite," Sir Arthur confessed, "though even my ignorance loved -you. But you let me know you at last." - -"But what _do_ you know?" Camelia persisted. - -"I know my laughing child." - -"Her faults the faults of a child?" - -"Has she faults?" - -"Oh, blinded man!" - -"The faults of a child, then," he assented. - -When he had left her, for he was to spend the day in London, there was a -lull after the stress of change. Camelia found herself in a solitude -wherein she might sit and meditate. Every one seemed to fall away from -her, and when she was left alone she was sorry for it, though it was she -who had withdrawn, not they. Lady Henge had talked to her for -half-an-hour, her arm affectionately, but heavily lying about her -shoulders, seeming in the massive embrace to claim her with a kindness -that knew itself as wiser than mere maternal emotionalism. The low -tones of her voice were impressive, and Camelia would have submitted to -the newly assumed manner of guardianship, of confidential admonition, -with a very ill grace, had not Lady Henge been now so truly indifferent -to her. - -Mary had been very tiresome, following her at a distance, wanting to -kiss her and cry. Mrs. Fox-Darriel's silent complacency was unendurable. -Camelia knew that in the new epoch her friend saw only a tightly-closed -fist, and this symbol affected her own imagination until she could have -shaken Mrs. Fox-Darriel for having suggested it. - -Then her mother had fallen upon her breast and wept. Camelia was ashamed -of herself for seeing in the great lovingness a Scriptural exaggeration; -and being ashamed of herself she was only the more anxious to get rid of -the maternal clinging. She ended by locking herself in her own room, -only to find that she had locked herself in with a melancholy that had -been stepping silently beside her since the morning. She would not look -this companion in the face, however. She was alone with it at last; but -she feverishly avoided its fixed eyes, and eagerly busied herself with -trivialities, a dramatic sense of courage animating all her actions. She -emptied and rearranged her wardrobes and boxes, folded ribbons with -intensest exactitude, introduced a new plan in the bestowal of her -gloves and handkerchiefs, and even found herself unpicking a summer hat -with a fictitious eagerness that implied an imperative want of that -particular hat in a new trimming. When the hat was quite demolished she -put it away, and polished her finger-nails, and, lastly, spent a -fatiguing half-hour before the looking-glass in essays at new ways of -hair-dressing. None were satisfactory, and with arms aching from their -long uplifting, she at last swept the shining tresses into their -accustomed lines, unlocked the door, and emerged deliberately, but with -a sense of flight. - -Every one had gone. The guests to golf at the Havershams; Mary, Lady -Paton, and Lady Henge for a long drive. They had all respected the -sensitive requirements of her new position. She was to be left alone, -and as Camelia walked from room to room, the big house was desolate. - -She nourished a sense of resentment, of injury, for it seemed to thrust -away the chilly stupor of fear, fear of that new presence walking with -her, waiting for her recognition. The loneliness, the melancholy, to -which she could only feign blindness, were almost unendurable. The tears -rose to her eyes more than once, and her thoughts circled nearer and -nearer to Perior's great unkindness. It was when the melancholy seemed -suddenly to lay an imperative hand upon her that she flew to the -writing-table and wrote the note. She looked at the clock as she heard -the groom departing on horseback. Perior might easily arrive at six, and -at the thought her spirits rose with a great soaring bound, and laughed -down at the cold enemy. When he arrived she would see what would happen. -She reined back her imagination from any plan. - -According to his manner, she would tell immediately, or delay telling -until a favorable moment. Perhaps when he knew he would say that his -heart was completely broken, but the thought of his unhappiness only -seemed to send her spirits into a higher ecstasy of joyousness. She felt -them bubble-like, floating in illusion, but the relief of the unthinking -hour--she seemed to live in it only, to breathe only its -expectancy--buoyed her above the clouds. In the long drawing-room, where -the firelight made the autumnal landscape outside, its distant hills -purpling with chilly evening, a mere picture, framed for the contrast in -her rosy mood, she danced, trying over new steps. She had always loved -her dancing, loved to feel herself so lovely, her loveliness set to such -musical motion, the words of the song. She hummed the sad, dead beauty -of a pavane, pacing it with stately pleasure; the gracious pathos of an -old gavotte; and, feeling herself a brook, her steps slid into the -flowing ripple of the courante. Perior had always loved these exquisite -old dances. She would dance for him, of course. That thought had been -growing, and the gavotte, the courante, the pavane becoming rehearsals. -Yes, she would dance for him--at first. Flushed, panting a little from -the long preparation, she ran upstairs to put on a white dress, a new -one made for dancing, with sleeves looped over bare arms, flowing sash, -and skirt like a flower-bell. She lingered on each detail. She must be -beautiful for Alceste; dear Alceste, poor, poor Alceste; how unhappy he -would be--when he knew. And suppose he should not come. The thought went -through her like a dagger as she held a row of pearls against her -throat. Over them she looked with terror-stricken eyes at the whiteness -of her beauty--useless beauty? Ah, she could not believe it, and she -clasped the pearls on a breast that heaved with the great sigh of her -negation. She could not believe it. He must come. And when she reentered -the drawing-room the sound of a horse's hoofs outside set the time to -the full throb of an ecstasied affirmation. - -A delicious flood of contentment went through her. She stood smiling in -the dark yet luminous room, where only the firelight shone along the -polished oak of floor and wainscoting, half unconsciously emphasizing -her sense of the moment's drama by pressing her hands on her heart. Of -course he had come. How could he not come if she really wanted him? Dear -Alceste. In a moment he had entered. The firelight, as she stood before -him, seemed to shine through her pearly glimmering. She looked -sprite-like, a transparent fairy. Her dress, her attitude, her eyes, the -hovering expectancy. Perior, too, was immediately conscious of drama, -and felt as immediately an impulse to flight; but he came forward, a -quick look of calm arming his sturdy opposition to the atmosphere of -exaggerated meanings. - -"Well, here I am," he said, in a manner intended by its commonplace to -rebuff the significance, whatever it might be, of eyes, dress, and -attitude. Camelia took his hand, joyously entering once more into the -dear, enchanted fairy-land--the old sense of a game, only a more -delightful, a more exciting game than ever. She could almost have -whirled him into the circle--a mad dancing whirl round and round the -room. How astonished he would have been! Solemn, staid old Alceste! - -"Yes, here you are. At last," she said. "How shamefully you have -punished me this time!" - -She laughed, but Perior sighed. - -"I haven't been punishing you," he said, walking away to the fireplace. -Camelia followed him and watched him hold out his hand to the warmth. - -"Is it so cold?" she asked. - -"Very chilly; the wind catches one on that mile along the common. My -hands are half-numbed." Prettily, as she leaned in her illumined -whiteness beside him, she took his hands between her own and rubbed them -briskly. - -"You wrote that you were unhappy," said Perior, looking down at the -daintily imprisoned hands; "what is the matter?" - -"The telling will keep. I am happier now." - -"Did you get me here on false pretences?" He smiled as he now looked at -her, and the smile forgave her in advance. - -"No, no. I needed you very much; really I did. I am growing melancholy; -and I was all alone. I hate being alone." - -"There, that will do. They are quite warm now; thanks very much. Where -are the others?" - -"The others? They are away," said Camelia vaguely. - -"Rodrigg?" - -"He comes back to-night, I think." - -"And Henge?" Perior asked it with a little hesitation. Of late he had -wondered much about Arthur and Camelia. There was an effort in the -unconscious aloofness of his voice. - -"In London too." Camelia looked clearly at him. No, she would not tell -him now. The happy half-hour she must guard for them both. Her oblivion, -his ignorance, would make a fairy-land. Let him think even that she had -sent Arthur away finally. Arthur had no place in fairy-land. - -"All the others are out," she repeated, "golfing, calling, driving. But -are you not glad to see me, even if I seem happier than strict -consistency requires?" - -"Yes, I am glad to see you." Perior's eyes showed the half-yielding, -half-defiance of his perplexity. "But tell me, what is the matter? Don't -be so mysterious." - -"But tell me," she returned, stepping backward, her skirt held out for -displayal, "is not my dress pretty?" - -"Very pretty." Perior leaned back against the mantelpiece with an air of -resignation. "Very exquisite." - -"Shall I dance for you?" - -"By all means; since the dress was put on for that, I summoned for that. -Isn't it so?" - -She made no reply, her smile lingering as she turned from him, and -showing in its fixedness a certain gravity. He was satisfied that -conjecture as to her meaning, her plan in all this, only wearied him, -yet sorry that he had come. Under the weariness he was resentfully aware -of excitement. And what of Arthur? Camelia's whole manner subtly -suggested that Arthur no longer counted. The note might be explained as -an after-throb of doubt, or at least of dreariness, in a world -momentarily without big issues. If she had refused Arthur definitely? -The thought, as his eyes followed Camelia's exquisite steps and slides, -shook some careful balancing of self-control. He felt stripped of a -shield, unpleasantly exposed to a dangerous moment. Camelia was dancing -quite silently, yet the air, to Perior's musical brain, seemed full of -melody, and she the soundless embodiment of music made visible--so -lovely, so dear to him; so dear in spite of everything. She was like a -white flower, tilting, bending in the wind. She skimmed like a swallow, -ran with rippled steps like a brook, flitted with light, languid -balancings, a butterfly hovering on extended wings. Her slender body, -like a fountain, rose and fell in a continuity of changing loveliness. -Her golden head shone in the dusk. - -Perior watched her, half-dreaming, half-dazzled. The long moments of -acute, delicious contemplation drifted by as peacefully, as stilly as -falling rose-petals, muffling all outer jars and murmurs, blurring the -past, the future, making the present enchanted. - -When she was far off his heart beat for her return, and when the -swaying, hovering whiteness came near he shrank from the nearness. The -unexpected sweeping turn that caught her away suddenly into the -half-visionary distance stabbed him through with a pang of relief and -disappointment. - -He was entranced, half-mesmerized, conscious only of his delight in her, -when her circling at last grew slower, the musical beat of the -recovering tilt faltered. She came on a sliding, wavering step, and sank -like the softest sigh before him, folded together in her wing-like -whiteness. - -"You enchanting creature," Perior murmured. He bent over her--he would -have lifted her--taking her hands, but Camelia herself rose between his -arms, and inevitably they closed about her. It was so natural, so -fitting in all its strangeness, that to Camelia the slow circling of the -dance seemed still to carry her round and round, unbroken by the crash -of a great revelation. She closed her eyes, hardly wondering at her -perfect happiness, and from the last revolving mists the reality dawned -sweetly upon her--the only reality. She had danced out of the game; it -lay far behind her. Through it she had blundered on a mistake, but her -mind put that swiftly aside. The mistake mattered nothing, the last act -merely of the game--a reckless, angered act. She thought now that the -game would hardly have been begun if only Perior had put his arms around -her, claimed and reclaimed her foolishness, long ago. Of course she -loved him. It needed but that to let her know. - -But to Perior the moment, after its irresistible impulse, was merely one -of shame and self-disgust. He held her, for she was enchanting, and she -had enchanted him. Disloyalty to his friend did not forbid that -satisfaction. That she meant to marry Arthur was now impossible. She had -tossed him aside, dissatisfied; he could not pity Arthur for his escape, -nor credit Camelia with disinterestedness. She was bored, disappointed, -reckless in a wish for excitement. He analyzed her present mood -brutally--the mood of a vain child, made audacious by childhood -intimacy, her appetite for conquest whetted by his apparent -indifference; he had not known that she would pay such a price for -conquest. It was an ugly revelation of Camelia, but the revelation of -himself was uglier. He at least pretended to self-respect. The folly of -her coquetry hardly surprised him; his own yielding to it did; yet in -the very midst of his self-disgust he fulfilled it to the uttermost by -stooping his head to her upturned face, blind to its intrinsic -innocence, and kissing her lips. As he kissed her he knew that for angry -weeks and months he had longed to kiss her, the unrecognized longing -wrestling with his pride, with his finer fondness for her--the firm, -grave fondness of years, with even his loyalty to Henge. That barrier -gone, the longing rushed over the others. Among the wrecks his -humiliation overwhelmed him:--a girl he loved, but a girl he would not -woo, had wooing been of avail!--in it he was able to be generous. - -The moment had not been long. He released her. Feeling most ungentle, he -yet put her away gently by the whole thrust of his arm. Leaning on the -mantel-shelf, his face averted from hers, he said: "Too enchanting, -Camelia. I have forgotten myself," and he added, "Forgive me." - -"But _I_ did it!" Camelia's tone was one of most dauntless joyousness. -She was necessarily as sure of his love as of her own, surer of its -long-enduring priority. But his love feared--that was natural: dared not -hope for hers--too natural. She could not bear to have him put her away -in even a momentary doubt of her sincerity. Clasping both arms about his -neck she said quite childishly, in her great unconsciousness of his -thoughts about her-- - -"Why would you never say you were fond of me? Why would you never say -you loved me? Say it now--say that you love me." - -His bewilderment at her audacity stung him to anger, and in -self-defence, for her sake too as well as for his own, almost to -brutality. "Ah, I love you enough to kiss you, Camelia," he said; "you -are only fit for that. There," he unlocked the clasping arms, "go away." -The unmistakable sternness of his face struck her with pained -perplexity. He would not meet her eyes; he turned from her, looking -wretched. A flashing thought revealed the possibility of tempted -loyalty. Did he think her bound? Divine the engagement? He could not -have heard of it already. She saw, her heart throbbing at the -half-truth, half-falseness of the unbecoming vision, how she must appear -to him in that distorting illumination. Free in her own eyes, she -hesitated on a lie that would release him from his doubts. But as she -stood looking at him, smiling, a little sternly too, at the test, the -door burst open with unpleasant suddenness, and Mr. Rodrigg, bull-like -in his vehemence, charged into the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -Camelia felt, in the glaring pause Mr. Rodrigg made before Perior's -baffling presence, that she herself was the red scarf he sought. Her -mind, alert in self-defence, even in this stress of joy and terror, -divined some unknown danger. Mr. Rodrigg had faded into complete -insignificance, put away with the other toys; she looked coldly at him, -as at a dusty jack-in-the-box, protruding its fatuousness in a grown-up -world. Yet she felt the necessity for self-command and quick -intelligence. Something ominous shone in Mr. Rodrigg's eye. The lid must -be pressed down firmly, fastened securely; she was sure of her complete -control over the silly plaything, but an extinguishing dexterity might -be requisite. - -"Well, Mr. Rodrigg," she said; and her tone fully implied the -undesirability of his presence. - -"Can I see you alone, Miss Paton?" - -Mr. Rodrigg's voice was offensively strident. Camelia looked at Perior, -who, from under lowering brows, bent ungracious eyes on Mr. Rodrigg's -flushed insistency. - -"No, I don't think you can--at present." She did not want to vex Mr. -Rodrigg--she spoke not unkindly; but Mr. Rodrigg was dense, coarsely -dense, or else coarsely angry. Angry with her; Camelia had time by now -to wonder at that, and to feel less amicable with the greater need for -feigning amiability. - -He closed the door with decision. "Then I will speak before Mr. Perior. -As a family friend, Mr. Perior will not be amiss between us. He is a -witness of the whole affair. I appeal to Mr. Perior. Miss Paton, I have -just met Lady Henge. She tells me that you accepted her son this -morning." - -Camelia grew white. Though Perior spoke no word, his stillness equalling -hers, she felt a fixed stare turned upon her. Unforeseen catastrophe! -She had hoped to glide noiselessly from the cardboard stage, to pack up -and send away the useless, even though misused puppets; and now the -whole scenery, heavy too, fell crushingly upon her, pinning her in the -very centre of the stage. There she was held--the mimic properties were -stone-like--there she was held in the full glare of the footlights; and -he was staring at her. - -She drew herself together and clasped her hands behind her back. Her -little head, with the intent resoluteness of its look, had never been -more beautiful. Even Perior, in the frozen fury of his stupefaction, was -aware of that. The mute, white cameo on the dim, rosy background gazing -with not a tremor at its own perfidy, stamped itself ineffaceably on his -memory as a Medusa type of splendid, pernicious courage. For one brief -moment she wondered swiftly--and her thoughts flew like sharp flames--if -a round, clear lie would save her, save her in Perior's eyes, for she -saw herself as he saw her, was conscious only of him, and cared not a -button for Mr. Rodrigg, the ugly raven merely who had croaked out the -truth. The uselessness, the hopelessness of a lie, and too--in justice -to her struggling better self be it added--shame for its smirch between -her and him on the very threshold of true life--this hopelessness, this -shame nerved her to the perilous truth-telling. Better his scorn for the -moment, than a scorn delayed, but sure to find her out. Could she not -explain--confess--on his breast, with tears? She did not look at Perior. -Keeping fixed eyes on Mr. Rodrigg, an unpleasant but necessary medium -for the communication, "Yes, Mr. Rodrigg, I did," she said. - -Perior at her side gave a short laugh, a cruel laugh. The moment was -horrid; let it be hurried on, and Mr. Rodrigg, tool of the avenging -gods, hurried out. - -"Have you anything to say, Mr. Rodrigg?" she asked, conscious of hating -Mr. Rodrigg, and, even at that moment, of a shoot of emphasized -irritation with his nose, which caught the firelight bluntly. - -"May I ask you, Miss Paton, if during these past weeks, you have always -had that intention?" he inquired, speaking with some thickness of -utterance. - -"No, Mr. Rodrigg, you may not ask me that," she returned. - -The revelation of the man's hopes was no longer to be evaded; she drank -down the bitter draught perforce, her eyes on that squarely luminous -nose-tip. - -During the pause that followed Mr. Rodrigg's eyes travelled up and down -her with mingled scorn, wrath, and humiliation. - -"Allow me to congratulate you," he said at last, most venomously, "and -to take my leave of you, Miss Paton. I have not understood, I perceive, -the part I was supposed to play here." - -And Camelia was left alone with Perior. With an impression as of strong -boxings on the ears she could only cry out "Odious vulgarian!" She -tingled all over with a sense of insult. - -"I, too, will bid you good-evening, Camelia," said Perior. He could have -taken her by the throat, but in the necessary restraint of that desire -his glance, only, seized her as if it would throttle her. - -"No! no!" she caught his arm, all thought of Mr. Rodrigg and his slaps -burnt from her. "Listen to me--you don't understand! Wait! I can explain -everything! everything--so that you must forgive me!" - -"I do understand," said Perior, who stood still, scorning, as she felt, -to touch and cast her off. "You are engaged to Arthur. You are -disgraced--and I am disgraced." - -"Through me, then! You were ignorant! But wait--only listen--I am -engaged to him; but I love you--don't be too angry--for really I love -you--only you--Oh! you must believe me!" - -He retreated before her clasped imploring hands, she almost crying, -following, indifferent to the indignity of her protesting supplication. -"Indeed, I love you!" she reiterated, her chin quivering a little as the -cruelty of his withdrawal brought the tears to her eyes. - -Perior took the clasped hands by the wrists and held her off. "You love -me?--and you love him too?"--she shook her head helplessly. "No; you -have accepted him, not loving him, and you dared,"--the cruelty was now -physical, as his clench tightened on her wrists--"you _dared_ turn to -me, to debase me with yourself, you false, you miserable creature!" - -Under the double hurt she closed her eyes. "But why--but why did I -turn?" she almost sobbed. - -"You ask me why? Can I tell what folly, what vanity prompted you? Those -are mild words." - -"Oh!--how you hurt me!" she breathed; the feminine sensitiveness was a -refuge--a reproach. He released her wrists. "Because I love you," she -said, and standing still before him she looked at him through tears. -"You may be angry, despise me, but I only want to tell you everything. -You are so brutal. It was a mistake--I did not know--not till this evening. -I accepted him because you would not prevent me--because you didn't -come--nor seem to care, and--yes, because I was bad--ambitious--vain--like -other women--and I did like him--respect him. But now!"--the appealing -monotone, broken by little gasps, wailed up at the inflexibility of his -face--"it isn't folly, it isn't vanity--or why should I sacrifice -everything for you, as I do--Oh! as I do!" - -"Sacrifice everything for me? Go away!" - -"Oh!--how can you!" She broke into sobs--"how can you be so cruel to -me--when you love me!" - -"Love you!" - -"You cannot deny it! You know that you love me--dearest Alceste!"--her -arms encircled his neck. - -Perior plucked them off. "Love you?" he repeated, looking her in the -face. "By Heaven I don't!" - -And with the negative he cast her away and left her. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -But he did love her. That was the worst of it, as he told himself -through the night that followed. His love and his disgrace pursued him. -Disgraced, though cruel enough to clearly see her as the temptress, -disgraced by the weakness of his yielding to a moment of enchantment, -disgraced by having given her the right to reproach him--the woman he -loved, but the woman only fit to kiss. He was innocent of real -disloyalty, and her perfidy might well exonerate his ignorance; but even -Camelia's perfidy could not excuse that kiss. He met the morning jaded, -from torturing hours. When the first passion of his rage against her had -died away the thought of her astounding declaration, her reiterated -devotion, chilled him with the new fear of final yielding. Camelia, -imagining herself in love with him, became an ominously alluring figure. -She could claim him only through his weakness, but his dishonor gave her -power. He accepted the morbid accusation, scourged himself with it, and -the thought of her power urged him to escape. She was only fit to kiss, -that was the final verdict. To marry such a woman meant a permanent -disablement of all that was best in life. The kiss could not bind him to -that atonement. It was she, rather, who owed him an infinity of -reparation. He determined to treat himself to a trip through Italy, and, -alone with the beauty of the past, to shake his soul free from the -choking entanglement of the present. He felt sick, battered, bereft of -all security; and through everything throbbed the worst hurt of -all--that Camelia should have proved herself worthless so utterly. - -Early in the afternoon of a day spent in hurried preparations for -departure, he heard a horse's hoofs outside, and looking from the -library window he saw Arthur Henge dismounting. - -Perior felt the blood rush to his head. The first impulse of his thought -was to see in Arthur the righteously angered friend come to heap upon -him the shame of his discovered betrayal. He would of course bear the -responsibility as the chiefly false and traitorous. The woman would -shield herself; it was the right of her weakness, and his deep, -unreasonable loyalty to Camelia, a loyalty paternal in its force and -helplessness, accepted the vicarious position, rushed over and confused -every self-asserting instinct. It was with almost the illusion of guilt -that he stood upright, waiting. Then, this last straw he snatched at, -despising it, as he heard Arthur's step in the hall; was it possible -that he had discovered nothing?