“Oh my darling!” sobbed her cousin, rising, and bending over her.
“It hurts me,” Mary repeated, but in a voice unmoved.
“Do you still hate me, Mary?”
There was a pause before she answered—and then with a certain faltering, “I—don’t know.”
“Will you—can you listen, while I tell you something?” said Camelia almost in a whisper—for Mary’s voice was hardly more, “I must tell you, Mary, I deserve everything you said, and yet—you misjudged me. Will you hear the truth?” Camelia clasped the hand more tightly to her breast. “I am not going to defend myself—I only want you to know the truth; perhaps—you will be a little sorry for me then—and be able to love me—a little.”
Mary looked up at her silently, and, when she paused, said nothing; yet her intent look seemed to assent.
“It will not give you pain,” Camelia said tremblingly, “the pain is all mine here. Mary—I love him too.” The words came with a sob. She sank into the chair, and dropping Mary’s hand she leaned her elbows on the bed and hid her face.
“I loved him, Mary, and—I imagined that he must love me. My vanity was so great that I thought I could choose or reject him. I accepted Sir Arthur—from spite—partly, and then I was dreadfully frightened. On the very day I accepted Sir Arthur I sent for Mr. Perior. Mary, I made love to him. I did not tell him I was engaged; I wanted to escape from that blunder unscathed. I could not believe in his embarrassment, nor in the reality of his scorn when he found me out. I broke my engagement—as you know. I went to Mr. Perior’s house. I entreated him to love me—I hung about his neck, cried, implored. He did not love me; he rejected me. He scorns me—he is sorry for me; he is my friend, but he scorns me. I was not playing with him—you see that now. I adore him—and he does not love me at all.”
Uncovering her face, Camelia found Mary’s eyes fixed upon her.
“Do you understand now, Mary, why I went to him? I loved you so—was so sorry for you—so infinitely sorry—for had I not felt it all? I never told him that you thought he might have loved you; but I thought it myself, I thought that he might love you, indeed, when he knew you—knew the sweetness, the sadness of your hidden love. If he refused, Mary, it was because he respected you too highly and himself—to act any falsity towards you. It was not like my rejection; there was no shame, no abasement for you. You have his reverent pity, his deep, loving devotion. Don’t regret, dear Mary, that through my well-meant folly he really knows you now.” She paused, and Mary still lay silent, slowly closing and unclosing her hand on the sheet.