“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——”