--possible that he had come to announce -his engagement?--possible that Camelia, in the bewilderment of her -rejection, had returned to a doubly false, a dastardly allegiance? The -irony of such a supposition did not make it by any means impossible. But -one look at Arthur's face dismissed the tragic-comic surmise. - -It was a face of stiffened gloom, a face difficult for the moment to -interpret. Camelia had told the truth, then. Told more than the truth? -Buttressed her falseness with his act of folly? - -Perior expected nothing less than this craven insincerity. To shield her -he must bare his breast for Arthur's shafts. Arthur might as well know -that he loved her, but Camelia should never know it, so Perior grimly -promised himself as he met his friend's look with some of the sternness -necessitated by his pitch of unpleasant resolution. - -But Henge's first words proved that Camelia, at all events, had not been -cowardly. - -"Perior--she has broken our engagement! She accepted me yesterday--and -to-day she has broken our engagement!" and the quick change of -expression on Perior's face moving him too much, he dropped into a -chair, and leaning his arms on the table, bowed his head upon his hands. - -Perior's first feeling was a crumbling sense of baseness. The lie -between him and his unfortunate friend scorched him, and his recognition -of Camelia's courage was swept away by the realization of her cruelty, -by the avenging consciousness that owing to her he feared to meet his -friend's eyes. - -He kept silent, studying the surrendered reticence of the bent head. - -"She accepted me yesterday, Perior." Henge repeated it helplessly. - -Perior put his hand on his shoulder. "My dear Henge," he said. - -Arthur looked up. "I don't know why I should come to you with it. I am -broken. I could cry like a baby. I love that child, Perior! You saw her -yesterday; yes, that is why I came. She accepted me yesterday, you know. -Did she say anything to you about it?--when you saw her? You see"--he -smiled miserably--"I want you to turn the knife in my wound." - -"I heard it," said Perior, feeling that a rigid adherence to perhaps -deceptive truth was all that was left to him. - -"But she gave you no reason to think that she had changed her mind?" - -"What has Camelia said to you, Arthur? One may interpret it -differently," said Perior, detesting himself. - -Sir Arthur's face resumed the blankness of its helpless wonder. - -"I got back this morning and she sent for me. I found her white, woeful, -resolute. She said, 'I made a mistake. I can't marry you. I am unworthy -of you.' That to me, Perior! to me! and only yesterday! Oh!--I could -have sworn she cared for me! I don't blame her; don't think it. It was -all pity--a fancied tenderness; the shock of realization showed her the -difference. She can't love me. She unworthy! The courage--the cruelty -even, were worthy; but she repeated that again and again." - -"Was that all she said?" Perior asked presently. - -"All? Oh no, that was only the beginning. I tortured her for an hour -with pleadings and protestations. With her it was mere repetition. She -did not love me; she felt it as soon as she had accepted me. She told me -that she sent for you--not for counsel, but to see if her misery was -not mere morbid fancy; she said that Rodrigg--the brute!--rushed in upon -her with implied accusations; to me she confessed--dearest -creature--that she had been foolishly hopeful, foolishly confident in -her eagerness for my cause. She heaped blame upon herself. She called -herself mean, and weak, and shallow--Ah! as if I did not understand the -added nobility! I have not one hard thought of her, not a touch of the -jilted lover's bitterness. It is my misfortune to see too well the -worthiness of the woman I have lost." - -"It is the best thing that could happen to you, Arthur." Perior, -standing silently beside his friend, absorbed in the contemplation of -this pitifully noble idealization, could now defy his own pain, shake -from himself the clogging sense of shame, and speak from the fulness of -his deep conviction. - -"You mean better than marrying an unloving woman," said Sir Arthur; but -he had flushed with the effort to misunderstand. Some lack in Perior's -feeling for Camelia he had always felt. He shrank now from confronting -it. - -"Yes, I mean that and more," Perior went on, feeling it good to -speak--good for him and good for Arthur--good to shape the hard truth in -hard words, yet with an inconsistency in his resolution, since he wished -Arthur to recognize her unworthiness, yet would have given his life to -keep from him the one supremely blasting instance which he and Camelia -alone knew. - -"She is not worthy of you. I hope that in saying it she felt its truth, -for truth it is." - -"Don't, Perior--" Sir Arthur had risen. "You pain me." - -"But you must listen, my dear boy--and it has pained me. I have been -fond of Camelia--I am fond of her, but I am never with her that she does -not pain me. She pains every one who is unlucky enough to care about -her; that is her destiny--and theirs." - -Sir Arthur's face through a dawning bewilderment now caught a flashing -supposition that whitened it, and kept him silent. - -"From the first, Arthur, I regretted your depth of feeling for her," -said Perior, after the slight involuntary pause with which he recognized -in his friend's face his own unconscious revelation. They now stood on -as truthful a ground as he could ever hope for. Arthur had guessed what -Camelia should never know. He could speak from a certain equality of -misfortune--for had not Camelia hurt them both? "In accepting you she -did you one wrong, she would have done you a greater had she married -you. She is not fit to be your wife. You wouldn't have held her up. Most -men don't mind ethical shortcomings in their wives--lying, and -meannesses, and the exploiting of other people--they forgive very ugly -faults in a pretty woman; but you would mind. It isn't as a pretty woman -that you love Camelia, nor even as a clever one, so you would -mind--badly. Don't look white; there is nothing gross, vulgar, in -Camelia's wrongness. As your wife she would have been faithful, useful, -kind, no doubt; there would be no stupidities to complain of. She is a -charming creature--don't I know it! But, Arthur, she is false, -voraciously selfish, hard as a stone." - -Sir Arthur had the look of a man who sees a nightmare, long forgotten as -darkest delusion, assuming before his eyes the shape and hue of reality; -he retreated before the obsession. "Don't, Perior--I cannot listen. I -love her. You are embittered--harsh. Your rigorous conscience is -distorting. You misjudge her." - -"No, no, Arthur. I judge her." - -"Ah!--not before me, then! I love her," Sir Arthur repeated. "Good-bye, -Perior. I came to say good-bye. We are going, you know." - -"Yes--So am I." - -Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt upon him for a compassionate, a magnanimous -moment. "You are? Ah! I understand." - -"More or less?" said Perior, with a spiritless smile. - -"Oh, more--more than you can say." - -Perior let him go on that supposition. Arthur understood that Camelia -had hurt him. That, after all, was sufficient; left his friend's mind -without rancor for his galling truth-telling. And, as Perior walked back -into the library, he heaved a long sigh of relief. The Rubicon was -crossed. In so speaking to Arthur he had fortified himself. The truth, -so spoken, was an eternal barrier between him and Camelia. The barrier -was a plain necessity; for Perior was conscious that a possible thrill -lurked for him in the contemplation of Camelia's last move. Its reckless -disregard of consequences proclaimed a sincerity to which he had done -injustice yesterday. She believed she loved him; she gave up all for his -subjection. Yes, the thrill required suppression. He must abide in the -firm reality of the words spoken to Arthur--"hard, false, voraciously -selfish;" yes, she might love him, but her love could be no more than a -perplexing combination of these ineradicable qualities. - -The short autumn day drew to a close. From the library window the -evening grayness dimmed the nearest group of larches, golden through all -their erect delicacy. The sad sunset made a mere whiteness in the west. -Perior had been at his writing-table for over an hour, diligently -strangling harassing thoughts, a pipe between his teeth, a consolatory -cat at his elbow, when, in a tone of commonplace that rang oddly in his -ears, "Miss Paton, sir," was announced by the solemn old retainer. - -Perior wheeled round, and stumbled to his feet; the papers he held fell -in a sprawling heap upon the floor, and the dozing cat jumped down and -took nervous refuge under a chair. - -Camelia, following old Lane with dexterous determination, saw the -astonished commotion and found it encouraging. She was determined but -not desperate. Even without encouragement she fancied that she could -have held her own, sustained as she was by her inner conviction, and -while Lane went out and closed the door, she was even able to cast a -reassuring smile at the cat, whose widened eyes shone at her from under -the chair edge. - -The door safely shut, she turned a steady look upon Perior's rough head, -silhouetted in monotone on the pale landscape outside. She herself faced -the light. She had walked, and her face showed an exquisite freshness, -an imperative youth and energy. In the austere room the sudden rose and -white of cheeks and lips and brow, the lustre of her eyes, the pale gold -of her hair, dazzled. - -Fixing Perior with this steady look, she said: "He has been here." - -"Henge? yes," said Perior. Even in the shock of his dismayed confusion -he felt with thankfulness a strong throb of an unswerving energy quite -fit to match hers. He could look at her, dazzled, but not wavering, and, -stooping from the successful encounter of eyes, he picked up the fallen -papers, pushed them into shape, and laid them on the table coolly -enough. - -"You have heard what has happened, then?" Camelia was in nowise -disconcerted by these superficialities. - -"Yes." - -"Did you tell him why I broke my engagement?" - -Perior looked again, and very firmly, at the rose and white and gold. - -"He gave me the reason you had given him. That was sufficient, wasn't -it?" - -"Sufficient for him, yes. I gave him only half the truth--I should not -have minded, you know, had you given him the whole." - -"I should have minded." - -"You? Why should you mind? It was my fault--the whole truth could tell -him nothing less than that," said Camelia quickly. - -"I appreciate your generosity"--Perior laughed a little--"that really is -generous." It really was. He put another mark against himself; but a -perception of his own past injustice did not weaken him. - -"You know why," she said, and her eyes were now solemn; "you know that I -don't care about myself any longer--so long as you care. That is all -that makes any difference--now. So you might have told him had you -wished." - -"I didn't want to;" Perior leaned back against the writing-table, -feeling a certain shrinking. Camelia's power took on new attributes. He -could but recognize a baleful nobility in her self-immolation. After -all, the falseness of yesterday had held a great sincerity--though the -sincerity might only be a morbid folly. He had hardly the excuse of -blindness. With a renewed pang of self-disgust he saw that his more -subtle falseness to her was a weapon in her hand. She had not turned it -against him. Perhaps she did not realize her need. He was glad, by -lowering himself, to lift her. - -She had come forward into the fuller light, and her face, more clearly -revealed, showed the stress that Arthur had seen as a resolute woe. In a -pause at a little distance from him, in the very tension of her face, -Perior saw that she stooped to no weak appeal; it was an intelligent -demand, rather, that he should recognize and do her justice. - -"I know how angry you are with me," she said, after the slight pause in -which they studied one another. "You believe that I have acted badly; -and so I have. I see it too. I entrapped you, made you feel false to -him, made you feel that you betrayed him. But if you _understood_. You -have never really understood. You have taken the shell of me--the -merely external silliness--so seriously." - -Perior could wonder at his own firmness before her. He was filled with -compunction for the pitiful certainty of success--once his stubborn -disbelief were convinced--that spoke through her gravity. He loved her, -and knew that he loved her, against his reason, against his will, -against his heart even, yet heard himself saying, sure of the kindness -of his cruelty--for any prolongation of her security was cruel-- - -"I hope never to take a merely external silliness seriously, Camelia. -Let me think of this as one. You should not have come, it can only hurt -you, and me. We had best not see each other again until you have -outgrown, shall we say, your present shell?" Yes, he could rely on the -decisive clear-sightedness that had made him speak the truth, once for -all, to Arthur and to himself. He felt secure in his moral antagonism; -the ascetic admonishment of his voice gratified even a sense of humor, -quite at his own expense, which he perceived in the rigor of his -righteousness. But Camelia made no retreat before that rigor, though the -color left her face, as if he had struck her; her eyes betrayed no -confusion, but a keenness, a steadiness, almost scornful. - -"You think it _that_?" Perior was not sorry to tell her and himself what -he did think. - -"I think it just that. A phase of your varied existence; a curious -experience to sound. You have set your heart on being in love with -me--since that was an experience most amusingly improbable. I am -another toy to grasp since the last disappointed." - -"You are dull," said Camelia. She looked down, clasping her hands behind -her. "You are not sincere. It pleases you to blind yourself with your -preconceived idea of me. Your self-righteousness would not like to own -itself mistaken in believing anything but the worst of me." - -"Ah! hasn't it for years been struggling to see only the best of you!" -cried Perior; "I don't deserve that, Camelia." - -"You see the best now; why won't you believe in it?" - -"I don't say I see the worst--by no means; even there is something that -surprises me, that makes me confess, gladly, that I have misjudged you; -but I can only believe that yesterday, in the impulsive reaction against -your false position--you did not love Arthur--the fact frightened you; I -am glad of that, too; but in the melting illusion you thought of me as -something solid to cling to, and now you are determined to keep on -clinging, deceiving yourself with an impossible mirage of fidelity, -devotion, and self-forgetting, which you'll never reach, Camelia ---never, never." Camelia contemplated him. - -"Yes, you believed that, or something even less pathetic; that accounts -for your cruelty--the cruelty of your last words yesterday--so false as -I knew them; but I understood them, saw all you thought, though your -wrath, your injury, your impatience to punish--how fond you are of -punishing!--wouldn't let me explain. You did not believe that I loved -you--_loved_ you. You do not believe it now. You can't believe that I, -who could have anybody, should choose you. It looks to you like an -aberration. You are afraid of being hurt by believing, afraid I'll treat -you as I treated him, afraid that you will be another toy--that was what -cut yesterday. You were being played with--I saw you thought it. But I -do love you; you will have to believe it. I do--choose you." Her head -raised, she was looking at him with the clear command of this inflexible -choice. The sublimity of confidence was touching. Perior, grimly -conscious of its illusory foothold over chasms, could afford a certain -chivalry, could at least restrain the brutality of a push into the void. -He didn't like the idea of Camelia, his smiling Camelia, really scared, -tumbling from her pinnacles into the abyss where rocky facts awaited -her. - -"I am sensible to the compliment"--the mild irony of his tone was a -warning of insecurity--"though you will own that it is, in some senses, -a dubious one; but it's very kind in you, who could have anybody, to -stoop to a nobody. My obscurity is gilded by the preference; it will -console, illuminate my solitude." She flushed, interrupting him with a -quick, sharp-- - -"I didn't intend that! You know it! You are cruel, yes, and mean; for -only my sincerity gives you the power to wound me. You _are_ a somebody; -though the whole world were blind, I can see; that is why I love you. Do -you believe me when I tell you that I love you?" Camelia did not come -closer as she asked it, but her poised expectancy of look seemed to -claim him. Perior folded his arms and stared at her. "I would rather -not," he said. - -"Why?"--her voice at last showed a tremor. "You debase me by your -incredulity. If I do not love you--what did yesterday mean?--what does -_this_ mean? It is my only excuse." - -"Excuse?"--in this nearing antagonism his voice flamed up at the sudden -outlet--"Excuse? There was no excuse--for yesterday." Saved from the -direct brutality of refusing her love, the memory of Arthur's betrayed -trust rose hot within him. Arthur's sincerity shone in its noble -unconsciousness of the falseness of friend and sweetheart, one falseness -forced, one willing and frivolous; his grief was mocked by her -indifference. - -"Nothing can excuse that," he said. "What right had you to accept him? -What right had you to keep me in ignorance? Why did you not break with -him before turning to me? By Heaven, Camelia! even knowing you as I do I -cannot understand how you did it! I could hardly look him in the face -when he was here, the thought of it sickened me so." - -"Yes, that was horrible," said Camelia. - -"Horrible?" Perior repeated. Her judicial tone exasperated him. He -walked away to the window repeating, "Horrible!" as though exclaiming at -inadequacy. - -"But have I not atoned?" Camelia asked. - -"Atoned?" he stared round at her. - -"I have set him free. I have owned myself unworthy. I did not know you -cared for me when I accepted him, or, at least, I did not know I cared -for you--so much." - -Perior continued to look at her for a silent moment, contemplating the -monstrousness, yet strangely intuitive truth of her amendment. He let it -pass, feeling rather helpless before it. - -"So that is the way you pave the way to penitence? You atone to the -broken toys by walking over them? No, Camelia, no, nothing atones, -either to him or to me, for that unspoken lie." He came back to her, -feeling the need to face her for the solemn moment of the contest. - -Camelia was speaking hurriedly at last, losing a little her sustaining -calm--"And had I told you?--Had I said at once that I was engaged to -him?--Would that have helped us?--Could you have said, then, that you -loved me? You would have been too angry--for his sake--to say it, when I -had told you that in one day I had accepted and meant to reject -him"--the questions came eagerly. - -He looked at her face, strong with its still unshaken certainty, white, -delicate, insistent. Loving it and her, his eyes held hers intently, and -he asked, "Did I say I loved you?" - -A serene dignity rose to meet his look. "You did not _say_ it, perhaps. -You said you did _not_ love me," she added, with a little smile. - -"I was base--and I spoke basely. I said that I loved you enough to kiss -you. You may scorn me for it." - -"Ah!" she said quickly, "that was because you did not believe that I -loved you! You are exonerated." - -"Not even then. But if you do love me--choose me, as you say; if I do -love you--which I have not said--and will not say, will not say even to -exculpate my folly of last night--even then, Camelia! I would not marry -a woman whom I despise." - -"Despise?" she repeated. Her voice was a toneless echo of his. She -weighed the word, and found it heavy, as he saw. Her eyes dwelt on his -mutely, and there dawned slowly in them the terror of the eternal -negative that rose between her and him. - -"You are not good enough for me, Camelia," said Perior. - -"Because of yesterday!" she gasped. "You can't forgive that!" - -"Not only that, Camelia--I do not love you." - -She stood silent, gazing. His heart bled for her. To tell the saving -lie, he had faced a jibing self-scorn; yet he continued to face it -inflexibly. - -"I could not live with you. I think you would kill me. I said to poor -Arthur this afternoon what I believe of you--that you are selfish, and -false, and hard as a stone. I could not love a woman of whom I could -think--of whom I had been forced to say--that." - -Compunctions rained upon him--sharp arrows. Her mute, white face -appealed--if only to the long devotion, the long tenderness of years. - -The crucial moment was past, and the upwelling tenderness, devotion, -called to him to hurry her away from it, and support her under his own -most necessary cruelty. - -His voice broke in a stammer as he said, taking her hands--"How can I -tell you how I hate myself for saying this?--it is hideous--it is mean -to say." - -And Camelia said nothing, seemed merely to await, in a frozen stupor, -another blow. He could not see in her now the lying jilt of yesterday. - -"Don't think of me again as I've been this afternoon. Forget it, won't -you?" he urged; "I am going away to-morrow--and--you will get over it, -be able to see me again--some day, as the good old friend who never -wanted to be cruel--no, I swear it, Camelia. You must go now; you will -let me order the trap? You will let me drive you home?" - -She had drawn her hands away; in the dim room her eyes met his--bereft, -astonished. - -"You will let me drive you?" Perior repeated with some confusion. - -"No, I will walk," she said, hardly audibly. - -"The five miles back? It is too far--too late." He looked away from her, -too much touched by those astonished eyes. - -"No--I will walk." Then, as he stood still, rather at a loss-- - -"You are going to-morrow?" - -"Yes." - -"Because of me?" - -"Ah--that pleases you!" he said, with a smile a little forced. - -"Pleases me!" The sharpness of her voice cut him, made him feel gross in -his unkindness. - -"It does not please me, but it is the best thing under the -circumstances. Now, Camelia, you must go. I will walk with you. We won't -speak of this at all--will pretend it never happened. You must forgive -my folly of last night, and get over this touching folly of yours. Come, -we won't talk of it any more," he repeated, drawing her hand through -his arm, holding it with a clasp consolatory and entreating. - -She did not follow him. "No! no!" she said, half-choked, drawing away -the hand. Then, suddenly, with a great sob, turning to him, she flung -herself upon his breast, clung to him, her hands clutching his -shoulders-- - -"Oh! don't leave me! Don't leave me! I can't bear it!" she cried, -shuddering. "I will be good! Oh, I _will_ be good! Give me time, just -wait--and see--" The words were half lost, as with hidden face she wept. -"You are so cruel, so unjust--give me time and see how I will please -you--how you will love me. You must love me--you must--you must." - -"Camelia! Camelia!" Perior was shocked, shaken as well. The deep note of -his own voice warned him in its pity, and amazement, and distress, of -the dangerous emotion that seized him. To yield again to an emotion, -even though a higher one than last night's--to yield with those thoughts -of hers--those spoken thoughts--never, never. - -He tried to hold her off; her sobs made her helpless, but with arms -outstretched--blindly, as he remembered to have seen a crying, stumbling -child, she turned to him--it was too pitiful--as she might have turned -to her mother. How repulse the broken creature? He could but take the -outstretched hands, let her come to him again; she did not put her arms -around him; there was no claim; only a clinging, her face hidden, as she -sobbed, "Don't leave me! Don't! I love you! I adore you!" - -"My poor child!" - -"Yes, yes, your poor child! Be sorry for me, be kind--only a child. I -did not mean to deserve that--torture, you--despising! I never _meant_ -anything--so wrong. Only a silly, a selfish, a frivolous child--won't -you see it?--never caring for the toys I played with--never caring for -anything but you, _really_. Can't you see it now, as I do? I have grown -up, I have put away those things. Can't you forgive me?" - -"Yes, yes. Great heavens! I am not such a prig, such a fool! I have -always hoped----" - -"That you could allow yourself to love me! Ah, say it! say it!" She -looked up, lifting her face to his. - -"To be fond of you, Camelia," said Perior. "I can't say more than that!" - -"Because you won't believe in me! Can't believe in me! And I can't live -without you to help me! Haven't you seen, all along, that you were the -only one I cared about? Half my little naughtinesses were only to -provoke you, to make you angry, to see that you cared enough to be -angry. All the rest--the worldliness--the using of people--yes, yes, I -own to it!