The Confounding of Camelia Part 35

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 G.o.d 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 coa.r.s.er 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 a.s.sent, 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 pa.s.sive 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!"