The Confounding of Camelia Part 37

And, her hand in that faithful hand, her eyes on his, demanding inflexible judgment, Camelia began the long confession--a piteous tale, indeed. All the blots and failings gathered in a huge blackness; she spoke from it. He felt as she spoke that the clasp of his hand was her one link with revival. It was a piteous tale: for the robbery of Mary's ride, the brutal taunts flung at her on that winter night--these were but the bigger drops in the sea of selfish thoughtlessness. After each incident, rounded with a succinct psychology that showed her pitiless clearness of vision, she paused, as if waiting for him to speak. His silence seemed to acquiesce, and she wanted no soothing denial. And even now his hand held hers, and did not cast her off. When she had done, and after the silence had grown long, he said--

"And so I might lay bare my heart to you."

"I would not be afraid of its dark corner. You have never been meanly selfish, never trodden on people."

"But I might affirm other things. I will open the door if it will help you to sit down with me in the doubled darkness."

"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-s.p.a.ces.

Perior held the ladder and criticised. "They are quite out of place, you know. That exotic art is most incongruous. It jars." Camelia was hanging up a modern print after Hiros.h.i.+ghe.

"It wouldn't jar on us, would it?" she asked, driving in a nail.

"We are exotic mentally."

"Let us train them to a more cosmopolitan out-look, then."

"They would far prefer the colored prints from Christmas numbers."

"Well, they shan't have them!" Camelia declared, and he laughed at her determined tyranny. But when her tenants were duly installed Camelia was forced to own that the honest forces of the soil were difficult to manage. She came in to tea one afternoon with the announcement, that the Dawkins had taken down all their prints and put up flower-entwined texts and horrible colored advertis.e.m.e.nts. Mrs. Dawkins had said that her husband objected to "those outlandish women"; they made him feel "quite creepy like."

Later on she had to confess that the Coles by no means appreciated their photographs of the Sistine Sibyls, so charmingly placed along the walls, and that from among them glared a well-fed maiden with upturned, prayerful, and heavily-lashed eyes; testifying to the Coles' religious instincts and to their only timid opposition.

"How can they be so stupid!" cried Camelia. "And how can I!"

"You can't grow roses on cabbages, Camelia," said Perior, "to say nothing of orchids. You are demanding orchids of your cabbages."

"Desire precedes function," Camelia replied sententiously, "if the cabbages want to, very much, they may grow orchids. I shall still hope."

CHAPTER x.x.x

On a beautiful October afternoon a visitor came to Enthorpe.

Camelia was summoned to find Mrs. Fox-Darriel in the drawing-room. Mrs.

Fox-Darriel, with a pastoral hat--rather Gallic in its conscious innocence--tipped over her emphasized eyes, her gown of muslin and lace very fluffy on very rigid foundations, looked with her triumphant artificiality of outline quite oppressively smart. Camelia, after her year's seclusion, felt her to be oppressive.

It was rather difficult to smile on meeting her, their parting had such painful a.s.sociations--the dark turmoil of those days drifted over Camelia's memory as she gave her friend her hand.

"You are surprised to see me, aren't you, Camelia?" said Mrs.

Fox-Darriel.

"Yes. Rather surprised."

"No wonder, you faithless young woman. You haven't troubled to toss me a thought for this twelvemonth. Well, I bear you no grudge; it is a psychological phase that will, I hope, wear itself away. Yes, I am stopping down in these parts again, twenty miles away, with the Lambournes. You have not seen them yet, I hear. New importations. Mr.

Lambourne is a bloated capitalist, and as my poor Charlie is Labor personified, I hope that my display of four new gowns daily in the Lambourne ancestral halls--they will be ancestral some day--will result in a beneficial return of favors. Charlie is going in very much for companies; Mr. Lambourne's companies are extremely advantageous. Oh, I uphold the uses of Lambournes in our modern world; they make us poor penniless aristocrats so very comfortable; they are good, grateful people."

Mrs. Fox-Darriel, while she talked, was looking Camelia up and down in a slowly cogitating manner.

"No, I can't stop to tea; I must be going back directly, it is a long drive. I only came to have a look at you, and, if possible, to solve the mystery. What's up, Camelia? That is what I want to know. Is this all the result of last year's little _esclandre_?"

Camelia evaded the question.

"We have had trouble. You heard that my cousin was dead."

Mrs. Fox-Darriel's eye travelled again over Camelia's black dress.

"Yes--I heard. Poor little thing. And she would never appreciate how charming was the mourning being worn for her; that gown is really--well, there is a great deal in it, a great deal. I don't know how you manage to make your clothes so significant. You've got all Chopin's Funeral March into those lines. Well, it makes you feel badly, of course."

"Yes. Very badly." From the very patience of Camelia's voice Mrs.

Fox-Darriel was keenly aware of barriers. How Camelia had disappointed her! A certain baffled, angry affection rose within her.

"You certainly treated her horribly, my dear. I understand regrets."

Camelia made no reply, and looked at her with a steady sadness.

"And--she was in love with the vial of wrath. You knew that, I suppose."

"I knew that I was in love with him, Frances."

At that Mrs. Fox-Darriel gasped. Her eyes took on an unblinking fixity.

"So you own to it?"

"Yes, I certainly own to it."

"Camelia! You are not going to--" The conjecture made her really white.

"To what?" and Camelia smiled irrepressibly.

"Camelia, I am fond of you. I did wish best things for you. I did hope to see you _somebody_. You would have been. You _can_ be. Sir Arthur will be on his knees before you if you lift a finger."