--but no one was better than I! Why should I have been good -when no one else is? When all are playing the same game, and most people -only fit to play with? Why should I have been better than they?" - -"I don't know, Camelia, but--my wife would have to be." - -"She _will_ be." - -"Don't make me hurt you--don't be so cruel to yourself." - -"She will be," Camelia repeated. - -"I beg of you--I implore you, Camelia." He hardened his face to meet her -look, searching, eager, pitiful. - -"How could I say this unless I believed you loved me--had always loved -me? Don't speak; don't say no; don't send me away. You are angry. You -have the right to be; but, ah! if you only knew what I feel for you." - -"Don't tell me, Camelia." - -"But I must. I love everything about you--I always have. When you were -near me I saw every gesture you made, heard every word you spoke, knew -every thought you had about me. I love your little ways--I know them -all; that wag of your foot when you are angry, the look of your teeth -when you smile, your hands, your face, your dear rough hair----" - -Perior had turned from red to white, and still looking at him, shaking -her head a little, she finished very simply on a long sigh-- - -"I can't live without you. I _can't_." - -"Camelia, I can't marry you," he said; and then, taking breath in the -ensuing silence, "You are mistaken. I don't love you. I have your -welfare at my heart; I wish you all happiness, all good. I am sorry, -terribly sorry for you; but I do not love you. You must believe me. I do -not love you. I will not marry you.--God forgive me for the lie," he -said to himself; "but no, no, no, I can_not_ marry her, poor impulsive, -wilful, half noble, half pitiful child, a thousand times no." The strong -rebellion of his very soul steadied him. He could yield without a -tremor to his pity, could take her hands and hold them in a clasp -convincingly paternal and pitying. - -Camelia closed her eyes, drawing in a long breath, too sharp in its -accepted bitterness for the break of a sob. Her face, with this tragedy -of still woe upon it, was almost unrecognizable. Until now it had been a -face of triumph. Defeat--and that at last she recognized defeat he -saw--changed its very lines; the iron entered her soul, and something -left her face for ever. For a long time she did not speak, and her voice -seemed dimmed, as though spoken from a great distance, when she said, -her eyes still closed, "Then you never loved me!" - -"Never," said Perior, who, encompassed by the saving lie, could freely -breathe in the tonic atmosphere of his resolute pain. - -"But--you are fond of me?" said Camelia; and as she spoke, from under -the solemn pressure of her eyelids, pressed down as on a dead hope, -great tears came slowly. - -"Great Heaven! Fond of you? _Fond_ of you? Yes--yes, my dear Camelia." -He leaned forward and kissed her forehead above the closed eyes. - -"Ah!" she murmured, "I was so sure you loved me!" More than its rigid -misery, the humble bewilderment on her face, as of a creature stricken -helpless, and not comprehending its pain, hurt him, warned him that -every moment made it more difficult to keep down the fluttering of a -longing he would not, must never satisfy. He seemed to crush a harsh -hand on its delicate wings as he said-- - -"And now you will go. You will let me walk home with you?" - -She shook her head. "No, no." - -She went towards the door, her hand still in his. - -"You should not go alone. I beg of you, dear, to let me come." - -"I would rather go alone." - -They were in the hall, and she had not looked at him again. She put her -hand out to the door and then she paused. Perior had also paused. - -"Will you kiss me good-bye?" she said. - -"Will I? O Camelia!" At that moment he felt himself to be more false -than he had been during all the scene with her, for as he kissed her the -fluttering wings beat upward with the exultant throb of a released -desire. And she did not know. She believed him. All her hope was -stricken in the dust. And yet they clung together--lovers; he ashamed of -his knowledge; she pathetic, tragic, in her chastened, her humiliated, -trust and ignorance. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel was walking across the hall on her way to the staircase -when Camelia entered. She had not seen Camelia since the morning's -catastrophe, a catastrophe as yet unannounced, but plainly discernible -in the departure of the Henges, in Lady Paton's retirement, Camelia's -disappearance, and Mary's heavy silence. Mary herself hardly knew as -yet, could only suspect, with a sickening droop of disappointment -following a hope, unreasonable perhaps, but delicious while it so -briefly lasted. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel plied her with profitless questions during tea-time; -she only knew that Sir Arthur had ridden away, that Lady Henge had -followed with the boxes, that Aunt Angelica was in her room, and that -Camelia had gone out. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was not disposed to let Camelia -off easily; and now, undeterred by the almost vacant stare her young -hostess bent upon her, she rushed at her imperatively. - -"You look quite half mad, Camelia! What is the matter? The Henges are -gone, she as gloomy as a hearse. I have not seen your mother since -breakfast. Has a thunderbolt struck the house? You accepted Arthur Henge -yesterday, and to-day you give him his _conge_. Is it possible?" - -Camelia's hand waved her aside. What did this chattering, rattling -creature want of her? She belonged to a dim primeval age, the age of -yesterday, before the cataclysm had changed everything. - -"No; you are not going to get rid of me like that!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel -followed her swiftly up the stairs. "That would be a little too bad, to -leave me, all curiosity, frying in my own ignorance. Now, Camelia, let -me have the whole truth of it. What has happened?" She confronted her in -her room. - -"Yes, I have broken my engagement." - -"Why? great heavens, why?" - -"I don't love him. Please go, Frances." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel crossed her arms and surveyed her friend in an -exasperated silence. - -"Was that so necessary?" she asked presently, while Camelia, sitting in -a low chair half turned from her, unbuttoned her muddy boots and -gaiters. - -"Yes, it was. I wish you would go away." - -"You know what every one will think--you know what _I_ think!--that you -accepted him to prove you could throw him over. You try him on to show -that you can fit him, and then kick him away, precisely as you kick away -that muddy boot. It is an unheard-of thing. It is distinctly nasty." - -Camelia leaned back with closed eyes, hardly hearing, certainly not -caring for the words, though their sound was an importunate jangling at -her ears, wearisome, irritating. - -"As for the egregious folly of it! well, my dear, you may have plans -into which I am not initiated, but the day will come, I think, in which -you will own that you have behaved like a horrid little fool." Mrs. -Fox-Darriel moved towards the door, not caring to outstay her climax, -yet urged to an addenda by the exasperating, almost slumbering -indifference of Camelia's face. "I will go. You want to finish your cry. -Have you been walking about the lanes crying? I am off to the Dormers -to-morrow; I only stayed on here because of you; my occupation now is -decidedly gone." - -"Good-bye," said Camelia. - -When she was alone she rose and bolted the door. Her ten miles had tired -her physically, and she sank back into her chair, her stockinged feet -stretched out, her muddy skirts clinging damply about her ankles. - -Yes, let the whole truth surge over her, and find her unresisting. - -He did not love her; had never loved her. He despised her. The -remembrance of his scorn crept over her like a gnawing flame. The shame -of last night's dancing, of his reluctant embrace, that she had courted, -came upon her in an awful revelation; and the wilful, desperate passion -of to-day, sure of the hidden treasure he withheld from her in -punishment only--a child pounding at a locked door. And the room was -empty; there had been no treasure. She had forced him to open to her the -dreadful vacancy. His sad friendship, smarting still from its momentary -debasement, had sheltered her from the keenest pang; it was as if he had -held her hand as, together, they went into that vacant room; now, alone, -the realization of her own abasement stunned her. But she loved him. It -had not been for her love that he had scorned her, though -misinterpreting it so cruelly. She had made it impossible that she -should ever retrieve herself, or that he should ever see the truth; her -falseness had blinded him to her only worth, yet even now the -consciousness of that worth held her from utter loss of self-respect, -the consciousness of the intrinsic nobility of her devotion, rejected -alas! seen with darkest disfigurements, but standing upright and -unashamed at the centre of her life. This great love was like an -over-soul, a nobler self looking with sad eyes at the prostrate, the -utterly confounded Camelia. - -Then came throbs of loneliness and terror. He was going away! She sprang -up under the knife-like thrust of the thought. Oh! if at least he had -believed her! If at least he had seen tragedy, not a poor, silly farce, -the only noble thing in her life distorted to a wretched folly. Only -outwardly had she been a child screaming for an unattainable toy. She -walked up and down the room, her hands wrung together, until a quivering -weakness of fatigue came over her, and she flung herself face downwards -on the bed. - -Sobs came with the despairing posture. Her whole body shook with them. - -A tiny, timid knock at the door broke in on the miserable satisfaction -of woe expressed. - -Camelia held back her weeping and listened silently. - -"Camelia," said her mother's voice, a voice tremulous with tears, "may I -not see you, my darling?" - -In her agonizing self-absorption Camelia heard the words with a -resentment made fierce by sympathy crushed down. - -"No," she said, steadying her voice, for her mother must not think her -weeping in regret over her act of repudiation, "you can't." - -"Please, my child "--Lady Paton evidently began to sob, and Camelia, -wrapping herself in a sense of necessary and therefore justified -brutality, again buried her head in the pillow. Yes, she was a brute, of -course, but--how silly of her mother to stand there crying! How -tactless, at least; for Camelia at once hated herself for the other -word. What did she expect? She seemed nearly as remote as Frances--not -quite, for she could see Frances and repulse her with complete -indifference, and she could not meet her mother indifferently. There -would be the pain, the irritation of feigning. - -"Don't be cruel, dear." The words reached her dimly through the pillow. -Cruel! Camelia smiled bitterly. _She_ did not know. The apparent cause -for grief was slight indeed; the real one was locked forever in her -heart, so let them think her cruel. - -The hopeless little click of the door-knob showed that her mother's hand -had been appealingly laid upon it. Her slow footstep passed along the -hall. Camelia lay in her damp, hot pillow, her eyes closed. "Yes I am a -brute," she said to herself; and then, thinking of Perior, her tears -flowed again. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -Mrs. JEDSLEY'S visit of curiosity and condolence was of a surprisingly -consolatory nature. As an old friend, Mrs. Jedsley permitted herself the -curiosity; but even from an old friend Lady Paton had not expected a -true-ringing generosity of judgment. - -"I came, my dear--yes, because I wanted to know. My ears are buzzing -with the talk of it--true or false, who can tell? Not even you, I fancy; -but I have my own opinion," said Mrs. Jedsley. "I understand Camelia -pretty well; but vulgarly, schemingly cruel--rubbish! rubbish!--so I -say!" - -That the saying had been at all necessary made poor Lady Paton more -white, yet Mrs. Jedsley's denunciation was so sincere that she took her -hands, saying, "How can they! It was a mistake. She found she did not -love him. _He_ understands." Sir Arthur's parting words had haloed her -daughter for her during these difficult days. - -"Yes, yes, he is a very fine fellow, and idealizes her tremendously," -said Mrs. Jedsley, with strict justice. "It was, of course, a great -shame for her not to have made up her mind long ago--a great shame to -have accepted him"--Mrs. Jedsley shore off Camelia's beams -relentlessly--"and a great pity, my dear, that the engagement should -have been announced, since a few hours of silence might have shifted -the matter, and no one the wiser. But of course we were all as ready as -dry kindling for the match--it spread like wildfire--a fine crackling! -and then, in a day, a fine cackling! Lady Haversham came running down to -me post-haste to say it was off--to wonder, to exult. Of course she is -an adherent of the Duchess's, and Lady Elizabeth has her chance again. -But yes, yes, I know the child--a vain child, a selfish child; ah! it -pains you; one must face that truth to see beyond it--to others; but not -vulgarly cruel. She would not play with the man for months to give -herself the feline fun of crunching him at the end of it all. She was -playing with herself rather, only half in earnest. The engagement -brought her to her senses--held her still; she couldn't dance, so she -thought. Indeed, it's the first time I've respected Camelia. I do -respect a person who has the courage to retrieve a false step. It is -quite a good enough match to turn a girl into a schemer. At least she -has proved she's not that." - -"No! no! My daughter!" - -"Quite true; your daughter; that does count, after all. No, she can't be -accused of husband-hunting." Mrs. Jedsley laughed dryly. "Now, the -question of course remains, who _is_ she in love with?" and she fixed on -her friend a gaze so keenly interrogative that it certainly suggested -tinder ready to flash alight of itself. "Not our Parliamentary big-wig, -Mr. Rodrigg? Oh no!" - -"No, indeed." Lady Paton's head-shake might have damped the most arduous -conjecture. "He went away, you know--very angrily, it seems, and most -discourteously, for I did not even see him. He behaved very badly, -Michael told me. Michael himself is gone; you knew that too? He just -stopped to see me on his way to the station." - -"Mr. Perior--yes." Mrs. Jedsley looked ruminative; even to her quickly -jumping mind that long leap of inference did not suggest itself except -in one connection. - -Poor Mr. Perior! Had Camelia been giving the mitten right and left? -Buffeting back into hopelessness each suitor who advanced, encouraged by -another's failure? Had Mr. Perior really been foolish enough to run his -head into that trap? - -"Now that the comedy is over, the chief confidant packs up--he quite -filled that role, didn't he?" she said. "And our fine jingling lady, -Mrs. Fox-Darriel? Has she, too, folded her tents and stolen away?--not -silently, I'll be bound. She had staked something on the match." - -"She is gone. She spoke unkindly to me of Camelia. I do not like her. I -could say nothing, it was so----" - -"So neatly done. She implied, merely; you would have accepted inferences -by recognizing them. I can hear her!" - -"She felt for me. Camelia had gone too far--it didn't look well; a girl -must not overstep certain limits; one could make too much of a -reputation for audacity; Camelia's charm had been to be audacious, -without seeming so. And the sad affair of Mr. Rodrigg--Camelia should -not have stooped, and to no purpose; people turned on one so horridly. -Poor Sir Arthur would lose his bill as well as his sweetheart, now that -Camelia had meddled so disastrously. Oh! she was most unkind." Lady -Paton evidently remembered the unkindness--her voice was a curious echo. - -Mrs. Jedsley ruminated energetically all the way back to the village, -as, her skirts raised in either hand, she marched with heavy-booted -splashes through the mud. Near the village she overtook Mary, bending as -she walked, an umbrella uncomfortably wedged under one arm, several -parcels encumbering her. - -"My dear, why walk in this weather?" Mrs. Jedsley herself walked in all -weathers, but for Mary, with a pleasant equine background, the necessity -was not obvious; she joined her with the ejaculation. - -"Oh! I like walking, Mrs. Jedsley," said Mary. "Aunt Angelica always -tells me to have the pony-cart, but it seems hardly worth while for this -little distance." - -"A good mile. Where are you bound for?" - -"I want to see Mrs. Brown; Kitty was rather troublesome in Sunday-school -last Sunday." - -"And how nicely you manage that class. It is a credit to you. Camelia -now laughs at it." Mary said nothing to this, and Mrs. Jedsley added, -"Not that she has much heart for laughing at anything just now from what -I hear. That is the very encouraging feature of the whole case. It is -ridiculous to speak of her as setting feathers in her cap with a light -heart. She really feels this sad affair." - -"Yes," said Mary, looking ahead with a rather rigid settling of her -features. - -"One might perhaps say affairs," Mrs. Jedsley added, for she could not -keep those restless conjectures to herself; out they galloped. "It has -been a general _debacle_. Mr. Rodrigg gone in a fury--breathing flame; -Sir Arthur flung from his triumph--and, poor Mr. Perior. Now I really -did not expect it of Mr. Perior; I thought he knew her so well--yet, for -eyes that can see it's very evident, isn't it?" - -Mary looked down, making no reply. - -"Evidently she has a charm the most metallic male heart can't withstand; -a case of molten iron with Mr. Perior--in that condition I can imagine -him irresistible to some women. But such a reasonable man; -well-seasoned, and her friend for years. Oh! it's a great pity that he -let her melt him; no one knows now what shape his despair will cool to?" - -Mary, her head bent persistently downward, stared at the muddy road. - -"That she was very fond of him there is no denying," Mrs. Jedsley -pursued, "but I should have seen that as the most hopeless part of the -matter. A girl like Camelia doesn't marry the middle-aged mentor of her -youth. But fond of him she is. I have watched her. Her eyes were always -sliding round to him. He made a standard to her; she might jibe at it, -but she liked to see it standing there--and to hang a wreath on it now -and then. Upon my word, Mary!" and Mrs. Jedsley, stopping short in a -mud-puddle, turned triumphant eyes on Mary's impassive face, "I -shouldn't be surprised if _that_ were the real matter with her. She is -really fond of him; his tumble hurts her more than the other's. She -misses her sign-post pointing steadily at friendship. She is sorry to -lose her friend." - -Mary after a little pause said, "Yes." - -"Yes! You think so too!" cried Mrs. Jedsley delightedly. "You have -opportunities, of course----" - -"Oh no! No, indeed, Mrs. Jedsley--I only think, only imagine----" - -"You have thought and imagined what I have. And that we are right I -don't doubt. The double catastrophe accounts very fully for her low -spirits--and I really respect her for them, though that the catastrophe -should have occurred makes it only just that she should suffer. But Mr. -Perior was foolish. Ah yes! in her defence I must say that!" - -Mary was saying nothing, standing mutely at the parting of the roads -until her companion should have done. She was well prepared for Mrs. -Jedsley's unconscious darts. - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's parting look and parting words still rankled in her -heavy heart; the look, one of pity; the words: "She has refused the -other too! And him she would have liked to keep dangling! She enjoys an -interminable sense of drama when he is by; her life is bereft without -it. But the man was mad to think that she would take him," and the look -had added that the man was a fool not to see and be contented with the -minor fact Mary would have been so willing to supply. Mary had felt -withered; her nerves scorched to apathy, since that look. - -"You must come in and have tea with me, my dear," said Mrs. Jedsley, "it -will put strength into you for your talk with Mrs. Brown. Come and have -a cup with me--and you know my hot scones; we will talk this over. Your -aunt doesn't suspect it, poor dear!" - -"No, Mrs. Jedsley, thanks--I can't come, and no, aunt does not -know--must not know; it would make her feel very unhappy! she is so fond -of Mr. Perior; she doesn't suspect it," Mary spoke with sudden -insistence--"and then, it may be pure imagination on my part," she -added, flushing before Mrs. Jedsley's smiling and complacent head-shake. -"It would be unfair to _them_--would it not?--to Camelia I -mean--and----" - -"And Mr. Perior; quite true, my dear. We must be as quiet as mice about -it. Unfair, as you say. We must not hang out his heart for the daws to -peck at. Poor man! You won't come in to tea?" - -"Thanks, no. I must be home early." Mary hurried away. She bit her lips -hard, staring before her at the wet browns and grays of the lane, dingy, -drab, like her life; narrow, dull, chill with on-coming winter, and -leading--the lane led to the churchyard. Mary's thoughts followed it to -that destination, and suddenly the hot tears rolled down her cheeks, and -hard sobs shook her as she walked. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -These days were very lonely for Lady Paton. The house was empty, and one -could not call companionship Camelia's mute, white presence. - -Camelia read all day in the library, where only Siegfried was made -welcome, or rode for hours about the wintry country. To all timid -questions, as to future plans, she only answered by a coldly decisive, -"I don't know." When her mother put her arms around her, Camelia stood -impassive in their circling love, locked in her own frozen mood of -despairing humiliation. - -One day when in her room she had broken down her outward endurance by an -impulsive cry of woe, and stood sobbing, her face in her hands, her -mother came in, made courageous by pity. - -"My dearest child, tell me--what is it? You are breaking your heart and -mine. Do you love him? Tell me, darling. Is it some hidden scruple? some -fancy? Let me send for him," poor Lady Paton's thoughts dwelt longingly -on amorous remedies. - -"Love him? Sir Arthur? Are you mad, mother?" Camelia lifted a stern -face. "He doesn't enter my mind. He is nothing to me--simply nothing." - -"But, Camelia--you are miserable----" - -"Ah! I have a right to that dreary liberty." - -"And--Oh don't be angry, dearest--is there no one else?" - -"No one else?" Camelia repeated it angrily indeed;--that her mother -should give this stupid wrench to her heart was intolerable. "Of course -there is no one else! How can you be so tiresome, mother. There--don't -cry. I am simply sick of everything--myself included, that is all that -is the matter with me. Please don't cry!" for sympathetic tears were -coming into her own eyes, and above all things, she dreaded a breaking -down of reserves, a weakened dignity that might bring her to a sobbing, -maudlin confession, that would burn her afterwards, and follow her -everywhere in the larger pity of her mother's eyes. - -Lady Paton, her handkerchief at her lips, pressed back her grief, saying -in a broken entreaty, "But, Camelia--why? How long will it last? You -were always such a happy creature." - -"How can I tell?" Camelia gave a little laugh that carried her over the -vanquished sob to a certain calmness; leaning back against the -mantelpiece she added, smiling drearily, "Don't worry, mother; don't -_you_ be miserable." - -Lady Paton looked at her with eyes in which Camelia felt the unconscious -dignity of an inarticulate reproof. - -"Oh, my child!" she said, "my child! Am I not your mother? Is not your -happiness my only happiness?--your sorrow my last and greatest sorrow? -You forget me, dear, in your own grief. You shut me out--because you -don't love me--as I love you;--it is that that hurts the most." - -Camelia stood looking at her. Her artistic sensibility was decidedly -impressed by this unexpected revelation of character. How well her -mother's white hair and cap looked on the pale greens of the room; the -exquisite face, and the more exquisite soul looking from it. How well -she had spoken; how truly too. Yes, her own worthlessness clung to her; -she, so far inferior in moral worth, made this sweet, fragile creature -unhappy; she was everything to her mother, the light that shone through -and sustained the white petals of her flower-like being; and her mother -was to her only a pretty detail. Camelia analyzed it all very -completely, and resting on an achieved self-disgust she said, gravely -contemplating her, "It is a great shame, mother. That is the way of this -wretched world. The good people are always making beauty for the bad -ones. You shouldn't let that lovely, but most irrational maternal -instinct dominate you; see me as I am, a horrid creature." She paused, -and all thoughts of artistic effects, all poetical and scientific -appreciations, were blotted out in a flame-like leap of memory--"false, -selfish, hard as a stone," she said. - -"Don't say it, dear--you could not say it if it were so." - -"Oh, yes!