"I did not go for that, Mary," she cried. "Listen, Mary, you are wrong; thank God, you are wrong. I did not go because I was sorry for myself; I did not go basely. I was so sorry for you," said Camelia, sobbing and speaking brokenly, while Mary looked at her in a stern tearless silence, "I knew he would be sorry. I knew we both loved you, and I wanted him to marry you, Mary."
"_What!_" Mary's voice was terrible; yet Camelia clung to the courage of her love, confident that the truth alone could now reveal it--all the truth.
"Yes, dearest Mary, yes. There was no hatred, only a longing to make you happy--to help atone; only love, not hatred."
They were standing still before each other. Camelia could not interpret the pale eyes.
"Let me only tell you--everything; it is not you only----"
"You tossed me to him--and he refused me! How dare you! How dare you! How dare you!" And Mary, a revelation of rage and detestation flaming up in her eyes, distorting her face, struck her cousin violently on the cheek.
Camelia stood dazed. The blow interpreted, too well, Mary's attitude. She could not resent, nor even wonder, could only accept the retribution of cruel misunderstanding and bow her head. She covered her face with her hands and wept. Except for this sound of weeping the room was still. In the darkness of her humiliation--shut in behind her hands--Camelia felt, at last, the silence. She looked up. Mary was once more leaning against the door. Her eyes were closed. Camelia went to her, took her hand, and Mary made no motion. Raising the hand to her lips Camelia kissed it; its coldness chilled the smarting of the blow. Mastering her terror Camelia put her arms around her, and, Mary sinking forward into them, she gathered up the piteously light figure and carried it to the bed.
"Mary--Mary--Mary," she murmured, staring at the head which lay so still, so solemnly. Was she dead? Camelia struck aside the thought of a so cruel finality. Strengthened by her rebellion she sprang to open the door, and the house resounded with her cries for help.
The servant, as he showed Perior into the drawing-room, told him that Miss Fairleigh was dying, and the imminence of the tragedy was sorrowfully emphasized by Lady Paton's woe-stricken face, as she came in to him.