Sir Arthur was back again on Thursday, alertly conscious of a half
promise, and he intended to put it to the test while he and Camelia rode
together in the afternoon. The party was made up: Mrs. Fox-Darriel,
Gwendolen Holt, Sir Harry, and another young man--but Camelia did not
go. The horses were already before the door, and she, fully equipped in
riding costume, engaged before her mirror on the final details of veil
and gloves, when Perior rode up; Camelia saw him through the window, and
heard him decline to join their party, as he had come for Mary. Mary was
not a good rider, nor could she be urged beyond the dullest trot, and
Perior's refusal was no doubt on her account. Poor Alceste! Condemned to
Mary for a whole afternoon! In a rapid change of project Camelia dashed
out of her habit and into her prettiest white dress, sent down a note to
Sir Arthur pleading sudden headache, and commanding him to go without
her, saw the five depart obediently, and placidly descended to capture
Perior. Mary was getting ready; Camelia, as she passed her room, saw her
sewing a button on a glove, her habit laid in readiness on the bed.
Camelia would have liked her ride; it was only from the impulsive wish
for ten or fifteen minutes with Perior that she had sacrificed it, and
she saw with satisfaction that Mary would take quite that time.
"Well, how do you do?" she said, finding him as usual in the
morning-room, "I _think_ we have got him," she added, picking up the
threads of their last conversation.
"That is Rodrigg, of course," said Perior, looking with a pleasure he
could not conceal at her charming appearance. He felt for a moment like
telling her that in that dress she was bewitchingly pretty, but checked
the impulse with some surprise at it.
"Yes, I argued out the whole third clause with him yesterday," said
Camelia, smiling her happiest smile, for she was quite conscious of
those unspoken words.
"Dear me!"
"He seemed impressed--though you are not. Sit down."
"He seemed what he was not, no doubt--I haven't the faculty." Perior
spoke quite good-temperedly. Indeed, Camelia's political manoeuvres
did not displease him--consoled him in a sense. There was a pretty folly
about them quite touching, and her earnestness seemed to vouch for some
real feeling.
"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, taking the place
beside him on the sofa and leaning forward, her arms on her knees.
"The man wants to please you," said Perior, looking at her white hands
hanging idly together. He wondered again whether egotism or a real
fondness for Arthur moved her.
The long delay of the engagement excited and made him nervous. It had
usually been so easy to see through Camelia, and he did not like the
perplexity. Still, the thought that she hesitated pleased him; she would
accept Arthur, doubtlessly, but at least she would imagine that she
cared for him. Camelia had gained some moral value in his eyes from that
pause.
"Why should you imagine that he pretends?" she asked, feeling
delightedly that the atmosphere was much less chilling than usual.
"The man wants to please you."
"Well, and what then?"
"He expects to marry you."
"Nonsense!" she said with a laugh of truest sincerity.
"Tell him that you are engaged to Arthur, and see." Perior's curiosity
made that little probe, and the eyes of both showed a mutual
self-consciousness; both thought of the last scene in the morning-room.
"I can't make the experiment yet, even to please you," said Camelia,
satisfied that her cheeks showed no rising color. "Mr. Rodrigg is really
attached to me. He would do a great deal for me."
"Your smile for all reward."
"Exactly."
"You are a goose, Camelia."
But she was pleasing him; her conceit amused him almost tenderly, and he
laughed.
"You think me fatuous, no doubt," said Camelia, laughing too.
"Yes, rather fatuous. Not as clear-sighted as usual."
"Mr. Rodrigg knows that I could never marry him," said Camelia more
gravely; "he can only hope for my smile, and, if he helps me through, I
shall always smile."
"I don't credit Mr. Rodrigg with the faintest flavor of such humility."
Camelia's smile, confidently unconvinced, now shifted to a humorous
little grimace. "He never really hoped. As though I _could_ have married
a man with a nose like that!"