--one can, if one has a devilish clearness of perception about -everything. I am horrid--and I know that I am horrid. And you are very -lovely. There." And kissing her, Camelia pushed her gently to the door. - -Perhaps, however, more than artistic sensibilities had been touched. -Camelia shrank as quickly as before from any demonstration that seemed -to look too closely at her heart, but she herself would make advances. -She was only gentle, now, towards her mother; she never failed to kiss -or caress her when they met. A cheerful coldness seemed at once her -surest refuge and most becoming medium for an affection that could allow -itself no warmer and more dangerous avowals. It was a colorless, still -affection, held, as it were, from development, only felt by Lady Paton -as a more careful kindness, and by Camelia as a new necessity for -incurring no further self-reproach. - -Poor Lady Paton, devouring her heart in sorrowful conjecture and -helpless sympathy, had no thought but of her child; but by her side, -Mary, the silent witness of her grief and anxiety, might have claimed, -from disengaged eyes, a foreboding attention. Since the day of her -stolen ride Mary had effaced herself in a shadowy taciturnity. She -watched Camelia, and avoided her. Her absorption in every household duty -became minutely forced. She slipped early to bed after a day of -self-imposed labor. Work and its ensuing weariness, were the only -sedatives for intolerable pain; she deadened herself with the drug. The -weather was bad, and Lady Paton too depressed to rouse herself to her -usual benignant activity. Mary took upon herself her Aunt's abandoned -occupations. She went every day to read to the paralyzed girl at the -Manor Farm. She made the weekly round of visits through the wet village -streets; consulted with the well-worked rector; kept an eye upon the -school and almshouses. Mary was not particularly popular in the village. -Her kindness was rather flat and flavorless; Jane Hicks at the farm -complained to her mother that Miss Fairleigh's reading was "so dull -like; one didn't seem to get anything from it." - -Jane never forgot the one visit Miss Paton made her, nor how Camelia had -sat beside her and kept her laughing the whole hour. Camelia, seeing the -effect she made, had promised to return some day, but events had -interfered, she now was in no mood for laughing, and Jane was always -eager to question Mary about Camelia's doings, and to sigh with the -pleasant reminiscence of her "pretty ways." Mary's virtues were all -peculiarly unremunerative, they sought, and obtained, no reward. - -Towards the beginning of December Camelia's despair threw itself into -action. The rankling sense of Perior's scorn at first stupefied, and at -last roused her. Before him she had felt her powerlessness. His rocky -negative had broken her. He would not change--not a thought of his -changing stirred her deep hopelessness; but she herself might -change--merit at least a friendship unflawed--cast off crueller -accusations. - -She must be good, she must struggle from the shell; she must realize, -however feebly, his ideal. He would never love her--that delusion of her -vanity he had killed forever; but he might be fond of her without a -compunction. - -Towards this comparatively humble attainment Camelia strove. How to be -good was the question. Of course she would never tell lies any -more--unless necessary lies of self-defence, in protection of her dear, -her dreadful secret--Camelia could address it by both names; the love -that sustained and must lift her life, even he should never see again. -After all, it was easy enough to tell the truth when one cared no more -for any of the things gained by falseness. That was hardly a step -upward. Some other mode of development must be found; Camelia pondered -this necessity, and one day during a walk past Perior's model cottages -the thought came. She, too, would build cottages, beautiful cottages, -more beautiful than his! She almost laughed at the delicious, teasing, -old friendliness of that addenda. - -The Patons' estate boasted only very commonplace residences for its -laborers, and delightful visions of co-operative farming, of idealized -laboring conditions flashed joyously through Camelia's mind. Vast fields -of study opened alluringly, and, immediately in the foreground, these -idyllic cottages. They bloomed with trellised flowers on the gray -December landscape as she walked. The wall-papers were chosen by the -time she reached home. She burst upon her mother in the firelit -drawing-room at tea-time with an enthusiasm that made Lady Paton's heart -jump. - -"Mother! Such an idea! I am going to build." - -Mary, who was toasting a muffin to hotter crispness before the fire, -turned a thin, flushed face at the announcement. - -"Build what, dear?" asked Lady Paton; while Mary, certain in one moment -of what Camelia was going to build, and why, silently put the -ameliorated muffin on the little plate by her aunt's side. - -"Cottages. Model cottages. Beautiful cottages--really beautiful, you -know--Elizabethan; beams, white plaster, latticed windows, deep -window-seats, and the latest modernity in drains and bath-tubs." - -"Like Michael's, you mean," said Lady Paton, a little bewildered; "his -are not Elizabethan, but the drains and bath-tubs are very good, I -believe." - -Camelia's face changed when her mother spoke of "Michael;" and Mary, -watching as usual, compressed her lips tightly. The cottages were to be -built for him--with him! Ah! he would come back. Camelia would keep -him--for building cottages, for adoring her; while she, Mary, would be -thrust further and further away. - -"Yes, like his, only better than his. My tenants shall be the best -housed of the county." Camelia threw herself into an easy-chair, and -fixed her eyes thoughtfully upon the fire. - -"It will be very expensive, dear." - -"Never mind; we'll economize." - -Camelia had not so looked or spoken for weeks, and Lady Paton smiled a -happy acquiescence. - -Camelia took the cup of tea her cousin offered her without looking away -from the fire, where she saw the cottages charmingly pictured, and she -and Perior looking at them--friends. - -"Your boots are wet, dear, are they not?" asked Lady Paton; "it has been -raining." - -"They are wet, I think. Mary, just ring, will you? Grant must take them -off down here. I am too tired, too comfortable, to go upstairs." - -Camelia sighed as though the fundamental heaviness of her mood rose -through the seeming light-heartedness of tone; sighed, and yet the -relief of getting outside herself was filling her with an exhilarating -energy. - -As she drank her tea, ate a muffin, Mary browning it nicely for -her--"How cosy to have tea by ourselves," said Camelia, "and toast our -own muffins!"--she talked as she had not talked for a long time. Her -mind ran quickly, escaping its miserable thraldom, from point to point -of the project. - -She pushed aside the tea-things to make with spoons and saucers a plan -of the new scheme. - -"That high bit of land, you know, with the beech woods behind it; I'll -have six of the cottages, with big gardens; and what a view from the -front windows. I will furnish them, too. I must see an architect at -once: I'll go up to town for that, and talk it over with Lady Tramley. -Where is her last letter, I wonder? I remember her asking me for some -date; but that doesn't matter. She wanted me to go out, and of course I -won't." Camelia sprang up to rumple over the leaves of the blotter, the -drawers of the writing-desk. "Where is the letter? In the library, I -wonder?" - -"There is a whole pile, dear, in the small cabinet. You did not care to -look at them. I think they had better be gone over." - -"No; here is hers. I don't care about the others. I don't want to hear -anything about any one," Camelia added with some bitterness, as she -dropped into her chair again and held out her foot to Grant, who had -come in with the shoes. "Yes; she asks me for next week." - -"If you won't go out, dear, it may be rather annoying for her." - -"Oh! she can get out of things herself while I am with her," said -Camelia easily, as her eyes skimmed over the letter. - -The new impulse was too strong to be thwarted by the slightest delay. -That evening Camelia sent off a bulky letter to Lady Tramley, much -astonishing that good friend by her absolute ignoring of important facts -in recent history. Sir Arthur was not so much as hinted at. The whole -letter bristled with cottages, and Camelia's earnestness panted on every -page. - -"She is going in for philanthropy, I suppose," Lady Tramley conjectured, -shaking her head with a patient smile over the small, flowing -handwriting--Camelia hated untidy scrawls. "Let us help her. Camelia is -sure to do something interesting in the way of cottages. She'll carry -them through like a London season." - -Lady Tramley, as may be gathered from these remarks, was one of -Camelia's admirers, though not a blind or bigoted one. She shook her -head on many occasions, but Camelia's defects were not serious matters -to her gay philosophy, and Camelia's qualities in this frivolous world, -where nothing should be peered at too closely, were attractively -sparkling. As a successful hostess Lady Tramley prized the charming Miss -Paton. - -"Now mind," Camelia said on arriving at her friend's house, "I am not -going to be shown to any one. I am in a monastic frame of mind, and must -be kept unspotted from the world. No dances or dinners, if you please," -and she fixed her with eyes really grave. - -"Very well." Lady Tramley acquiesced as to a humorous and pretty whim. -"My doors are closed while you are here--as on a retreat. But when will -the season of penance be over? We are all expiating with you, remember." - -"Do I imply penance? Is that the habit my retirement wears?" - -"People give you credit for all sorts of niceties of feeling." Lady -Tramley smiled her significant little smile, a smile not lavished on the -nothings of intercourse, and Camelia, taking her by the shoulders, shook -her softly. - -"No; sly as you are you get nothing out of me, and give me credit for -nothing, please, not even for curiosity as to what people _do_ say of -me." - -"You know, dear, he is to meet, I fear, a second disaster as -unmerited----" - -Camelia had sat down to the tea-tray brought to refresh her after her -journey. She looked up from the filling of her cup to meet in a glance -the delicate directness of Lady Tramley's look. - -"Jack knows the ropes, of course, and I thought you ought to know -too--and be sorry." In her heart Lady Tramley hoped for an expansion of -sorrow that would carry Camelia past her moment of inexplicable folly. - -"I am sorry. The bill, you mean." Camelia folded a slice of bread and -butter, adding "Idiots." - -"Idiots indeed. It won't be carried, I am afraid. There is a split in -the Government, and Mr. Rodrigg has developed a really spiteful -acrimony. I always hated that man." - -"Ah! I loathe him!" said Camelia. She thought with a pang of -self-reproach of an unopened letter among the rejected pile--a letter -for Mr. Rodrigg. She had not cared to read his shuffling excuses. His -vanity, bulwarked by the strangely apt events succeeding his -discomfiture, might well renew hope. He might imagine these events the -result of remorse, and that, brought to a timely realization of her -folly, his fair one would consent to bury the hatchet and allow his firm -hand to tame her finally. All this Camelia had conjectured very rightly -on looking at the fat envelope. She had restrained the direct rebuff of -returning the unopened letter, but she had neither answered nor cared to -read it, and could well imagine that Mr. Rodrigg's cumulative -humiliation would urge him to his only possible vengeance. The "I loathe -him" was spoken with a most feeling intensity of tone. - -"Yes." Lady Tramley's affirmative was meaning, and Camelia looked up -alertly. "Lady Henge told me." - -"You know everything, I believe," cried Camelia. "Well, I am in good -hands." - -"I understand--your idea in it. But how unwise. How you mistook the -man." - -"Rather! Ass that I am!" - -"You looked for superlative chivalry, if you come to think of it." - -"No, for sincerity; common honesty. I thought I could convince him. I -didn't want chivalry without conviction. What did Lady Henge say of me?" -Camelia added bluntly. - -Lady Tramley replied very frankly, "She said you were a shallow jilt. I -quite agreed with her inwardly--though I shamelessly defended you." - -"If I say that I agree with you both it will only savor of ostentatious -humility--so I refrain. But, Lady Tramley, it was not the breaking of -our engagement that was shallow--that I will say. And so the bill is -doomed. Can we do nothing? Shear no Samson in the lobbies? Mr. Rodrigg, -of course, offers no hirsute possibilities." - -"Not a hair. Your Mr. Perior will be disappointed. He came back from the -Continent, you know, and put his shoulder to the wheel." - -Camelia stirred her tea evenly. Her nerves, as she felt with pride, were -very reliable. - -"_Our_ Mr. Perior then, is he not?" she asked, while her thoughts flew -past Sir Arthur to nestle pityingly to Perior. His useless valiancy -embittered her against the world of unconvinced opponents. Idiots -indeed! But she could not see him yet; even her nerves were not yet -tempered to a meeting. She had no comfortable background against which -to present herself; when she did, the background must be so unfamiliar -that for neither of them could there be the confusion of a hinted -memory. - -"Ours, by all means," said Lady Tramley. "I only effaced myself before -the paramount claim.--Not quite doomed. There is still the final fight, -and it is to be heralded by a thunderous article in the _Friday_. Mr. -Perior only goes down sword in hand." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -So he was in London. Camelia, sitting at home in the library, could -think of the nearness with a new calm. She was preparing herself to meet -its closer approach. She was not leaving herself defenceless. She -plunged into her reading--architecture, agriculture, decoration, and -sociology. The books came down from London in heavy boxes, and she sat -encompassed by the encouraging perfume of freshly-cut leaves. - -"Are you happy, dear?" her mother asked her. She would come in with her -usual air of deprecatory gentleness, and bend over the absorbed golden -head that did not turn at her entrance. On this day the absorption wore -a look of eager interest that seemed to justify the question. - -Camelia finished her sentence, smiling, however, as she put her hand on -her mother's without looking up. Her mind, indeed, was soothed, -comparatively comfortable. - -"No rude questions, Mamma!" - -"You understand all these solemn books?" Over her daughter's shoulder, -where she leaned, Lady Paton looked respectfully at the heavy volume. - -"I am beginning to understand that whatever one does in philanthropy is -wrong from the point of view of some authority!" Camelia said, -stretching herself on a long yawn, and then gently pinching her mother's -chin, while the smile dwelt upon her appreciatively, "As usual I find -that the only thing to do in this world is to do just as one likes." - -"If one can," said Lady Paton, with a half sad playfulness. - -"If one can;" the words woke in Camelia a painfully personal -affirmative, and with the wave of self-pity that swept through her -mingled a sense of her mother's unconscious pathos. Still holding her -chin she looked up at her, "It has often been _can't_ with you, hasn't -it?" - -Lady Paton's glance fluttered to a shy alarm and surprise at this -application. - -"With me, dear?" - -"Yes--you have had to give up lots of things, haven't you? to put up -with any amount of disagreeable inevitables." - -"I have had many blessings." - -"Oh! of course! You would say that over your last crust! But it has been -can't with you, decidedly. I wonder if it was because you weren't strong -enough to have your own way!" - -"That would be a bad way, surely." - -"Ah!--not yours!" - -"And perhaps I have no way at all," Lady Paton added, and Camelia was -obliged to laugh at the subtle simplicity. - -"That is being too submissive. Yet--it is comfortable, no doubt. -Absolute non-resistance isn't a bad idea. And yet, why shouldn't one -make one's struggle?--survive if one is fittest? Why is not having -one's own way as good as submitting to somebody else's? Oh dear!" she -cried. - -"What is it?" - -"Nothing, nothing; I am unfittest, that is all!" Camelia stared out of -the window. - -"What do you mean, dear?" - -"I mean that I can't have my own way--I, too, can't. And it wasn't a bad -way either. There is the cruelty of it, the irony, the jeer! All the bad -ways are given to me, and when I turn from them, don't want them, and -try for the _best_--I don't get it! Isn't it intolerable?" - -To Lady Paton this was wild, bewildering, pitiful, yet she grasped -enough to say, "That would be the punishment, would it not, dear, for -the bad ways?" - -"Yes, the punishment. Like damnation. One has made one's self too -ugly--the best can't recognize one at all." - -That evening the last number of the _Friday Review_ lay on the -drawing-room table. Perior had not written in it for some time, but with -the quiver of the heart any association with him now gave her, Camelia -picked up the paper and carried it to the fireside. Mary, sewing in the -lamp's soft circle of light, looked up quickly, and her hand paused with -an outstretched thread as she saw Camelia's literary fare. - -Camelia turned the pages in a half fretful search for what she felt sure -of not finding; then, abruptly, the rustling leaves came to a -standstill. There was the article, at last! a long one, on the Factory -Bill. Impossible to question the concise, laconic style; no one else -wrote with such absolute directness, such exquisite choice, free from -all hint of phrasing. - -Camelia's gray eyes kindled as she read, and her lips parted -involuntarily; she drew quick, shallow little breaths. Oh! through it -all went that fervor, that cold, bracing fervor she knew and loved. - -Perior's strong feeling was at times like a clear, indignant wind, -sweeping before it cowering littlenesses. Her mind half forgot him as -she read, conscious as was her heart. For the first time the intrinsic -right of the bill was borne in upon her. She had glibly dressed its -merits, laughing at her own theatrical dexterity. She had never really -cared for any bill. Now it became the greatest, the only bill in the -world. Her ardor rushed past the unfortunate initiator, to fall at the -propagator's feet. Ah! if she could but help now, and for his sake! Poor -Sir Arthur! - -Mary, who from her seat could just see, beyond the sharply held review, -the lovely line of Camelia's cheek, the little ear, set in its delicate -closeness against the shining hair, Mary, intent on the rising color in -this bit of cheek, had quite stopped sewing. Her pale eyes widened in a -devouring significance, her lips set tightly on repressed pain. Mary, -too, had read the article. - -Coming to the end of it, Camelia slanted the paper downwards, and -vaguely, over the top of it, looked at the fire. Then suddenly her eyes -met Mary's. A violent shock of self-consciousness shook her through and -through. She felt herself snatch back her secret from a precipice edge -of revelation--revelation to dull Mary, of all people. Mary, against -whom, in regard to Perior, she had long felt--not knowing that she felt -it--a strong, reasonless antagonism. She could not shake and slap her -secret, as a frightened mother slaps and shakes her rescued child; but -she could turn the terrified anger on its cause, and, in a strangely -pitched voice, she said, "What are you staring at? You look like a spy!" - -Mary gave a great start. If indeed she had been slapped outright her -guilty amazement could not have been more cruel. - -She stammered at a repetition of "staring"; but no words came. Her face -was scarlet. Camelia was immediately sorry, but not one whit less angry, -more so, perhaps, since pity is often an irritating ingredient; and, -too, she felt that to any one less stupid her very outburst might have -betrayed her. She was angry with herself as well as with Mary. Mary's -very helplessness was repulsive, and she hated to see her light blue -eyes set in that scarlet confusion. - -"Yes, staring;" she helped the stammering. "Is there anything you want -to find out? Do ask, then. Don't let your eyes skulk about in that -sneaking fashion. It makes me quite sick to see you." - -Mary stood up, looking from side to side in a half-dazed way that -Camelia observed with a pitying disgust that indeed sickened her. It -reminded her of the gestures of an ugly animal wounded by a stone flung -by some cruel boy. The simile came in a flash that it did not at the -moment give her time to complete it and see herself as stone-thrower. -She felt relief, as well as an added dismay, when Mary broke suddenly -into sobs, and stumbled out of the room, her sewing, caught in her -skirt, following her with ungainly leaps. Only then Camelia realized -that it was her own cruelty that sickened her; her irrational terror, -breaking in upon a tender, thrilling absorption, had urged her to it, -almost irresistibly; but now, the terror past, its foundationless folly -apparent, she really felt quite sick as she still sat looking at the -fire. - -The _Friday Review_ sliding suddenly from her knees gave her a nervous -pang that tingled to her finger-tips, and when she stooped to pick it up -Perior's personality seemed to confront her. She cowered before it. The -hot blood beat in her head. Only by degrees, as her mind faltered over -extenuations, did she quiet herself. Her hidden unhappiness--her love, -it had been like a blundering hand thrust among her heart-strings; how -could she have helped the sharp anger in which her naked anguish clothed -itself? Lastly, but with a kind of shame, Mary's displeasing personality -made a subtle condonation; her inarticulate stupidity was almost -infuriating. Not for one moment did her secret suspect Mary's. Her own -pain seemed already an expiation, and, in analyzing it, she could put -Mary aside, promising herself that she would atone by a "Forgive me, -Mary, I did not mean it," the next time they met. She would even add, "I -was a devil." Her sigh of decision left her only half comforted. