“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.