“No, dear Michael, no. Mine is enough.”
“I have heard you; and may I now tell you again that I love you?”
“Not again. Not now. But I am glad that you love me. I feel it. I should like to sit like this forever, just feeling it, with my hand in yours.”
This very debatable love-scene must be Perior’s only amorous consolation for many months. Of her quiet content in his presence there could be no doubt. No barrier, no pain, was now between them. Their union was achieved, as if by a mere wave-wash, effacing one misunderstanding—it hardly seemed more now, nor their change of relation apparent; but under all Camelia’s courage was the fixed determination to allow herself no happiness. Superficially there was almost gaiety at times; her regret would never become conventional or priggish; but even Lady Paton did not guess that Camelia and Michael were lovers, although a secret hope—very wonderful, and carefully hidden—painted for her future rosy possibilities. With all the sadness, with all the regret, these days were the happiest Lady Paton had known; and as Camelia’s devotion was exclusively for her, she could not guess that the secret hope was already realized.
Yet Camelia did not leave her silent lover utterly bereft. After the deep gravity of the first avowal her little demonstrations were of a light, an almost mocking order. In this new phase she returned to the teasing fondness of the old one; and sometimes the central tenderness would pierce the lightness.
Perior could afford patience. Reading one afternoon in the library (his daily presence at Enthorpe was a matter of course), he heard steps behind him, then felt her hand clasp over his eyes.
“You are keeping on—loving me?” she demanded.
“Yes, I am keeping on,” said Perior, turning his page with a masterly calm. He knew that the little outburst conceded nothing, and that even when Camelia dropped a swift kiss on his hair he was by no means expected to retaliate.
For the lighter mood the cottages made endless subjects for conversation and discussion. In talking—squabbling amicably—over their interior civilization, Camelia felt that she and Perior had much the playful gravity of children making sand pies at the seaside.
Camelia insisted on her prints and photographs, and on hanging them herself. She had fixed theories on the decoration of wall-spaces.