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -She did not see Mary again until the next morning, and then Camelia gave -herself the satisfaction of fulfilling an uncompulsory duty. Mary's -mask-like look of endurance met her apology with a dumb confusion that -Camelia must assume as accepting it, since she could not imagine Mary as -unforgiving. - -Holding Mary's hand she repeated with some insistence, "I was devilish, -indeed I was. I don't know what evil spirit entered me." - -Mary was acute enough to see the apology as a mere poultice on Camelia's -bruised conscience, but she did not divine the stir of real pity that -had prompted it, nor the embarrassment that concealed itself, half -ashamed, under Camelia's bright smile, a smile like the flourishing -finality at the end of a conventional letter. - -Mary only shrank more coweringly from the circling advance of pain. In -her solitude Camelia's whip-like words and Camelia's smile blended to -the same scorching; words, Mary thought, so true, that no apology, no -smile, could efface them. That Camelia had felt them true was a -nightmare suspicion; the instinct for the truth had at least been there, -and, like the wounded animal, Mary quaked in her warren, conscious of -insecurity. Camelia soon forgot both cruelty and apology. - -The news of the defeat of the bill brought her no shock, when it came -late in January. She had regretted keenly her own interference for a -long time, and found herself prepared to meet the blow with the quiet of -exhausted feeling. Camelia was not given in these days to finding -excuses for her faults, but she could see that this one had been venial, -and escape an unjust self-reproach. It was certainly irritating to have -Mrs. Jedsley rub in the undeserved sting. - -Coming from the library one afternoon Camelia found this lady ensconced -before the drawing-room fire, her muddy boots outstretched to the -blaze--Mrs. Jedsley's boots were chronically muddy--a muffin in one -hand, a cup of tea in the other, her expression divided among the triple -pleasure of warmth, tea, and interesting news. - -"Well, my dear, you've all had your brushes cut off, it seems," was her -consolatory greeting. - -Camelia sank into a chair, languidly detesting Mrs. Jedsley's bad taste. - -"You did so much for the cause, too, didn't you?" said Mrs. Jedsley, -deterred by no delicate scruples. "Come, Camelia, confess that it has -been a tumble for you all!" - -"Too evident a tumble I think to require confession." - -"And Mr. Rodrigg here for such a time! You are less clever than I -thought you--don't be offended--I mean it in a complimentary sense. -Then, after all, it isn't a brush you need mind losing. I never thought -much of the bill myself." - -Camelia sat coldly unresponsive, and Lady Paton tried to smile at Mrs. -Jedsley's remarks and to believe them purely humorous. - -"I am sorry for poor Michael," she said, "I fear he has taken it to -heart." This unconscious opening was only too gratefully seized upon by -Mrs. Jedsley, who, after a meaning glance at Mary, fixed, over her -tea-cup, sharp eyes on Camelia. - -"Ah!" she said, "he is a man cut out for misfortunes--they all fit him. -He is bound to fail in everything he undertakes." - -"I can't agree with you there," Camelia spoke acidly. "I think he -succeeds at a great many things." - -"Things he doesn't care about, then, you may be sure of that. Fortune -follows such men like a stray dog they have no use for, while they are -looking for their own lost pet." - -Camelia drank her tea in silence, priding herself somewhat on her -forbearance, pondering, too, on the pathos of Mrs. Jedsley's simile in -which she could only see a purely personal applicability. It was not him -the stray dog followed, but any number followed her--and it was she who -had lost her all. - -But would he not come back? Might she not see him again? To be with -him--brave, self-controlled, and reticent, how well worth the fuller -pain! Pain was so far preferable to these dragging mists where she -waited. She might be--she must be--developing, but she must measure -herself beside him to know just how much she had grown. It pleased her -to see herself smiling sadly upon his unwitting kindness--for since he -had thought it a folly he should think it now a folly outgrown. It -pleased her to think that now exterior things mattered less to her than -to him; he, for all his self-defence of calm, still winced under the -whips of material circumstance; no doubt he was now tearing his heart -out over the defeat of the bill, and trying to persuade himself that he -had always expected it! She saw all material circumstance with -Buddhistic indifference. This thought dwelt pleasantly while she drank -her tea. Looking from the window she saw the winter afternoon not yet -gray, and her contemplative mood impatient of the chiming sharp and mild -which her mother and Mrs. Jedsley made, she left them to go out. First, -though, she bent over her mother and kissed her. It gave her content to -find tender demonstration becoming more and more an unforced habit. - -"Nice, pretty little mamma," she whispered. - -In her long coat, Siegfried trotting in front of her, Camelia breasted -the tonic January wind. There was just a crispness of snow on the -ground; in the lanes thin patches of ice made walking wary. She emerged -from the shelter of the hedges on to the fine billowy stretch of common, -where the wind sang, and the sunset in the west made a wide red bar. -Siegfried's adventurous spirit soon warmed him to an energetic gallop -through the dead fern and heather, and Camelia followed his lead, -intending to cut across to the highroad, and by its long curve return -home. It was in lifting her eyes to this road that she saw suddenly a -distant figure walking along it at a quick pace that would bring them -together at the very point she aimed for. It needed only the very first -brush of a glance to tell her that it was Perior. For a moment joy and -fear, courage and cowardice, pride and shame, struggled within her. Her -step faltered, stopped even, and Siegfried stopping too, looked round at -her, interrogation in the prick of his ears. - -Camelia walked on slowly. Perior had seen and recognized her--that was -evident. Whatever might be his own press of feeling he did not hesitate. -He took off his cap and hailed her gaily, and Camelia felt that her -answering hand-wave helped to prepare the way for a meeting most -creditable to them both. - -He did not fear the meeting, or would not show he did, for he advanced -over the heather at a pace resolutely unembarrassed. In another moment -they were face to face, and then she could see that his repressed a -tremor, and was conscious that her own was, with the same attempt, a -little rigid in its smile. Partly to recover from this shock of seeing -her again, partly to give her time to recover from her own emotion, -Perior raised her outstretched hand to his lips. He was so determined in -his entrenched resistance to the lover he knew himself to be (the lover -whose complaints had brought him rebelliously back again, his coming a -sop angrily thrown at the uncontrollable gentleman on condition, that -satisfied so far, he would keep still), so sure was Perior, the friend, -of the bargain, that the kiss was most successfully friendly. It sealed -delicately the bond he insisted on recognizing between himself and -Camelia. His relief was great, in looking at her again, to see that she, -too, fully recognized it, and that perhaps her courage was helped by -the fact that the mood--the astonishing mood--had passed. It would much -simplify matters if it had. He longed to be with her again, a longing -her tacit acquiescence in the old friendship could alone justify him in -satisfying. That his coming had not been indelicately ill-judged the -directness of her eyes seemed to assure him; but however much the friend -might rejoice in believing that he alone had anything to conceal, the -repressed lover, most inconsistently, felt a pang. Perior only consented -to recognize his own contentment with the safe footing upon which he -found himself. - -Camelia smiled at him, and he smiled at her, smiles that might have been -children kissing and "making up"; frank, and bravely light. - -"I thought you were in London," said Camelia. "No; come back, Siegfried, -we are going no farther; for you were coming to us, I suppose, Alceste?" -She could look at him quite directly. She was not ashamed, no, -mercifully she was not ashamed, that was her jubilant thought. After the -pang of the first moment she felt the strong conviction, borne in upon -her by her own calmness, that her love for him could never shame her, -nor her confession of it. The warm power of his friendship kept her from -petty terrors. She felt, in a moment, that on her courage depended their -future relationship. To ignore the past, to make him ignore it, would be -to regain, to keep her friend. - -"Yes, I was going to you--of course," said Perior, smiling, as they went -towards the road together. - -"I have been to Italy, you know, but I came back some time ago. I -thought I might be of use." - -"Ah! I should have liked to have been of use! but I had been too badly -bitten to dare put out a finger!" - -"I wouldn't put out fingers, if I were you; it isn't safe--when, they -are so pretty." The intimacy was almost caressing; she leaned against it -thankfully. Proud to show him that of the crying child there was not a -trace, she determined on a swift glance at the past that would put him -quite at ease. - -"And you are coming back? Since this dreary business of the worsted -right is over you won't exile yourself any longer--and rob us? All your -friends will be glad to have you again!" - -"Will they indeed?" his eyes sought hers for a moment, seemed to see in -them the past's triumphant mausoleum, presented for inspection quite -magnificently. - -"Thanks, Camelia." The boldness delighted him, delighted all of him -except that grumbling prisoner who, in his dungeon, felt foolishly -aggrieved. "Yes, I am coming back--since I am welcome," he said, adding -while they went along the road, "As for the worsted right, the right -usually is worsted, in the first place. One must try to keep one's faith -in eventual winning." - -"Tell me," said Camelia, feeling foundations quite secure, since each -had helped the other, "Mr. Rodrigg's opposition, that last speech of -his--the satanic eloquence of it!--you don't think--ah! say you don't -think me altogether responsible?" - -"Would it please you--a little--to think you were?" The old rallying -smile pained her. - -"Ah, don't! That has been knocked out of me--really! Don't imply such a -monstrous perversion of vanity." - -"I retract. No, Camelia, I don't think you _altogether_ responsible. The -eloquence would always have been against us, its satanic quality was, I -fear, your doing." - -"Yet, I meant for the best--indeed I did. Say you believe that." - -"Indeed, I do believe it, Camelia." - -They were nearing home when he said, "You were in London--I heard from -Lady Tramley." - -"Yes, I went up on business." - -"Did you? How are Lady Paton and Mary?" - -"Very well. You don't ask about my business,"--Camelia smiled round at -him. - -"Very blunt in me. What was the business, Camelia?" His answering smile -made amends. - -Camelia placed herself against her background. - -"I am building model cottages! You should see how economical we have -become! _Your_ glory is diminished!" - -"With all my heart!" cried Perior, with a laugh of real surprise and -pleasure. "Lady Tramley did not tell me. Good for you, Celimene!" - -It was delightful to bring him into the drawing-room that she had left -only an hour before. Camelia almost fancied herself perfectly happy as -she flung open the door with the announcement-- - -"Here is Alceste, Mamma!" No nervousness was possible before her mother -and Mary; it required no effort to act for them since she had so -successfully performed her part to him. Mrs. Jedsley was gone, but Mary -and Lady Paton sat before the fire, Mary reading aloud. She dropped the -book; Camelia's voice, in her ears, sounded with a brazen clang of -victory, and Perior seemed to her conquered, brought captive in an old -bondage. She could hardly speak, hardly welcome him; his return crushed -every hope of his liberation, the joy of seeing him was a mere -desolation. With a settled dulness she listened to them--all three -talking and exclaiming. - -Perior had taken her hand, had shaken it warmly, looking at her with -kindest eyes; but now he listened to Lady Paton, and Lady Paton, of -course, after the first flood of rejoicing, condolences, and -questionings, was talking of Camelia. - -The resentment that had smouldered in Mary for many months seemed now to -leap, and lick her heart with little flames of hatred. How she hated -Camelia; she turned the black thought quite calmly in her mind--it was -not unfamiliar. - -Lady Paton was telling Perior about the cottages; she was rather proud -of Camelia's beneficent schemes, though gently teasing her about some of -their phases: "And, Michael, she is going to make them into veritable -palaces of art. Specially designed furniture--and Japanese prints on the -walls! Now they won't care about prints, will they?" - -"They ought to, Camelia thinks," laughed Perior, looking at Camelia, -who, hat and coat thrown aside, leaned forward in the lamplight, smiling -and radiant, the pathos that her thinner face had gained emphasizing -its enchanting loveliness. - -Mary looked at her too, at the curves of the figure in the perfect black -dress, at the narrow white hands, one lying on her knee, like a flower, -with the almost exaggerated length and delicacy of the fingers; at the -profile, the frank upraised eyes, the smiling mouth, the flashing white -and gold that rose from the nun-like white and black of the dress, and -the wide cambric collar falling about her shoulders and clasping her -throat. Beautiful! Mary felt the beauty with a sort of sickening. Of -course he looked at her, had no eyes but for her. Of course he had come -back. - -"They must like them," said Camelia, "I don't see why such people should -not grow into good taste; and taste is often such a negative thing--a -mere leaving out of all ugliness. I have a lot of these prints; I picked -them up in Paris--the arcade of the Odion, Alceste--cheap things, but -excellent in their way; then a few good photographs. The rooms are to be -very bare. I should ask for all decoration a vase of flowers on the -table--I think I shall offer prizes to my cottagers for the best -arrangement of flowers." - -"A very civilizing system!" Perior still laughed, for he found the -prints and the flower-arrangements highly amusing, and he still looked -at Camelia. - -So that first meeting was over. It had passed so easily, with an -inevitable ease, based on long years that would not be disowned. Yet -when he had gone, Camelia was conscious of a sinking of the heart. The -exhilarating moment could not last. Her friend had come back, fond, -gently mocking, tender, yet unimpressed, blind to the change in herself -she passionately clung to as consummated. As her love was noble, she -thought that she had grown to match it. Her self-complacency, though on -a higher plane, circled her more completely, and as the days went on, -his blindness gave her a new sense of defeat. The ease remained, a tacit -agreement to shut their eyes on a certain incident; it was done most -successfully; they were quite prepared to meet _tete-a-tete_, and the -inner wonder of each as to the other's unconsciousness betrayed itself -only in a certain gentle formality that grew between them. That he -should come--and so often--fulfilled the only hope left her, and yet her -heart was darkened at moments by the thought that in these visits there -was an effort. She missed something of the old intimacy; it was not -quite the same--how could it be? that, after all, would have been too -big a feat of forgetfulness. He did not laugh at her, nor grow angry and -rage at her, as he had used to do, yet she could not feel that he -approved of her the more. He was fond of her--that was evident, even -though he might find this rebuilding difficult, and undertake it from a -sense of duty; but the fondness was graver than before, at least, it -made no pretence of hiding its gravity. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -Mary came for Camelia one morning while Perior was with her, to tell her -that Jane Hicks was dying and asking for her. Mary saw that Camelia's -promptitude, where compunction blushed, gratified Perior, as did Jane's -devotion; she knew that he supposed the devotion based upon some new -blossoming of thoughtful kindness in Camelia, and the ironic bitterness -of this reflection was in no way made easier to Mary as she heard -Camelia, while they all three walked to the farm, confess dejectedly to -the one visit. - -"I should have gone again!" Camelia repeated with sincerest -self-reproach, and Mary could see that though he assented to the -reproach her contrition lifted her in his estimation. Perior waited -below while Camelia and Mary went up together. Camelia came down -weeping; Mary's face was quite impassive. - -The poor girl had died with her hand in Camelia's, her eyes fixed on the -lovely Madonna head that bent over her with a beautiful piteousness, -like a vision at the gates of heaven. Jane closed her eyes on that -vision. She had not had one look for Mary, though her perfunctory -thanks--the winding up of the trifling duties remaining to her on -earth--had been feebly breathed out to her some hours before. Mary saw -that she had been very unnecessary to Jane, and that the unknown -Camelia, Camelia's one smile, the one golden hour Camelia's beauty had -given her, made the brightness, the poetry, the symbolized radiance of -things unseen and hoped for that had remained with the dying girl during -the last months of her life. Mary was very still in walking back with -the others. Camelia sobbed, and stumbled in the heavy road, so that -Perior gave her his arm and held her, looking pityingly, more than -pityingly, at the bent head and shaking shoulders. Mary felt her own -lack of emotion to be unbecoming, but, indeed, she had none, was -conscious instead of a dislike for poor, dead Jane. - -For Mary was a most unhappy creature. Outside the inner circle, where -Perior and Camelia wondered about, and evaded, one another, the very -closeness of constant intercourse making blindness easy, Mary saw the -truth, that Camelia did not see, very clearly. With her preconceived and -half-mistaken ideas as to that truth, it remained one-sided. Perior -loved Camelia; loved, and had weakly crawled back to her, craving at -least the crumbs of friendship,--and that she was lavish with her crumbs -who could deny?--since all else had been refused to him. Mary spent her -days in a quivering contemplation of this fact. The bitter, sweet -consolation of the whole truth never entered her mind. Camelia loving, -and Camelia repulsed, was an imagining too monstrous for vaguest -embodiment. Camelia's own naive vanity would not have surpassed in -stupefaction Mary's sensations, had such a possibility been suggested to -her. Camelia, who could have anybody, love Mr. Perior? She would have -voiced her astonishment even more baldly. Not that Mary thought Mr. -Perior nobody. To her he was everybody; but that knowledge was her -painful joy, a perception lifting her above Camelia. Camelia judged by -the world's gross standards, and, by those standards, she must stoop in -loving Perior. - -That Camelia should stoop in the world's eyes, that Camelia should do -anything but soar, were unimaginable things. So her ignorance made her -knowledge more bitter. The man she loved, adored,--her bleached, starved -nature spreading every flower, stretching every tendril, her ideal and -her rapture towards him,--that man did not see her, even. She was no -one; a dusty little moth beating dying wings near the ground, and his -eyes were fixed on the exquisite butterfly tilting its white loveliness -in the sunshine. Under her stolid silence Mary was burning, panting. His -misery, her doom, and Camelia's indifference,--at the thought of all -these a madness of helpless rebellion swam about her; and with a growing -sense of weakness came a growing terror of self-betrayal. For she was -dying, that was Mary's second secret; there was even a savage pleasure -in the thought of absolute and consummated wretchedness hidden so -carefully. Hysterical sobs rose in her throat when she thought of it, -and of their blindness. The sobs were nearly choking her one day as she -sat alone in the morning-room casting up accounts. - -Perior had been with Camelia in the library for two hours, and he had -not come into the morning-room, though over two hours ago poor Mary had -stationed herself there in the sorry hope of seeing him. The little -touch of abandonment stabbed more deeply than ever on this morning, when -her head was so heavy, her chest so hollow, breathing so difficult, all -her sick self so in need of pitying gentleness and sympathy; and though -no tears fell, that rising, strangling sob was in her throat. There was -shame, too; her very rectitude was crumbling in her weakness and -wretchedness; the wretchedness had seemed to exonerate her when, -exasperated by envy and long waiting, she had gone to the library door -and put her ear to the key-hole, like a base thing, to listen. - -Since everything had abandoned her she might as well abandon herself, so -she told herself recklessly; but she had only heard Camelia's clear, -sweet voice; and Camelia was reading Greek! Mary could only feel the -irony as cruel, and on regaining her place at the writing-table she -found herself shaking, and overwhelmed with self-disgust and a sort of -desperation. - -When Perior came in very shortly afterwards she could almost have risen -to meet him with a scream of reproach. The mere imagining of such a -strange revelation made her dizzy as he approached her. - -"I had not seen you. I am just off. How are you, Mary?" he asked. In -spite of the mad imaginings Mary's mask was on in one moment, the white, -stolid mask, as she turned her face to him. - -"Very well, thanks." - -"You don't look very well." - -"Oh, I am, thanks." Mary averted her eyes. - -Perior's brow had an added look of gloom this morning. His eyes followed -hers. The drizzling rain half blotted out the first faint purpling of -the trees. "What a dreary day!" he ejaculated, with a long, involuntary -sigh. He was not thinking of Mary; she saw that very plainly, though her -eyes were fixed on the blurred tree-tops. - -"Very dreary," she echoed. He looked down at her again, this time with a -certain pain and interest that Mary did not see. On his own thoughts, -the perplexing juggling of "If she still loves me as I love her, why -resist?" the ensuing fear of yielding, and yielding for no better reason -than that he could not resist, broke the thought of Mary. It could not -be a very big thought. Mary was a quiet, uneventful little person, -spending a contented existence under her aunt's wings, useful often as a -whip wherewith to lash Camelia, but pitiful mainly from his sense of the -contrast of which he really believed Mary quite unconscious. Something, -now, in her still face, in the lax weariness of her thin hand, lying on -the account book, roused in him a groping instinct. He looked at the -hand with a certain surprise. Its thinness was remarkable. - -"You do look badly, Mary," he said. "Tell me, are you dreary, too? Can I -do anything for you? We must have some rides when it grows finer." His -thoughts, as usual, gave Camelia an accusing blow. - -"You are bored, tired, unhappy like the rest of us, Mary. Is that any -consolation?" He smiled at her. She felt the smile in his voice, but did -not dare to meet it, bending her head over the account books. - -"Don't do those stupid sums!" - -"Oh, I like them!" Indeed, the scrupulous duties were her one frail -barrier against the black sea of engulfing thought. And then, her heart -just rising in the false but delicious joy of his kind presence, came a -call, a call not dreary like the day, but fatally sweet and clear, the -sound of it as if a flower had suddenly flung open rosy petals on the -grayness. - -"Alceste, come here! I want you." - -"Our imperious Camelia," said Perior with a slight laugh. "Well, -good-bye, Mary. Don't do any more sums, and don't look at the rain. Get -a nice, cheerful book and sit down at the fire. Amuse yourself, won't -you?" He clasped her hand and was gone. - -Mary sat quite still, moving her pen in slow curves, waves, meaningless -figures over the paper. The arrested sob seemed frozen, and no tears -came. She looked dully at the black zigzags on the paper while she -listened to the distant sound of voices in the hall, Camelia's laugh, a -lower tone from Perior, Camelia's cheerful good-bye. - -A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and while she shook with it Camelia -came in. Mary's coughing irritated Camelia, but she did not want to hurt -her feelings by departing before it after getting the newspaper she had -come for, so, walking to the table, she said, taking up and opening the -_Times_ with a large rustling-- - -"All alone, Mary?" - -"Yes," Mary replied. The coughing left her, and she clenched her -handkerchief in her hand. The madness rose again, lit by a keener sense -of horror. - -"But Mr. Perior came in, did he not?" Camelia scanned the columns, her -back to the light. - -"Yes," Mary repeated. - -"Well, what did he have to say?" Camelia felt her tone to be -satisfactorily detached. She wanted to know. That sense of something -lacking, something even awkward, had become almost acute this morning; -only her quiet gaiety had bridged it over. Mary was again looking out of -the window. An inner impulsion made her say in a tone as dull as her -look-- - -"He said he was dreary." - -The _Times_ rustled with a somewhat aggressive effect of absorption, and -then Camelia laid it down. Something in Mary's voice angered her; it -implied a sympathy from which she was to be shut out; he had not said to -_her_ that he was dreary. But she still kept her tone very light as she -walked to the fire. - -"Well, he is always that--is he not?" she commented, holding out a foot -to the blaze; "a very glum person indeed is my good Alceste." - -Mary did not reply, and Camelia, with a quick turn of conjecture that -seemed to cut her, wondered if there had been further confidences. She -paused for a moment, swallowed on a rising tremor of apprehension, -before saying, as she turned her back to the fire and faced the figure -at the table--the figure's heavy uncouthness of attitude making her a -little angrier--"What further moans did my melancholy friend pour into -your sympathetic bosom, Mary?" Mary, looking steadily out of the window, -felt the flame rising. - -"He said that he was bored, tired, unhappy." - -After a morning spent with _her!_ Camelia clasped her hands behind her -back, and tried to still her quick breathing. She eyed Mary, but she did -not think much of Mary. - -"Really!" she said. - -"Yes. Really." Suddenly Mary rose from her chair; she clutched the -chair-back. "Oh, you cruel creature! you bad creature!" she cried -hoarsely. - -Camelia stared, open-mouthed. - -"Oh, you bad creature," Mary repeated. Camelia never forgot the look of -her--the ghastly white, stricken out of sharp shadows, the splash of -garish color on either cheek, the pale intensity of her eyes. She -noticed, too, the sharp prominence of Mary's knuckles as she clutched -the chair-back, and in her amazement stirred a certain, quite different -discomfort. She could find no words, and stared speechlessly at the -apparition. - -"You are cruel to every one," said Mary. "You don't care about any one. -You don't care about your mother--or about _him_, though you like to -have him there--loving you; you don't care about me--you never did--nor -thought of me. Well, listen, Camelia. I am dying; in a month I will be -dead; and _I_ love him. There! Now do you see what you have done?" - -A fierce joy filled her as she spoke the words out. To tear the bleeding -tragedy from its hiding-place, and make Camelia shudder, scream at -it--it brought relief, lightness; she breathed deeply, with a sense of -bodily dissolution; and Camelia's look was better than screams or -shudders. Let the truths go like knives to the heart that deserved them. -As she spoke Mary felt her wrongs gather around her like an army. She -had no fear. She straightened herself to send to her cousin a solemn -look of power. - -"You did not know I was dying; of course you would not know it--for you -think of nothing but yourself. There, do you see that handkerchief? I -have been coughing blood for a long time. Nothing can be done for me. -You know how my father died. And when I am dead, Camelia, you may say to -yourself, 'I helped to make the last year of her life black and -terrible--quite hideous and awful.' Yes; say it. Perhaps it will make -you feel a little badly." With the words all the anguish of those -baffled, suffering months came upon her. The sobs rose, panting; the -tears gushed forth. Staggering, she came round the chair and dropped -into it, and her sobs filled the silence. - -Camelia stood rooted in terror. She expected to see the sudden horror -fulfil itself, to see Mary die before her eyes, Mary's curse upon her, -and all her misdeeds one vague, menacing blackness. To clutch at any -doubt was impossible. From the first moment of her uprising Mary's body -had been like a shattered casket from which streamed a relentless light. -Camelia's eyes were unsealed; she saw that the casket was shattered--the -light convicted her. - -"What have I done?" she gasped. "Tell me, Mary, what is it?" - -She found a difficulty in speaking. She did not dare approach her -cousin. - -"I will tell you what you have done," said Mary, raising her head, and -again Camelia felt the hoarse intentness of her voice, like a steady -aiming of daggers. "You have taken from me the one thing--the only -thing--I had. I love him! He is nothing to you; and you took him from -me." - -"Oh, Mary! Took him from you!" - -"Yes, yes; you did not know. He did not know. _I_ saw it all. He might -have loved me had you not come back. He must have loved me, when I loved -him so much! oh, so much!" and, sobbing again, she pressed to her eyes -the blood-stained handkerchief, careless now of its revelations. - -"Oh, Mary!" cried Camelia, shuddering. - -"I was so happy last winter. He would come and read, and ride. He was so -kind. Auntie, and he, and I--it was the happiest time of my life. But -you came, and he never looked at me again! Oh, how horrible! how unjust! -Why should you have everything?