She felt the tremor quieted, the unhappiness soothed, however, on seeing Camelia in her home. Indeed, Camelia’s background was masterly. By the end of the first day Lady Henge was owning to herself that the glare of London had perhaps been responsible for her former unfavorable impression. Camelia’s manner was perfect; she was quiet and gentle; her wish to please was frank but very dignified. Lady Henge felt that in no way was her favor being courted, and she was quite clever enough to appreciate that. Lady Paton was left to take all the initiatives, and behind her mother Camelia smiled with an air of happy obscurity.
The following days emphasized the initial approval. The image of the excellent Lady Elizabeth faded by degrees from Lady Henge’s mind, and the ache of disappointment with it. She wonderingly expanded into confidence under Camelia’s gentle influence.
She was a shy woman; she had been afraid of Camelia; but with tender touches the shyness and the fear seemed to be pressed away. There was nothing to be afraid of. Was it possible? She doubted sometimes, when alone and deeply thoughtful; but with Camelia quiet satisfaction was irresistible.
Perior watched the little comedy, convinced of its artificiality. That doubt of her final choice which preserved for Camelia her sense of independent pride free from all tarnish of self-interested scheming, he could not have believed in. Her motives were, he thought, very clear to him—as they must be to everybody else. He could not credit her with love; a girl so dexterously managing her hand was held by no compulsory force of real feeling. She was going to marry Arthur Henge, because he was a good match, not because she loved him; any girl might have loved him certainly, but Camelia was capable of loving no one. He was very sore, very angry, very moody. Lady Henge’s transparent bids to him for sympathy in irritating his scorn for Camelia irritated him, too, against her, against Arthur even. Why couldn’t they let him alone? They should get neither yea or nay from him, for, after all, Perior was inconsistent; the scorn did not shake his rather negative loyalty to his pupil, and beneath that there lay another and a deeper feeling, the feeling that made it possible for Camelia to hurt him.
“I was talking to her—to Miss Paton—about Woman’s Suffrage to-day,” so Lady Henge would start a conversation, “she seems to have thought rather deeply on the subject of a widened life for women—the development of character by responsibility—the democratic ideal, is it not?” Lady Henge combined staunch conservatism with a devout belief in Humanity.
Perior answered “Yes, I suppose so,” to the question.
“She has, I see, a great deal of influence down here in the country—more than I could have expected in such a gay young creature. Mrs. Grier spoke to me of her good-heartedness, her generous help in charitable matters. Mrs. Grier, as you know, is deeply interested in the improvement of the condition of the laboring classes. I shall count upon Miss Paton next year; her aid would be very effective; she could help me with some of my clubs—a pretty face, a witty tongue, popularize one; she has promised to address the Shirt Makers’ Union. She takes so much interest in all these absorbing social problems,—interest so unassuming, so free from all self-reference.”
They were in the drawing-room after dinner. Perior seemed, in watching Camelia fulfil herself, to find a searing fascination, for he was often at Enthorpe Lodge of late. The faint flavor of inquiry in Lady Henge’s assertions only elicitated, “I’m sure she’d be popular.” No; he would not be held responsible for Camelia; and again he determined that Lady Henge should on the subject of Camelia’s full fitness get from him neither a yea or a nay.
Lady Henge’s clear brown eyes had turned contemplatively upon her son and Camelia, who were sitting on an isolated sofa in a frank tête-à-tête.
Perior’s glance followed hers, and while she read in Arthur’s absorbed attitude and expression the wisdom of submissive partisanship—the utter futility of further resistance, Perior studied the half grave, half playful smile with which Camelia received her lover’s utterances. She seemed to feel Perior’s scrutiny, for her eyes swerved suddenly and met his, and the smile hardened a little as she looked at him.