“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!”