--I nothing! nothing! I suppose you -thought me contented, since I was ugly, and poor, and stupid. And you, -because you are beautiful, and rich, and clever, you have everything! -That is all that counts! I am not selfish and cruel; at least, I used -not to be. I have thought about other people always! I have tried to do -right, and what have I got for it? My life has been a cheat! and I hate -it! And I am glad to die, because I see that you, who are bad, get all -the love, and that I will never have anything! And I see that I am -bad--that I have been made bad through having had nothing!" - -"Oh, Mary! forgive me! oh, forgive me!" Camelia found her knees failing -beneath her. She stretched her clasped hands towards her cousin. - -"I did not know; indeed, I did not! Indeed, I love you, Mary!--oh, I do -love you! We all love you!" She felt herself struggling, with weak, -desperate hands, against Mary's awful fate and her own guilt. "How can -you say that, when we all love you? know how good you are!--how sweet -and good--love you for it!" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. -Mary, who herself no longer sobbed, observed her. - -"Oh, you are a little sorry now," she said, in a voice of cold -impassiveness that froze Camelia's sobs to instant silence. "I make you -uncomfortable--a little more uncomfortable than when I cough. It is -strange that when I never did you any harm--always tried to please -you--you should have found pleasure in hurting me. Do you remember all -the little jeers at me before him? You mocked my dulness, my ugliness. -He did not laugh. It made him sad, because he did not like to see you -unbeautiful in anything; but he must have seen me more stupid, more ugly -than before. And when he was with me for one moment you would take him -away. And you lied to keep him to yourself, like that day we were to -have ridden together; and if you had known that I loved him you would -have been all the more anxious to have him--to hurt me." - -"No, no, Mary!" Camelia's helpless sobs burst out again. - -"Yes; why can I speak to you like this? because I am dying, you see that -I am dying--that gives me my only advantage; I can tell you what I think -of you, and you don't dare reply. You would not dare say to me now that -I am a spy--that I have sneaking eyes. I hate you, Camelia! I hate you! -Oh! oh!" She rose to her feet suddenly, and at the change of tone--the -wail--Camelia uncovered her eyes. - -"I am going to die! I am going to die! And I love him, and he does not -care." Mary groped blindly to a sofa, fell upon it, buried her head in -the cushions. - -Camelia rose to her feet, for she had been kneeling, and stood listening -to the dreadful sobs. - -Her life had never known a comparable terror. The blackness of Mary's -point of view encompassed her. She felt like a murderer in the night. -She crept towards the sofa. "Oh, forgive me, say a word to me." - -"Leave me; go away. I hate you." - -"Won't you forgive me?" The tears streamed down Camelia's cheeks. - -"Go away. I hate you," Mary repeated. There was a compulsion in the -voice Camelia could not disobey. Trembling and weeping she went out of -the room. - -Mary lay there sobbing. She had never so realized to the full the extent -and depth of her woe, yet there was relief in the realization, relief in -the flinging off of secrecy and shame. That Camelia should suffer, -however slightly, restored a little the balance of justice, satisfied a -little the outraged sense of solitary suffering, atoned a very little -for fate's shameful unfairness. To poor Mary, sobbing over her one -triumph, the morality of the universe seemed a little vindicated now -that she had taken into her own hand the long-delayed lash of -vengeance. - -Her weakened religious formalities and conventionalities withered under -this devouring, pagan flame. It was good to hate, and to revenge one's -self, good to see the smooth and smiling favorite of the cruel gods, -weeping and helpless. She was tired of rightness--tired of swallowing -her tears. - -The best thing in her life had been turned against her; everything was -at war with her. Well, she would crouch no longer, she would die -fighting, giving blow for blow. She threw her hands up wildly in -thinking of it all--beat them down into the cushions. To have had -nothing, nothing, and Camelia to have everything! Oh, monstrous -iniquity! Camelia, who had done no good, happy; she, who had done no -wrong, unutterably miserable. - -For a long time she lay sobbing, still beating her hands into the -cushion, a mechanical symbolizing of her rebellion and wretchedness. So -lying, all the blackness of the past and future surging over her, -engulfing her, she heard outside the sound of a horse's hoofs on the wet -gravel. A moment afterwards running footsteps came down the stairs and -crossed the hall. Mary pulled herself up from the sofa, and, with the -outer curiosity of utter indifference, walked to the window. Camelia's -horse stood before the door, a groom at his head. The drizzling mist -shut out all but the nearest trees, flat, pale silhouettes on the white -background, against which the horse's coat gleamed, a warm, beautiful -chestnut. Mary's indifference grew wondering. Her sobs ceased as she -gazed. The gaze became a stare, hard, fixed, as Camelia, in a flash, -sprang to the saddle. Mary saw her profile, bent impatiently, the -underlip caught between her teeth, the brows frowning, while the groom -adjusted her skirt. In a moment she was off at a quick trot, and soon a -sound of galloping died down the avenue. - -Mary stood rigidly looking after the sound. A supposition, too horrible, -too hideous, had come to her, too hideous, too horrible not to be true. -Its truth knocked, fiercely insistent, at her heart. Her knowledge of -Camelia, acute yet narrow, and confused by this latter suffering, sprang -at a bound to the logical deduction. - -Camelia could not bear suffering, revolted against it, snatched at any -shield. She had gone now to Perior, that he might lift from her this -dreadful load of responsibility, cast upon her so cruelly by Mary. He -must tell her that he had never thought of Mary, and that the idea of -robbery was a wild figment of Mary's sick brain. Mary's brain, though -sick, was clear, clear with the feverish lucidity that sees all with a -distinctness glaring and magnified. She saw all now. The meanness, the -cowardice of Camelia's proceeding only gave a deepened certainty. - -Then indeed shame came upon Mary. She saw herself gibbeted between them, -knew too well what he would think. He would himself hang her up, since -truth demanded it, and since Camelia must be comforted. The glaring -lucidity dazzled Mary a little at times, and now the awful justice of -Perior's character assumed in her eyes a Jove-like cruelty, that more -than matched Camelia's dastardliness. The past hour seemed painless in -comparison with the present moment; its blackness, in looking back at -it, was gray. To be debased, utterly debased, in his eyes--that was to -drink the very dregs of her cup of agony. Her hatred of Camelia was her -only guide in the night. She went into the hall and took down her hat -and cloak. She could not wait for Camelia's return. She must herself see -the actuality of her betrayal. Camelia might lie unless she could hold -the truth before her face; might say that she had not ridden to -Perior's. Mary would see for herself, and then--oh then! confronting -Camelia, she would find words, if she died in speaking them. - -She ran down the avenue and turned off into the woods by a short cut -that led more directly than the curving high road to the Grange. Her -weakness was braced by the fierceness of her purpose. She felt herself a -flame, hastening relentlessly through the smoke-like mist. - -The woods were cold and wet. She pushed past dripping branches, splashed -through muddy pools; the inner fire ignored its panting frame. When she -arrived at the foot of the hill on which stood the Grange, she knew that -Camelia must have been with him there for an hour or more. She could not -see the house through the heavy atmosphere, but, hidden by the trees and -fog, she could see the road and be herself unseen. On the edge of the -wood was a little stile; she shuddered with wet and cold as she sat down -on it to wait. She would wait for Camelia to pass, and then, by the same -hidden path, she could go home and confront her. Beyond that crash Mary -did not look. It seemed final. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -But Mary was quite mistaken--as absolute logic is apt to be when dealing -with human beings. Camelia, indeed, had gone to Perior, but on a very -different errand from the one Mary's imagination painted for her. -Camelia was not thinking of herself, nor of throwing off the iron chains -of that responsibility with which she felt herself manacled for life. -Mary's story had crushed every thought of self, beyond that -consciousness of riveted guilt. It was of Mary alone she thought as she -galloped through the mist. With terror and pity infinite she looked upon -Mary's love and the approaching death that was to end it; their tragedy -filled everything, and at the feet of the majestic presences her own -personality only felt itself as a cowering criminal. It was as though -the ocean of another's suffering had flooded the complacent rivers of -her life. They overflowed their narrow channels; they were engulfed, -effaced in the mighty desolation; never again could they find their -flowering banks, their sunny horizons. - -This moan of a suffering universe, heard before only in vaguest -whispers, the minor key of the happy melody that she had known, making -the melody all the sweeter for its half-realized web of sadness--this -moan was now like the tumult of great waters above her head, and a loud -outcrying of her awakened soul answered it. She was guilty--yes, as -guilty as Mary knew her to be, for all the mistaken deductions of Mary's -ignorance. She loved Perior, and he did _not_ love her; but those facts -in no way touched the other unalterable facts--a cruelty, a selfishness, -a blindness, hideous beyond words. - -Yet now she did not think of this guilt, irrevocable as it was. - -Mary--Mary--Mary. The horse's hoofs seemed to beat out the cry! Mary and -her fate. Camelia stood with Mary against that fate; but her attitude of -rebellion was even fiercer, more determined than poor Mary's flickering -light could have sustained. Mary good--with nothing. Virtue _not_ its -own reward. Suffering, crushing, unmerited suffering, eating away the -poor empty life. She herself bad, and the world at her feet. Camelia -felt herself capable of taking the immoral universe by the throat and -shaking it to death--herself along with it. - -She was galloping for help, yes, to Perior. He must help her, he alone -could help her, to clutch the malignant cruelty, tear it off Mary, and -then give her some gleam of happiness before she died. Camelia -straightened herself in the saddle at the thought. "She shall not die," -clenched her teeth on the determination. She might be saved. Who could -tell? One heard of wonderful cures. And at least, at least, she should -not die unhappy. Camelia would wrench happiness for her out of despair -itself. She would fight the injustice of the gods until her last breath -left her. - -All the pitiful humanity in Camelia clung to the human hope of -retribution and reward. Her mind fixed in this desperate hope, she could -take no thought of the coming interview; that would have implied a -retrospective glance at her last visit to the Grange, and Camelia could -not think of herself, nor even of Perior. - -The Grange was desolate on its background of leafless trees. Camelia, as -she dismounted at the door, looked down at the whiteness which brimmed -the valley; the tree-tops emerged from it as from a flood; but where she -stood there was no mist--a clear, sad air, and a few faint patches of -blue in a colorless sky above. She rang, holding the horse's reins over -her arm. Her habit was heavy with the wet, and her loosened hair clung -damply about her throat and forehead. Old Lane, when he appeared, showed -some alarm. She could infer from his expression what her own must be. - -"Mr. Perior? Yes, Miss; in the laboratory with Job Masters. Just go up, -Miss, and I'll take the horse round to the stables." - -The laboratory was at the top of the house. Camelia found herself -panting from the swiftness of her ascension when she reached the door. -Entering, she faced the white light from the wide expanse of window, -which overlooked on bright days miles of wooded, rolling country, to-day -the sea of mist. Perior's back was to her, and he was bending with an -intent interest over a microscope; a collection of glass jars was on the -table, and Job Masters, his elementary features lit by the intelligent -gravity of close attention, was standing beside him. Perior was -saying-- - -"Now, Job, take a look at it." His gray head did not turn. - -"It's Miss Paton, sir," Job volunteered. At that Perior rose hastily, -and Camelia advancing, looked vaguely at Job, at the microscope, at the -jars of infusoria. - -A thought of the last visit had shot painfully through Perior on hearing -her name, but, after one stare at her white face, his fear, freed from -any selfish terror, took on a sympathetic acuteness. - -"I must speak to you," she said. - -"Very well. You may go, Job," and as Job's heavy footsteps passed beyond -the door, "What is it, Camelia?" he asked, holding her hands, his -anxiety questioning her eyes. - -For a moment, the press of all that must be said crowding upon her, of -all that must be said with a self-control that must not waver or -misinterpret through weakness, Camelia could not speak. She looked at -him with a certain helplessness. - -"Sit down, you are faint," said Perior, greatly alarmed, but, shaking -her head, she only put her hand on the back of a chair he brought -forward. - -"I have something terrible to tell you, Michael." That she should use -his name impressed him even more than her announcement, emphasized the -gravity of the situation in which he was to find himself with her. In -the ensuing pause their eyes met with a preparatory solemnity. - -"Michael, Mary is dying." He saw then that her eyes seized him with a -deep severity of demand. The shock, though not unexpected, found him -unprepared. - -"She knows it?" he asked. - -"Yes, she knows it. Listen. She told me everything. It was more horrible -than you can imagine. She told me how cruel I had been to her--how I had -neglected her--how I had cut again and again into her very soul. She -hates me, she hates her life, but she is afraid of death. She is not -going to die happily, hopefully, as one would have thought Mary would -die. She is dying desperately and miserably, for she sees that being -good means merely being trodden on by the bad. She has had nothing, and -she regrets everything." Perior dropped again into the chair by the -table. He covered his eyes with his hands. - -"Poor child! Unhappy child!" he said. - -The shuddering horror of the morning came over Camelia. She clasped her -hands, pressing them against her lips. It seemed to her suddenly that -she must scream. - -"What does it mean? What does a life like that mean?" Her eyes, in all -their helpless guilt and terror, met his look of non-absolving pity. - -"It means that if one is good one is often trodden upon. We must accept -the responsibility for Mary's unhappiness. My poor Camelia," Perior -added, in tones of saddest comprehension, and he stretched out his hand -to her. But Camelia stood still. - -"Accept it!" she cried, and her voice was sharp with the repressed -scream. "Do you think I am trying to shirk it? Do you think that I do -not see that it is I--_I_, who trod upon her? Don't say 'We'; say 'You,' -as you think it. You need have no compunctions. I could have made her -happy--happier, at least, and I have made her miserable. I have -done--said--looked the cruellest things--confiding in her stupid -insensibility. I have crushed her year after year. I am worse than a -murderer. Don't talk of me--even to accuse me; don't think of me, but -think of _her_. Oh, Michael! let us think of her! Help me to mend--a -little--the end of it all!" - -"Mend it?" He looked at her, taken aback by her words, the strange -insistence of her eyes. "One can't, Camelia--one can't atone for those -things." - -"Then you mean to say that life _is_ the horror she sees it to be? She -sees it! There is the pity--the awful pity of it! Not even a merciful -blindness, not even the indifference of weakness! Morality is a gibe -then? Goodness goes for nothing--is trampled in the mud by the herd of -apes snatching for themselves! That is the world, then!" The fierce -scorn of her voice claimed him as umpire. Perior put his hand to his -head with a gesture of discouragement. - -"That is the world--as far as we can see it." - -"And there is no hope? no redemption?" - -"Not unless we make it ourselves--not unless the ape loses his -characteristics." He paused, and a deepened pity entered his voice as he -added, "You have lost them, Camelia." - -"Yes; I can hear the canting moralist now, with his noisome explanation -of vice and misery. Mary has been sacrificed to save _my_ soul, -forsooth! _My_ soul!" - -"Yes." Perior's monosyllable held neither assent nor repudiation. - -"Yes? And what does my miserable soul count for against her starved and -broken life?" - -"I don't know. That is for you to say." - -"I say that if virtue is to give a reward to vice, life is a nightmare." -Perior again put his hands over his eyes. The thought of poor Mary, -conscious of injustice, the sight of Camelia writhing in retributory -flames, made him feel shattered. - -"But I didn't come to talk about my problematic soul," said Camelia in -an altered voice; "I came to tell you about Mary." She approached him, -and stood over him as she spoke, so that he looked up quickly. - -"She will probably be dead in a month. She knows it; and, Michael, she -loves you." Perior flushed a deep red, but Camelia whitened to the lips. -He would have risen; she put her hand on his shoulder. - -"Impossible!" he said. - -"No, listen. She told me. She lashed me with it this morning--that -hopeless love--for she thinks that you love me--thinks that I am playing -with you. She loves you. She has loved you for years." - -"Don't say it, Camelia!" Perior cried brokenly. "Mary's disease explains -hysteria--melancholia--a pitiful fancy--that will pass--that should -never have been told to me." - -"Ah, don't shirk it!" her hand pressed heavily on his shoulder. "Her -disease made her tell me, I grant you, but you could not have doubted -had you heard her!--as I did! You understand that she must never -know--that I have told you." - -"I understand that, necessarily, and I must ask you from what motive -you think your revelation justified; it must be a strong one, for I -confess that the revelation seems to me unjustifiable--cruelly so." - -"I have a strong motive." - -"You did not come to pour out to me the full extent of poor Mary's -misfortune for the selfish sake of relieving, by confession, your -self-reproach? And, indeed, in this matter I cannot see that you are -responsible. It is a cruelty of fate, not yours." - -Camelia looked away from him for a moment, looked at the microscope. A -swift flicker of shame went through her, one thought of self, then, -resolutely raising her eyes, she said, "Am I not at all responsible? Are -you sure of that?" - -"Responsible for Mary loving me?" Perior stared, losing for a moment, in -amazement, his deep and painful confusion. - -"No; that is fate, if you will. But had I not come back last summer, had -I not claimed you, monopolized you, absorbed you. Ah! you are flushing; -don't be ashamed for me! I swear to you, Michael, that I am not giving -myself a thought, had I not set myself to work to make love to -you--there is the fact;--don't look away, I can bear it--can you tell me -that Mary might not have had the chance she so deserved, of slipping -sweetly and naturally into your heart--becoming your wife?" - -"Camelia!" Perior turned white. "I never loved Mary, never could have -loved her. Does that relieve you?" He keenly eyed her. - -"Don't accuse me of seeking relief! That is a cruelty I don't deserve. -If you never could have loved Mary, it is even more dreadful for me--for -it is still crueller for Mary. That she should love you. That you -should not care! could never have cared!" - -At this Perior rose and walked up and down the room. "Don't!" he -repeated several times. His wonder at Camelia interfused intolerably his -sorrow for Mary. - -Camelia followed him with steady eyes. The eagerness of decisive appeal -seemed to burn her lips as she said slowly-- - -"Ah, had you seen her! Had you heard her crying out that she was -dying--that she loved you--that you did not care!" - -"You must not say that." Perior stopped and looked at her sternly, "I am -not near enough. It is a desecration." - -"Ah! but how can I help her if I don't? How can _you_ help her? For it -is you, Michael, _you_. Can't you see it? You are noble enough. -Michael--you will marry Mary! Oh!"--at his start, his white look of -stupefaction, she flew to him, grasped his hands--"Oh, you must--you -_must_. You can make her happy--you only! And you will--say you will. -You cannot let her die in this misery! Say you cannot, Michael--oh, say -it!" And, suddenly breathless, panting, her look flashed out the full -significance of her demand. In all its stupefaction Perior's face still -retained something of its sternness, but he drew her hands to his -breast. "Camelia, you are mad," he said. - -"Mad?" she repeated. Her eyes scorned him; then, rapidly resuming their -appealing dignity, "You can't hesitate before such a chance for making -your whole life worth while." - -"Quite _mad_, Camelia," he repeated with emphasis. "I could not act such -a lie," he added. - -"A lie! To love, cherish that dying child! A better lie than most -truths, then! You are not a coward--surely. You will not let her die -so." - -"Indeed I must. Any pretence would be an insult. As it is, if Mary could -see you here, she would want to kill us both." - -"Not if she understood," said Camelia, curbing the vehemence of her -terrified supplication, the very terror warning her to calm. "And what -more would there be in it to hurt her?" - -"That _I_ should know--and should refuse. Good God!" - -"Where is the disgrace?" Camelia's eyes gazed at him fixedly. "Then we -are both disgraced--Mary and I." Her smile, bitterly impersonal, offered -itself to no interpretations, yet before it he steadied his face with an -effort. He could not silence her by the truth--that he loved her, her -alone; loved now her high, frowning look, her passionate espousal of -another's cause. Mary's tragic presence sealed his lips. He said -nothing, and Camelia's eyes, as they searched this chilling silence, -incredulous of its cruel resolve, filled suddenly and piteously with -tears. - -"Oh, Michael," she faltered. Scorn and defiance dropped from her face; -he saw only the human soul trembling with pity and hope. He did not dare -trust himself to speak--he could not answer her. Holding her hands -against his breast, he looked at her very sorrowfully. - -"Listen to me, Michael. I mustn't expect you to feel it yet as I -do--must I? That would be impossible. I only ask you to _think_. You see -the pathos, the beauty of Mary's love for you! for years--growing in her -narrow life. Think how a smile from you must have warmed her heart--a -look, a little kindness. She adores you. And this consciousness of -death, this nearing parting from you--you who do not care--leaving even -the dear sight of you. Think of her going out alone, unloved, into the -darkness--the everlasting darkness and silence--with never one word, one -touch, one smile, to hold in her heart as hers, meant for her, with -love. Oh, I see it hurts you!--you are sorry; oh, blessed tears! You -cannot bear it, can you? Michael, you will not let her go uncomforted? -She is not strong, or brave, or confident. She is sick, weak, -terrified--a screaming, shuddering child carried away in the night. -Michael!"