“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.