--it was a cry; she clasped his hands in hers--"you will walk -beside her. You will kiss her, love her, and she will die happy--with -her hand in yours!" Her eyes sought his wildly. He had never loved her -as he loved her now, and though his tears were for Mary, the power, the -freedom of his love for Camelia was a joy to him even in the midst of a -great sadness. He could not have kissed her or put his arms around her; -the dignity of her abasement was part of the new, the sacred loveliness, -and it was more in pity than in love that he took the poor, distraught, -beautiful face between his hands and looked at her a negation, pitiful -and inarticulate. She closed her eyes. He saw that she would not accept -the bitterness. - -"I will do all I can," he then said; "but, dear Camelia, dearest -Camelia, I cannot marry her." - -It was a strange echo. Camelia drew away from him. - -"What can you _do_? She knows you are her friend; that only hurts." - -"Does it?" He saw now, through the unconscious revelation, the greatness -of her love for him, and saw that in the past he had not understood. She -loved him so much that there was left her not a thought of self. Her -whole nature was merged in the passionate wish that he should fulfil her -highest ideal of him. He saw that she would have laid down her life for -him--or for Mary, as she stood there, and, for Mary, she expected an -equal willingness on his side. - -"It would only be an agony to her," Camelia said; "she would fear every -moment that she would betray herself to you, as she betrayed herself to -me. Can't you see that? Understand that?" Desperately she reiterated: -"You must pretend! You must lie! You must tell her that you love her! -You must marry her, take her away to some beautiful country--there are -places where they live for years; make a paradise about her. You -_must_." She looked sternly at him. - -"No, Camelia, no." - -"You mean that basest no?" She was trembling, holding herself erect as -she confronted him; her white face, narrowly framed by the curves of -loosened hair, tragic with its look of reprobation. - -"I mean it. I will not. You will see that I am right. It would be a -cruel folly, a dastardly kindness, a final insult from fate. And I do -not think only of Mary--I think of myself; I could not lie like that." - -Her silent woe and scorn, frozen now to a bleak despair, dwelt on him -for a long moment, then, without another word, she turned from him and -left him, making, by the majesty of her defeated wrong, his victorious -right look ugly. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -Camelia galloped home furiously. The tragedy was then to be consummated. -He would not put out a finger to avert it. Mary would go down into the -pit of nothingness, and her love, her agony, her strivings after good, -would be as though they had never been. - -"And _I_ live," thought Camelia, as she galloped, and her thoughts -seemed to gallop beside her; they were like phantom shapes pressing on -her from without, for she did not want to think. "_I_, thick-skinned, -dull-souled I. Yes, materialism wins the day. Morality is a lie, evolved -for the carpeting of lives like mine, for the preservation of the -fittest!--_I_ being fittest! To those that have shall be given, and from -those who have not shall be taken away--the law of evolution. Oh! -hideous, hideous! Oh, horror!--not even the ethical straw of development -to grasp at; Mary's suffering has warped her, lowered her. She has been -tortured into rebellion against her own sweet rectitude; she, who only -asked to love--hates; she, who lived in a peaceful renunciation, now -struggles, thinks only of herself." - -It was this last thought that seemed to lean beside her, look into her -eyes with the most intolerable look. Mary--inevitably lowered. The -blackness shuddered through her. Camelia on that ride tasted the very -dregs of doubt and despair, and knew the helplessness of man before -them. She could have killed herself, had not a sullen spark, the last -smouldering from the fire of resolution that had burned in her as she -rode to Perior, still lit one path through the darkness. She must throw -herself at Mary's feet, seek and give comfort through her own extreme -abasement. She must cling to Mary, supplicating her to believe in her -infinite love and pity. Could not that love, when all errors were -explained, reach and hold her? Camelia felt her defiance of eternity -clasp Mary forever. But when she reached home Mary was not there. -Camelia panted as she ran from room to room; her desire, thrown back, -rose stiflingly. She was afraid of seeing her mother, for at a look, a -question, she felt that her suspense of hard self-control would break -down; she might scream and rave. She sent a few words to Lady Paton by a -servant; she was tired and was going to rest--must not be -disturbed--then she locked herself into her own room. - -Some hours passed before she heard Mary's voice outside demanding -entrance, hours that Camelia was to look back on as the blackest of her -life, so black that all in them, every thought and impulse, made an -indistinguishable chaos, where only her suffering, a trembling leaf -tossing on deepest waters, knew itself. In looking back, she remembered -that she had not once moved until the knock came, and that, on going to -open the door, her hand had so shaken that it fumbled for some moments -with the key. - -Mary stood on the threshold. She was splashed with mud. Beside the -whiteness of her face, Camelia's was passive in its pain. Mary closed -the door, and, as Camelia retreated a little before her, leaned back -against it. Her eyes went at once over Camelia's wet habit and -dishevelled hair; she had expected a careful effacement of all signs of -the guilty errand; Camelia could not now deny the ride. The thought of a -brazen avowal made Mary close her eyes for a moment. She had to struggle -with a sick faintness, as she leaned against the door, before she could -put that monstrous thought aside and say, returning to her first -impulse, and opening her eyes as she spoke-- - -"I know where you have been." - -Camelia stood still. This unexpected blow confused the direct vision of -appeal and abasement that upheld her. She must face an unlooked-for -contingency, and her mind seemed to reel a little as she faced it. - -"You followed me, Mary?" she asked, with a gentleness bewildered. - -"Yes, I followed you." - -Camelia was now becoming conscious of the definiteness of Mary's heavy -stare. It was like a stone, and under the weight of it she groped, -staggering, in a wilderness of formless conjectures. Mary could not know -why she had gone. A pang of terror shot through her. Mary's next words -riveted the terror. - -"I saw you. I know why you went. I know everything," said Mary. -Camelia's horror kept silence, though the room seemed to whirl round -with her. Had Mary by some unknown means reached the Grange before she -did? Had she been hidden near the laboratory? Had she heard? Were all -merciful lies impossible? She felt her very lips freeze in a rigid -powerlessness. - -"You went to tell him that I loved him?" Mary's eyes opened widely as -she spoke, and she walked up to her cousin, close to her. - -"You told him that I loved him," she repeated, and Camelia in her -nightmare horror felt the hatred of the pale eyes. - -"You don't dare deny that you told him." No, Camelia did not dare deny. -She looked down spellbound at Mary. She was afraid of her, horribly -afraid of her. It was like the approach of a nightmare animal, its -familiar seeming making its strangeness the more awful. She did not dare -deny. She could not move away from her; she was paralyzed in her dread. -Mary looked at her as though conscious of her own power. - -"You told him, so that he might comfort you, tell you he had never loved -me, never could have loved me. You betrayed me to save yourself from -that reproach of robbing me." It was like awakening with a gasp that -Camelia now cried-- - -"No, no, Mary! Oh no." - -She could speak. She could clasp her hands. "No, no, no," she repeated -almost with joy. - -"You lie. You are lying. What is the good of lying to me now? It is easy -for you to lie. You went to ask him the truth, and he gave it to you. -For he would never have loved me, whatever I may have hoped--even -believed at moments." - -"No, Mary; no, no!" Mary's dreadful supposition made Camelia feel the -reality as a peace, a refuge. That world of black cruelty where Mary -wandered, that at least was untrue, an illusion. Not hatred, not deceit -surrounded her, but love, and pity, and tenderness. - -"I did not go for that, Mary," she cried. "Listen, Mary, you are wrong; -thank God, you are wrong. I did not go because I was sorry for myself; I -did not go basely. I was so sorry for you," said Camelia, sobbing and -speaking brokenly, while Mary looked at her in a stern tearless silence, -"I knew he would be sorry. I knew we both loved you, and I wanted him to -marry you, Mary." - -"_What!_" Mary's voice was terrible; yet Camelia clung to the courage of -her love, confident that the truth alone could now reveal it--all the -truth. - -"Yes, dearest Mary, yes. There was no hatred, only a longing to make you -happy--to help atone; only love, not hatred." - -"You are telling me the truth?" - -They were standing still before each other. Camelia could not interpret -the pale eyes. - -"Mary, I swear it before God." - -"And he will not marry me!" - -"He loves you, as I do." - -"He will not marry me!" - -"Let me only tell you--everything; it is not you only----" - -"You tossed me to him--and he refused me! How dare you! How dare you! -How dare you!" And Mary, a revelation of rage and detestation flaming up -in her eyes, distorting her face, struck her cousin violently on the -cheek. - -Camelia stood dazed. The blow interpreted, too well, Mary's attitude. -She could not resent, nor even wonder, could only accept the retribution -of cruel misunderstanding and bow her head. She covered her face with -her hands and wept. Except for this sound of weeping the room was still. -In the darkness of her humiliation--shut in behind her hands--Camelia -felt, at last, the silence. She looked up. Mary was once more leaning -against the door. Her eyes were closed. Camelia went to her, took her -hand, and Mary made no motion. Raising the hand to her lips Camelia -kissed it; its coldness chilled the smarting of the blow. Mastering her -terror Camelia put her arms around her, and, Mary sinking forward into -them, she gathered up the piteously light figure and carried it to the -bed. - -"Mary--Mary--Mary," she murmured, staring at the head which lay so -still, so solemnly. Was she dead? Camelia struck aside the thought of a -so cruel finality. Strengthened by her rebellion she sprang to open the -door, and the house resounded with her cries for help. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -The servant, as he showed Perior into the drawing-room, told him that -Miss Fairleigh was dying, and the imminence of the tragedy was -sorrowfully emphasized by Lady Paton's woe-stricken face, as she came in -to him. - -"Yes, Michael, dying," she said before he spoke; his look had asked the -question. He took her hands, and they sat down, finding a comfort in -being together, and Perior was in as much need of it as she, felt not -one whit stronger before the approaching end. - -"Tell me about it. It has been so sudden." - -Lady Paton sobbed out the sad facts. Her own blindness; poor Mary's long -concealment--too successful; the doctor's fatal verdict. - -"I was blind, too," said Perior, "though I always feared it." - -"Ah! that is the cruellest part of it! And her indifference--she does -not seem to care; she does not speak to any of us." - -"Not to Camelia? Is Camelia with her?" - -Perior's heart must spare some of its aching to his unhappy Camelia. - -"She has not once left her. She is so brave; I can only cry; but it has -made Camelia already different; a strength, a gentleness, yet a despair. -She feels it terribly, Michael, and the first shock was hers. Mary was -out all yesterday afternoon--in the wet and cold, and when she came in -she fainted in Camelia's room." - -Perior looked at her, pondering this sinister announcement. - -"I should like to see Mary--when she is able," he said. - -"Yes. She must have her friends about her, my poor, poor child. Ah -Michael! I can never forgive myself." - -"Why do you say that? You gave Mary all her sunshine." - -"Not enough! not enough! She must have seen that it was Camelia, only -Camelia, in whom my heart was bound up. She must have felt it." - -Perior sighed heavily. He, too, had regrets. Had he but known, guessed -what he had been to Mary! But he said, "Don't exaggerate that; Mary must -have understood; it was inevitable, quite, and pardonable. Camelia was -your daughter." - -"Ah! Camelia had so much, Mary so little!" and to this Perior must -perforce assent. - -Meanwhile Camelia sat by Mary's side. She divided the vigils with the -nurse who came down from London. She found that her eternal -self-reproach had strengthened her. She could bear its steady -contemplation and soothe her mother's more helpless grief. - -Mary was sinking fast. During the next three days she hardly spoke, -though her eyes followed the ministering figures that moved about her -bed. Conscious that she was dying, but wrapped in an emotionless -sadness, she watched them all indifferently, and slept quietly from time -to time. It was going to be much easier than she had thought. Hardly a -thread bound her to life; even her passionate hatred of Camelia was -dimmed by the creeping mists; even her love for Perior wailed, it -seemed, at a long distance from her; she listened to it as she lay -there; only at moments came a throb of pain for all the happiness she -had never had. Camelia meeting the calm eyes would smile tremulously, -but Mary gave no answering smile, and her eyes kept all their calm. - -Camelia had to hold firmly to the self-abnegation of perfect -self-control to keep down the cry of confession that would give her -relief, that would perhaps admit her to Mary's heart; it was not until -the third night, as she sat beside her, that the yearning allowed itself -to grow to hope. Mary's eyes, on this night, turned more than once from -their vacant gaze and dwelt upon her with a fixity almost insistent. - -Camelia dared, at last, to take in both her own the tragic hand that lay -on Mary's chest, and, after a timid pause, she raised it to her lips. It -lay resistless; she held it against her cheek; through the dimness, Mary -felt the tears wetting it. - -The merciful hardness about her heart seemed to melt. She knew a keener -pang, a longer aching, that did not end and give her peace again. It was -not calm, after all, not good to die with that unloving frost holding -one. She lay in silence, looking, in the faint light, at her cousin's -bent head, the ruffled outline of the golden hair. The thought of -Camelia's beauty bowed in this desolation touched her sharply, -intolerably. She felt her heart beating heavily, and suddenly, -"Camelia, I am sorry," she said. - -Camelia clasped the imprisoned hand to her breast, and leaned forward. - -"Sorry! Oh, Mary--what have you to be sorry for?" - -"I was wicked--I hated you--I struck you." - -"I deserved hatred, dear Mary." - -"I should not hate you. It hurts me." - -"Oh my darling!" sobbed her cousin, rising, and bending over her. - -"It hurts me," Mary repeated, but in a voice unmoved. - -"Do you still hate me, Mary?" - -There was a pause before she answered--and then with a certain -faltering, "I--don't know." - -"Will you--can you listen, while I tell you something?" said Camelia -almost in a whisper--for Mary's voice was hardly more, "I must tell you, -Mary, I deserve everything you said, and yet--you misjudged me. Will you -hear the truth?" Camelia clasped the hand more tightly to her breast. "I -am not going to defend myself--I only want you to know the truth; -perhaps--you will be a little sorry for me then--and be able to love -me--a little." - -Mary looked up at her silently, and, when she paused, said nothing; yet -her intent look seemed to assent. - -"It will not give you pain," Camelia said tremblingly, "the pain is all -mine here. Mary--I love him too." The words came with a sob. She sank -into the chair, and dropping Mary's hand she leaned her elbows on the -bed and hid her face. - -"I loved him, Mary, and--I imagined that he must love me. My vanity was -so great that I thought I could choose or reject him. I accepted Sir -Arthur--from spite--partly, and then I was dreadfully frightened. On the -very day I accepted Sir Arthur I sent for Mr. Perior. Mary, I made love -to him. I did not tell him I was engaged; I wanted to escape from that -blunder unscathed. I could not believe in his embarrassment, nor in the -reality of his scorn when he found me out. I broke my engagement--as you -know. I went to Mr. Perior's house. I entreated him to love me--I hung -about his neck, cried, implored. He did not love me; he rejected me. He -scorns me--he is sorry for me; he is my friend, but he scorns me. I was -not playing with him--you see that now. I adore him--and he does not -love me at all." - -Uncovering her face, Camelia found Mary's eyes fixed upon her. - -"Do you understand now, Mary, why I went to him? I loved you so--was so -sorry for you--so infinitely sorry--for had I not felt it all? I never -told him that you thought he might have loved you; but I thought it -myself, I thought that he might love you, indeed, when he _knew_ -you--knew the sweetness, the sadness of your hidden love. If he refused, -Mary, it was because he respected you too highly and himself--to act any -falsity towards you. It was not like my rejection; there was no shame, -no abasement for you. You have his reverent pity, his deep, loving -devotion. Don't regret, dear Mary, that through my well-meant folly he -really knows you now." She paused, and Mary still lay silent, slowly -closing and unclosing her hand on the sheet. - -"Believe me, Mary," said Camelia, the monotony of her recitative -yielding to an appealing tremor, "I have told you the truth--the very -truth. I have not hidden a thought from you." - -"You love him?" Mary asked, almost musingly. - -"Yes, dear, yes. We are together there." - -"I never saw it; never guessed it." - -"Like you, Mary, I can act." - -"And you wanted him to marry me," Mary added presently, pondering it -seemed. - -"Oh, Mary!" said Camelia, weeping, "I did. I longed for it, prayed for -it--I would have given my life to have him marry you. Mary, believe me, -when I tell you that to atone in however a little measure for your -dreary life, I would die--oh gladly, gladly." - -"Would it not have been worse than dying?" Mary asked in a voice that -seemed suddenly to subtly smile, though she herself lay unsmiling in the -shadowed whiteness of the bed. - -"What--worse?" - -"To see him marry me." Camelia gazed at her. - -"I think, Mary," she said presently, "I could have seen it without one -pang for myself; I would have been too glad for you to think of that. -And then--he does not love me. The iron entered my soul long ago. I have -long since lost even the bitterness of hope." - -"And he does not love you," Mary repeated quietly, raising her eyes and -looking away a little. - -"He does not, indeed." - -Camelia's quivering breaths quieted to a waiting depth. But Mary for a -long time said nothing more. Her hand lay across her breast, and above -it her face now surely smiled. - -At last she turned her eyes on her cousin. Looking at her very gently, -she said, "But I love you, Camelia." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -Camelia was sitting again by Mary's bed when Perior was announced the -next morning. - -"You must go and see him to-day," said Mary. - -"Why--must I?" - -"I should like to see him," Mary's voice had now a thread only of -breath; to speak at all she had to speak very slowly, "and you must tell -him first, that I know." - -"Mary--dear----" - -"I do not mind." - -"No, one does not, with him. I will see him, tell him. - -"Talk--be nice to him; do not be angry with him because he will not -marry me." Her smile hurt Camelia, who bent over her, saying-- - -"If I had not gone!--you would not be here now; we might have kept you -well much longer." - -"That would have been a pity--wouldn't it?" said Mary, quite without -bitterness. - -"Oh, Mary! Could we not have made you happy?" - -"Perhaps it is knowing that I can never be well that keeps me now from -being sad," Mary answered; "don't cry, Camelia--I am not sad." - -But Camelia cried as she went down the stairs. - -A pale spring sunshine filled the morning-room, where she found Perior. -She had hardly noticed the outside world for the last few days, and it -gave her now a sweetly poignant shock to see that the trees were all -blurred with green, a web of life embroidering the network of black -branches; beyond them a high, pale, spring sky. She saw the green really -before seeing Perior, for he was looking at it, his back turned to her -as she came in. Then, as he faced her, his aging struck her more -forcibly than the world's renewal of youth. As she looked at him, and -despite the memory of their last words together, despite the tears upon -her cheeks, she smiled. She had forgiven him. He had been right, she -wrong; and then--his sad face, surely his hair had whitened? The love -for Mary that overflowed her heart seemed to clasp him in its pity and -penitence, but she could only feel it as the overflow. - -"She wants to see you," she said, giving him her hand, and she added, -for the joy of last night must find expression, "She knows everything. -She followed me that day--and half guessed the truth--only half; I had -to tell her all. And she has forgiven me--for everything." Camelia bent -her forehead against his shoulder and sobbed--"She is dying!--and she -loves me!" - -"My darling Camelia," said Perior, putting his hand on her hair. - -To Camelia the words could only mean that he forgave--and loved--as Mary -did; but she felt the deep peace of truest union. - -"Then she is dying in the sunshine, isn't she?" he added, "not in that -horrible darkness." - -"Yes--but such a cold, white sunshine. It is because she feels no -longer. It is peace--not happiness; just 'peace out of pain.'" - -"And cannot we two doubters add, 'With God be the rest'?" - -"We must add it. To hope so strongly--is almost to believe, isn't it? -Come to her now." - -She left him at Mary's door. - -The nurse, with her face of hardened patience, rose as he entered. - -"I will leave you with Miss Fairleigh, sir. Call me if I am needed." - -Her look was significant. - -Perior felt his heart shake a little as he went round the white curtain. -He was afraid. If he should blunder--stab the ebbing life with some -stupidity! Something of this tender fear showed in his look at the dying -girl, and the fear deepened for a moment to acutest pain at sight of -her. Was that the Mary he had last seen sitting over the account -books?--the Mary he had fatuously told to keep cheerful? Remorse wrung -his heart. But as for the fear of hurting her, Mary was very far beyond -all little mundane tremors, and they faded away, ashamed for having -been, as he clasped her hand, and met her eyes; their still smile -quieted even his pain, and wrapped him in its awe and beauty. - -He sat down beside her, keeping her hand in his. - -"Dear Mary," he said. - -For a long time she did not speak; indeed Perior thought that she might -not wish to employ the coarser medium of communication, could not, -perhaps; her eyes, as they rested upon him, seemed amply significant; -but he could not fathom, quite, their ultimate meaning. Perhaps a great -sadness underlay their calm. But at last, very faintly and very slowly -she said-- - -"You saw Camelia." - -"Yes." - -"You know--that I was--cruel to Camelia?" - -"No, I did not know." - -"I was." - -"I cannot believe that, Mary." - -"I was, I misjudged her. I struck her. She did not tell you that?" - -"No," said Perior, after the little pause his surprise allowed itself. - -"I did, I struck her," Mary repeated, with a certain placidity. "You -understand?" she added. - -Perior was putting two and two together; the result was clearly -comprehensible. - -"Yes, I understand," he said. - -"Camelia understood too." - -"Yes," Perior repeated his assent, adding, "You have saved Camelia, -Mary; I don't think she can ever again be blind--or stupid." - -"Camelia--stupid?" Mary's little smile was almost arch. - -"That is the kindest word, isn't it?" Perior smiled back at her, "Let us -be kind, for we are all of us stupid--more or less; you very much less, -dear Mary." - -Mary's look was grave again, though it thanked him. "You are kind. -Camelia has been very unhappy," the words were spoken suddenly, and -almost with energy. - -"I don't doubt that." Mary closed her eyes, as if all effort, even the -passive effort of sight, must be concentrated in her words. - -"And I am afraid--she will be very unhappy about me." - -"That is unavoidable." - -"But--unjust. She is nothing--that I thought. Nothing is her fault. It -is no one's fault.--I was born--not rich, not pretty, not clever, not -even contented; it is no one's fault. I have been cruel. You must -comfort her," and Mary suddenly opening her eyes looked at him fixedly. -"You must comfort her," she repeated, adding, "I know that you love -Camelia." - -Perior, with some shame, felt the red go over his face. Mary observed -his confusion calmly. - -"You need not mind telling me," she said. - -"Dear Mary, I am abased before you." - -"That isn't kind to me," Mary smiled. "You do love her--do you not?" - -"Yes, I love her." - -"And she loves you." - -"I have thought it--sometimes," said Perior, looking away. - -"She has always loved you. You too have misjudged Camelia. She told -me--last night--she told me that you had rejected her." - -"Did she, Mary?" Perior looked down at the hand in his. - -"Yes--through love of me. You understand?" - -"Perfectly." - -"It brought us together," said Mary, closing her eyes again. - -She lay so long without speaking that Perior thought she must, in her -weakness, have fallen asleep, but at last she said, the words wavering, -for her breath was very shallow, "That is what Camelia needed. Some -one--to love--a great deal----" And with an intentness, like the last -leap of a dying flame, she added, looking at him, "You will marry -Camelia." - -"If Camelia will have me," said Perior, bending over her hand and -kissing it. - -A gleam of gaiety, of pure joyousness, shone on Mary's face. Humorously, -without a shadow of bitterness, she said, "I win--where Camelia failed!" - -The tears rushed to Perior's eyes. He could not speak. He rose, and -stooping over her, he took her in his arms and kissed her. - -"Ah!" she said quickly, "it is much better to die. I love you." She -looked up at him from the circle of his arms. "How could I have lived?" - -At the great change in her face he wondered if he had done well in -yielding to the impulse of pure tenderness; but still supporting her -fragile shoulders he said, stammering-- - -"Dear child--in dying--you have let us know you--and adore you." - -The light ebbed softly from her eyes as she still looked up at him. -"Perhaps--I told you--hoping it----" she murmured. These words of -victorious humility were Mary's last. When Camelia came in a little -while afterwards she saw that Mary's smile knew, and drew her near; but -standing beside her, holding her hand, she felt that Mary would not -speak to her again. Through her tears she looked across the bed at -Perior; his head was bowed on the hand he held; his shoulders shook -with weeping. At the unaccustomed sight a half dull wonder filled her. - -For a long time Mary smiled before her, as they held her hands; and -Camelia only felt clearly that the smile was white and beautiful. She -waited for it to turn to her again. Only on meeting Perior's solemn look -the sense of final awe smote upon her. - -"She is dead," he said. - -To Camelia the smile seemed still to live. - -"Dead!" she repeated. Perior gently put the hand he held on Mary's -breast. - -"Not dead!" said Camelia, "she had not said good-bye to me!" - -Perior came to her; his silence, that could not comfort, answered her. -She fell upon her knees beside the bed, and her desperate sobs wailed -uselessly against the irretrievable. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -It was many weeks afterwards that he told her what Mary had said. Her -woe, not selfish, but inconsolable, made it impossible that during the -first days of bereavement he should do more than help and sustain her by -the fullness of a friendship now recognized as deep and unrestrained. - -It was she herself who asked him one day if Mary had said anything that -he could tell her, had spoken of her with a continuation of the -forgiveness, her trust in which made life possible. Camelia, in her new -devotion to her mother, its vehemence almost alarming Lady Paton, -controlled for her sake all tears and lamentations, but lying on a sofa -this afternoon, alone in the twilight, the tears had risen, and they -were falling fast when Perior came in and sat down beside her. It was -then that she asked him about Mary. - -"She told me what you said to her the night before she died," Perior -answered, and Camelia let him take her hand. She lay reflecting for some -moments before saying-- - -"She wanted you to think as well of me as possible." - -"She wanted to make me happy. She knew that you were mistaken." - -"How mistaken?" Camelia asked from her pillow. - -His voice had been unemphatic, but in the slight pause that followed -her question she felt that his eyes dwelt upon her, and she looked up at -him. - -"You told her--that I did not love you." Camelia lay silent, her hand in -his, her eyes on his eyes. - -"You believed that, didn't you?" he asked. - -"How could I help believing it?" - -"Ah! that shows a trust in me! Well, Mary did not believe it. Mary told -me that I loved you." - -"And do you?" cried Camelia. She took her hand away, sat upright, and -faced him. Perior was forced to smile a little at the baldness of his -answering, "I do, Camelia." - -"You did not know till----" - -"Oh, I knew all along," Perior confessed, interrupting her. Camelia's -eyes widened immensely as she took in the astounding revelation. He -replied to their silent interrogations with "I have been a wretched -hypocrite. How I convinced you of the lie I don't know." - -"And you told that to Mary." He saw now that her gaze passed him, -ignored him and his revelation in its personal bearing. - -"I told her the truth. It did not hurt her. She was far above such -hurts. You had showed her that you were worthy of any love. To share her -secret made her happy." - -"Happy! Oh, Mary! Mary!" Camelia murmured, looking away from him. "It -must have hurt," she added. "Ah, it must have hurt." - -"She was as capable of nobility as you--that was all." - -"As I!" It was a cry of bitterness. - -"As you, indeed. I feel between you both what a poor creature I am. I -suppose I did for a test. You proved yourselves on me." - -There was silence for a little while. Camelia looked out of the window -at the spring evening. It was here they had sat together on that day of -their first meeting after her return. Her mind went back to it in all -the sorrow of hopeless regret. What had Mary been to her then? - -"What more did she say?" she asked at last in a voice of utter sadness. -She still looked out of the window, but when he answered, "She said that -you loved me," she looked at him. - -"Is that still true, Camelia?" he asked, smiling gravely and with a -certain timidity. - -"So you know, at last, how much." - -"My darling." His tone brought the tears to her eyes; they rolled down -her cheeks while she said brokenly, "And I told her; I gave her the -weapon--and she smiled at us. Oh, that smile!" - -"There was triumph in it. She asked me to marry you, Camelia, and I said -I would--if you would have me. But, I must not ask you now--must I?" He -sat down beside her on the sofa, and kissed her hand. - -"Ah, no; don't think of that. It would kill me, I think, if for one -moment I forgot." - -"You need not forget--yet you may be happy, and make me happy." - -"Oh, you don't know," said Camelia, clasping her hands and looking down -at them, "you don't know. Even you don't know how wicked I have been." - -"We all have such dark closets in our hearts. Don't shut yourself in -yours." - -"I don't shut myself. I am locked in. That is my punishment. Michael," -and she looked round at him without turning her head, "I think of -nothing else; that I made her miserable--that I made her glad to die. I -must tell you. You don't know how I treated her. I remember it all -now--years and years--so plainly. I robbed her of everything. If a -sunbeam fell on her path I stood between her and it." - -Perior was silent, but putting his hand over hers he held it faithfully. - -"Listen. Let me tell you a few--only a few--of the things I remember. I -don't know why you love me!--how you can love me! It hurts me to be -loved!" she sobbed suddenly. - -"If it will help you, tell me everything. And I must love you, even if -it hurts you." - -And, her hand in that faithful hand, her eyes on his, demanding -inflexible judgment, Camelia began the long confession--a piteous tale, -indeed. All the blots and failings gathered in a huge blackness; she -spoke from it. He felt as she spoke that the clasp of his hand was her -one link with revival. It was a piteous tale: for the robbery of Mary's -ride, the brutal taunts flung at her on that winter night--these were -but the bigger drops in the sea of selfish thoughtlessness. After each -incident, rounded with a succinct psychology that showed her pitiless -clearness of vision, she paused, as if waiting for him to speak. His -silence seemed to acquiesce, and she wanted no soothing denial. And even -now his hand held hers, and did not cast her off. When she had done, and -after the silence had grown long, he said-- - -"And so I might lay bare my heart to you." - -"I would not be afraid of its dark corner. You have never been meanly -selfish, never trodden on people." - -"But I might affirm other things. I will open the door if it will help -you to sit down with me in the doubled darkness." - -"No, dear Michael, no. Mine is enough." - -"I have heard you; and may I now tell you again that I love you?" - -"Not again. Not now. But I am glad that you love me. I feel it. I should -like to sit like this forever, just feeling it, with my hand in yours." - -This very debatable love-scene must be Perior's only amorous consolation -for many months. Of her quiet content in his presence there could be no -doubt. No barrier, no pain, was now between them. Their union was -achieved, as if by a mere wave-wash, effacing one misunderstanding--it -hardly seemed more now, nor their change of relation apparent; but under -all Camelia's courage was the fixed determination to allow herself no -happiness. Superficially there was almost gaiety at times; her regret -would never become conventional or priggish; but even Lady Paton did not -guess that Camelia and Michael were lovers, although a secret hope--very -wonderful, and carefully hidden--painted for her future rosy -possibilities. With all the sadness, with all the regret, these days -were the happiest Lady Paton had known; and as Camelia's devotion was -exclusively for her, she could not guess that the secret hope was -already realized. - -Yet Camelia did not leave her silent lover utterly bereft. After the -deep gravity of the first avowal her little demonstrations were of a -light, an almost mocking order. In this new phase she returned to the -teasing fondness of the old one; and sometimes the central tenderness -would pierce the lightness. - -Perior could afford patience. Reading one afternoon in the library (his -daily presence at Enthorpe was a matter of course), he heard steps -behind him, then felt her hand clasp over his eyes. - -"You are keeping on--loving me?" she demanded. - -"Yes, I am keeping on," said Perior, turning his page with a masterly -calm. He knew that the little outburst conceded nothing, and that even -when Camelia dropped a swift kiss on his hair he was by no means -expected to retaliate. - -For the lighter mood the cottages made endless subjects for conversation -and discussion. In talking--squabbling amicably--over their interior -civilization, Camelia felt that she and Perior had much the playful -gravity of children making sand pies at the seaside. - -Camelia insisted on her prints and photographs, and on hanging them -herself. She had fixed theories on the decoration of wall-spaces. - -Perior held the ladder and criticised. "They are quite out of place, you -know. That exotic art is most incongruous. It jars." Camelia was hanging -up a modern print after Hiroshighe. - -"It wouldn't jar on us, would it?" she asked, driving in a nail. - -"We are exotic mentally." - -"Let us train them to a more cosmopolitan out-look, then." - -"They would far prefer the colored prints from Christmas numbers." - -"Well, they shan't have them!" Camelia declared, and he laughed at her -determined tyranny. But when her tenants were duly installed Camelia was -forced to own that the honest forces of the soil were difficult to -manage. She came in to tea one afternoon with the announcement, that the -Dawkins had taken down all their prints and put up flower-entwined texts -and horrible colored advertisements. Mrs. Dawkins had said that her -husband objected to "those outlandish women"; they made him feel "quite -creepy like." - -Later on she had to confess that the Coles by no means appreciated their -photographs of the Sistine Sibyls, so charmingly placed along the walls, -and that from among them glared a well-fed maiden with upturned, -prayerful, and heavily-lashed eyes; testifying to the Coles' religious -instincts and to their only timid opposition. - -"How can they be so stupid!" cried Camelia. "And how can I!" - -"You can't grow roses on cabbages, Camelia," said Perior, "to say -nothing of orchids. You are demanding orchids of your cabbages." - -"Desire precedes function," Camelia replied sententiously, "if the -cabbages want to, very much, they may grow orchids. I shall still -hope." - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -On a beautiful October afternoon a visitor came to Enthorpe. - -Camelia was summoned to find Mrs. Fox-Darriel in the drawing-room. Mrs. -Fox-Darriel, with a pastoral hat--rather Gallic in its conscious -innocence--tipped over her emphasized eyes, her gown of muslin and lace -very fluffy on very rigid foundations, looked with her triumphant -artificiality of outline quite oppressively smart. Camelia, after her -year's seclusion, felt her to be oppressive. - -It was rather difficult to smile on meeting her, their parting had such -painful associations--the dark turmoil of those days drifted over -Camelia's memory as she gave her friend her hand. - -"You are surprised to see me, aren't you, Camelia?" said Mrs. -Fox-Darriel. - -"Yes. Rather surprised." - -"No wonder, you faithless young woman. You haven't troubled to toss me a -thought for this twelvemonth. Well, I bear you no grudge; it is a -psychological phase that will, I hope, wear itself away. Yes, I am -stopping down in these parts again, twenty miles away, with the -Lambournes. You have not seen them yet, I hear. New importations. Mr. -Lambourne is a bloated capitalist, and as my poor Charlie is Labor -personified, I hope that my display of four new gowns daily in the -Lambourne ancestral halls--they will be ancestral some day--will result -in a beneficial return of favors. Charlie is going in very much for -companies; Mr. Lambourne's companies are extremely advantageous. Oh, I -uphold the uses of Lambournes in our modern world; they make us poor -penniless aristocrats so very comfortable; they are good, grateful -people." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel, while she talked, was looking Camelia up and down in a -slowly cogitating manner. - -"No, I can't stop to tea; I must be going back directly, it is a long -drive. I only came to have a look at you, and, if possible, to solve the -mystery. What's up, Camelia? That is what I want to know. Is this all -the result of last year's little _esclandre_?" - -Camelia evaded the question. - -"We have had trouble. You heard that my cousin was dead." - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye travelled again over Camelia's black dress. -"Yes--I heard. Poor little thing. And she would never appreciate how -charming was the mourning being worn for her; that gown is really--well, -there is a great deal in it, a great deal. I don't know how you manage -to make your clothes so significant. You've got all Chopin's Funeral -March into those lines. Well, it makes you feel badly, of course." - -"Yes. Very badly." From the very patience of Camelia's voice Mrs. -Fox-Darriel was keenly aware of barriers. How Camelia had disappointed -her! A certain baffled, angry affection rose within her. - -"You certainly treated her horribly, my dear. I understand regrets." -Camelia made no reply, and looked at her with a steady sadness. - -"And--she was in love with the vial of wrath. You knew that, I suppose." - -"I knew that I was in love with him, Frances." - -At that Mrs. Fox-Darriel gasped. Her eyes took on an unblinking fixity. -"So you own to it?" - -"Yes, I certainly own to it." - -"Camelia! You are not going to--" The conjecture made her really white. - -"To what?" and Camelia smiled irrepressibly. - -"Camelia, I am fond of you. I did wish best things for you. I did hope -to see you _somebody_. You would have been. You _can_ be. Sir Arthur -will be on his knees before you if you lift a finger." - -"Oh! I hope not," cried Camelia. - -"You know it. You know it. Lady Elizabeth hasn't a chance. She has -become literary--is writing the life of her great-grandfather, deep in -archives--that means hopelessness.--Camelia!" and Mrs. Fox-Darriel's cry -gathered from Camelia's impassive smile a frenzied energy. "You are -not--tell me you are not--going to marry that man--relapse into a -country matron! He will swamp you. You have nothing in common. It is -calf-love, pure and simple. I felt it all along; hoped he would see the -incongruity of it--take your poor little cousin, who was cut out for -submission and nurseries." - -"Oh, I don't think a superfluity of either will be expected of me," said -Camelia, with a laugh really unkind. - -"Oh, heavens! You are going to marry him?" - -"Yes, immediately," said Camelia, somewhat to her own surprise. She had -not expected her rather indefinite views on this subject to crystallize -so suddenly and so irrevocably. "Console yourself, Frances," she added, -really feeling some compunction before Mrs. Fox-Darriel's tragic -contemplation, "it won't be my funeral. He dug me out, and I am going to -dig him out. You may hear of me yet--as his wife." - -"Ah!" Mrs. Fox-Darriel had found the calm of her despair. "It is the -same old story. His indifference has done it all. It may be brutal, but -I must say it, you threw yourself at his head. The flattery at last -penetrated his priggishness; Endymion stooped to Selena." - -Camelia's serenity held good. - -"You can't make me angry. I like your disinterestedness, Frances. Let me -thank you for Endymion; I am sure the simile would flatter his -forty-five years." - -"And I came hoping----" - -"Hoping what my kind Frances?" - -"That I was to be a link; that I would find you sane again--willing to -pay me a visit, and meet _him_." - -"But, as you see, I am on Latmos, and like it." - -"Yes, I see. I am disillusionized, Camelia; I confess it. I didn't -expect that sort of floppiness from you. And there is a -self-righteousness about your whole manner that is insufferable, quite; -I tell you so frankly." Mrs. Fox-Darriel, as she spoke, shouldered her -closed parasol, and clasped her hands over it in a militant antagonism -of attitude. "The sheep looking suavely from its fold at the goat. We -are all goats to you now." - -"Come, let us kiss through the bars, then." - -"Oh, you are miles away--aeons away!" - -Mrs. Fox-Darriel submitted drearily. "You are lost! done for! And the -name, the power, the future you might have had! You were clever." - -"I rather doubt that." - -"Ah! of course you doubt it; you must doubt it. As the wife of a crusty -country squire it would be a corroding cleverness merely. You turn your -back on it." - -"We won't be hopelessly provincial. You will see us in London. He may -get into Parliament." - -"Us! He! Alas! he will swamp you," she repeated. "He will turn you into -a pillar of salt--looking back, and being sorry. _You_ to be wasted!" -was the last Camelia heard. - -When she had gone Camelia went slowly across the lawn; Perior, she knew, -was lurking about the garden waiting for her. Some of Mrs. Fox-Darriel's -remarks had cut--so far less deeply, though, than her own thoughts -during past months. It was the strong revival of these thoughts that -pained her more than the mode of revival. - -It was dusk, a pensive dusk, the evening sky faintly barred with pink. -Perior was walking up and down the garden between rows of tally growing -flowers. Was the thought of his patience and loneliness, of her -selfishness in prolonging them, a mere sophistry meant to hide her own -longing for happiness? As she walked down the path towards him her mind -juggled with this thought; it was very confusing. - -"Who do you think it was?" she asked, putting her hand in his, a little -_douceur_ Perior had never presumed upon. - -"Mrs. Jedsley? Mrs. Grier? Lady Haversham?" he asked affably, but -scanning, as she felt, the sadness of her face. - -"No--the past has been having a flick at me--Mrs. Fox-Darriel the whip." - -"Ah yes. I never liked her." - -"There is not much harm in her." - -"No, perhaps not," Perior acquiesced. - -"I told her," said Camelia, after a little pause in which they turned a -corner of the garden, and walked down it again by an outward path. - -"Well, what did you tell her? She has hurt you. I can see that." - -"No, not she. She asked me if I had never seen that Mary loved you, so, -in reply, I said that I had only seen that _I_ loved you." - -"Did that excellent piece of truth-telling pain you?" - -"No; it was a delicious mouthful. But, she said too, that the flattery -of my love had pierced your indifference--or your priggishness, she -called it"--and Camelia gave him a rather arch glance, "and I didn't -really wonder, not _really_; but you were so much more indifferent than -I was, weren't you?" and she paused in the path to look at him, not -archly, but very seriously. Her candor was so charming, with its little -touch of fear, that Perior's answer could not resist an emphasis. - -"Dearest," he said, and Camelia's wonder was not unpleasant, and his -daring went unrebuked, as he put his arm around her. - -"That means you were not?" - -"It means a great deal more. I was in love with you when I was nothing -to you. I've always been in love with you--horribly in love with you. -Indifference! Great heavens! that was what I prayed for, that was what I -tried to feign, for I thought you such an abominable little siren. All -the time that you were picking me up, and putting me down, and whisking -past me, and torturing and teasing me, all the time I was adoring you, I -couldn't help myself! adoring you with all your crimes upon you! -thinking myself a fool for it, I grant." - -"Putting you down? No, I never did that," Camelia demurred. - -"Well, I thought so. And at all events you know that you were most -comfortably indifferent until you found out that you couldn't get me for -the asking." - -"No, no!" cried Camelia. "From the first, if you had really let me think -you loved me, told me so, nicely, and begged a little, I should have -fallen straight into your arms, and perhaps never have found out how bad -I was!" - -"And that would have been a pity, eh? No," he added, with an -argumentative gravity that touched and made her smile sadly. "You were -never _bad_. It was always half my fault. I misjudged you, and you -danced to my lugubrious piping." - -"This is the very madness of devotion! Oh, dear Alceste, with you, -perhaps, with you I have not dealt so badly; but, _but_----" She walked -on again, turning away her head. - -"Don't," said Perior gently. - -"Ah, I must, I must remember." - -For a long time they were silent during the rounding of the whole -garden, where the high walls grew dark against the sky, and the flowers, -in the faint light, were ghostly. - -"Michael," she said at last, "I rebel sometimes against my own -unhappiness. I want to crush it--I am afraid of it; but I am more afraid -of being happy." - -"Why can't they go together?" he asked. - -"Ah! but can they?" - -"They must, sooner or later. Then you won't be afraid of either. Doesn't -this all mean," he added, "that _now_ I may tell you how much I love -you?" and he stopped to look at her. Her face was like a white flower in -the dusk. Far away, over long sweeps of thin purpling cloud, shone one -star, faint and steady. He saw together her face, the sky, and the star. - -"Oh!" said Camelia, "_do_ you know me? Even now, do you know me? I'm not -one bit good! I am still the horrid child who clamored for your love; my -love for you the only good thing in me! You love me, all the same? You -don't mind? don't expect anything? I want so much, but I will have -nothing, not a kiss, not your hand holding mine,--there, let it go,--on -false pretences." - -"I can only retaliate. _I_ am not one bit good. Dear, horrid child, will -you put up with me?" - -"Oh, I never minded!" she cried. "I loved you, good or bad." - -"And I you; only I minded. That is all the difference. There isn't a -falsity between us, Camelia," he added. - -"No, there isn't." - -"Then, may I kiss you, and hold your hand?" - -"Yes; only--first--first--" she held him off, smiling, yet still -doubting, still tremulously grave, "I am not good enough; no, I am not -good enough." - -"Quite good enough for me," said Perior. "I am getting tired of your -conscience, Camelia." - -THE END. - - -Typographical errorscorrected by the etext transcriber: - -befere=> before {pg 274} - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Confounding of Camelia, by -Anne Douglas Sedgwick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA *** - -***** This file should be named 41917.txt or 41917.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/9/1/41917/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/41917.zip b/old/41917.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8b2a388..0000000 --- a/old/41917.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/readme.htm b/old/readme.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 64c425c..0000000 --- a/old/readme.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html> -<html lang="en"> -<head> - <meta charset="utf-8"> -</head> -<body> -<div> -Versions of this book's files up to October 2024 are here.<br> -More recent changes, if any, are reflected in the GitHub repository: -<a href="https://github.com/gutenbergbooks/41917">https://github.com/gutenbergbooks/41917</a> -</div> -</body> -</html> |