"I maintain that he does so hope--despite his nose; an excellently
honest nose it is too."
"So broad at the tip! as though he had flattened it against adverse
forces all his life. It is a plebeian trait, an inheritance from
money-getting ancestors who held theirs conscientiously to the
grindstone."
"Mine should show the peculiarity," and Perior rubbed it, "it has been
ground persistently."
"Ah--a merely acquired tendency; besides, you are not going to ask me to
marry you--so you may carry your nose fearlessly." Camelia's eye,
despite the light audacity of her tone, fixed him with a certain alert
hardness.
Perior bowed, his hand on his heart. "Thanks for the intimation. I shall
carry it quite fearlessly, I assure you."
Camelia laughed. "But I like your nose," said she, leaning towards him;
and, very much as a kitten gives a roguish paw-tap, she drew a finger
briskly down the feature in question.
Perior grew a little red, and drew back rather sharply.
"What a staid person you are," said Camelia, quite unabashed; "you don't
take a compliment gracefully, Alceste; not that it was a compliment,
exactly, since your nose is not at all handsome; a poor thing but to my
taste. I like its dominant ruggedness, and that nice lift in the
bridge."
"Well, Camelia, I came to take Mary out riding, you know," said Perior,
who still showed signs of uneasiness under her scrutiny.
"Yes, I know; you are so good to Mary. She is getting ready."
Camelia contemplated Perior's paternal relation towards Mary most
unsuspectingly, yet she really did not like it. She could not like
anything that withdrew a very important tributary from the river-like
receptivity of her existence. Mary's narrow channel was quite unmeet for
such a complimentary contribution, and Camelia was sincerely convinced
of the mere charitableness of Perior's attitude. Then, above all, Perior
was her own especial property; Mary might profit by him when she did not
feel the want of him, and this afternoon she wanted him--very much, as
it now struck her. To have sacrificed her ride for this bare ten minutes
had been hardly worth while. She had not looked beyond the impulse of
the moment, and the lonely hours stretched in long inconsistency before
her. She thought of them now with some surprised dismay, and her eyes,
still contemplating Perior's nose, grew vague with conjecture. Perior
certainly, despite his latter severity, would rather spend his afternoon
with her than with Mary. He could not own to it, of course, nor would
she force him to such an issue; but it might be managed--pleasantly for
every one, for all three. Camelia's life, so wide in its all embracing
objectivity, had little time for self-analysis, little time therefore
for putting herself in other people's places. Her lack of sympathy was
grounded on a lack of all self-knowledge. Therefore her mind turned the
matter quickly in the direction that best suited the desire of the
moment, good and bad being to Camelia external facts that either pleased
or displeased herself, and she said without one inner compunction,
"Shall I hurry her up? And I must see that she puts her hat on properly.
Mary has an unerring instinct for the unbecoming."
"Has she?" said Perior, in the tone that Camelia well understood as
being altogether unencouraging and perhaps disgusted. "Don't hurry her.
I can wait."
"See how unkindly I dress my best impulses," said Camelia, smiling. "I
really want to help her, and to make her smart and tidy. A few touches
of my fingers about Mary's unfurnished forehead, and her face assumes a
certain grace and prettiness. Alceste, you must not take my flippancy
_au grand sérieux_--you are in danger of becoming ridiculous, Alceste, I
warn you of it." She had certainly succeeded in making "Alceste" smile,
and with a reassured and reassuring wave of the hand she left him,
delighted with her own ability for forcing him to swallow her
naughtinesses--for swallow them he must; she would feign nothing for
him; she would exaggerate even the defects he saw so solemnly. She was
quite sure now that she must not be left alone, and that Perior must
spend the afternoon with her. She ran upstairs quickly, conscious of
how prettily she sprang from stair to stair, of how charmingly with its
silk and muslin rustle her white dress swayed about her, conscious even
of the distinguished elegance of her white hand gliding up the hand
rail; for Camelia had always time for these æsthetic notes, and her
grace, her dress, and her hand were so many reasons for keeping Perior
to admire them. Mary was quite ready, and looking really nice; a pretty
color, and the dull fairness of her hair smoothed neatly beneath her
hat.
Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed
aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the
barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that
Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of
appreciation.
Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the
threshold.
"Were you going with them? They are gone, dear!"
Mary turned from the mirror, her habit skirt falling from her arm; on
her face a dismal astonishment, that Camelia, absorbed in the mental
completion of her arrangement, hardly noticed.
"Sir Arthur, Gwendolen, the others--you were going out with them." She
scarcely knew why she hedged her position with this pretence of
ignorance. But Mary's face brightened happily.
"Oh no, Mr. Perior is going with me. You haven't seen him, then. He came
for me."
Camelia had the barrel-organ all in readiness, and prepared to roll it
forward without delay.
"Oh! did he? Well, Mary, I have another plan for you this afternoon,
you will like it just as well, I know. I promised Mrs. Grier to make
that charitable round of visits to her poor people with her this
afternoon. We were to go to the almshouses, and I have a basket of
sweets for the children in Copley, and now I must give up going because
of this dreadful headache, and knowing that nothing would please you
more----."
It was quite true that Camelia had made the appointment with Mrs. Grier,
but on agreeing to go out riding with Sir Arthur, she had intended to
ride to Mrs. Grier's house and make charming apologies--of which Sir
Arthur's tyrannous monopoly would bear the brunt. By her present plan
both Mary and Mrs. Grier would be pleased. She congratulated herself on
her thoughtful dexterity. Mary liked Mrs. Grier so much, liked
almshouses and poor children, and especially liked the distributing of
goodies among them; Mary gained everything by the little shuffle, and
she was not at all prepared for a certain stiffening and hardening in
her cousin's expression. "It is a lovely basket, and tea and curates
galore," she added, turning on the final roulade of the barrel-organ,
rather wondering, for the coldness of Mary's look was apparent, though
Camelia did not divine the underlying confusion.
Mary was well trained in self-abnegation, but she turned her eyes away
without replying for a moment: "Could you not send word to Mrs. Grier?"
she asked.
Camelia felt quite a shock of surprise at the tone, and a sense of
injury that hardened her in advance against possible opposition.
"Oh, it is too late, my dear--she would be terribly disappointed--and
the children--and the tea prepared for me--the people invited. Why,
Mary, don't you want to go?"
"I wanted the ride," said Mary in a low voice; and growing very red she
added, "I am afraid Mr. Perior will think me rude."
"Oh, I will make your excuses!" Camelia, in all the impetus of her
desire, was much vexed by this ungrateful doggedness.
"Mr. Perior and I could ride over and explain," Mary added.
Camelia had never met in her cousin such opposition, and a certain
dryness mingled with the real grievance in her voice as she said--
"Is your heart so set on this ride, Mary? Mr. Perior will take you out
again, and you know that the pleasure is always rather one-sided, since
he particularly likes a good gallop across country. It isn't quite like
you, I think, to disappoint a friend like Mrs. Grier--you are so fond of
Mrs. Grier, I thought."
During this speech Mary's face grew crimson. Setting her lips, she began
quickly to draw off her gloves; Camelia felt suddenly a sense of
discomfort.
"You will enjoy it, I am sure, Mary."
Mary made no reply, and silently unbuttoned her coat.
"I beg of you, Mary, not to go if you are going to feel aggrieved about
it. I do not see what I am to do. I thought it would be quite a treat
for you."
"Thanks, Camelia."
"You will go, then?"
"Oh yes, Camelia."
Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she
could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the
unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She
lingered, however.
"You are right to keep on that straw hat--it is very becoming to you.
Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make
conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table.
Shall I order the dog-cart for you?"
"Thanks very much, Camelia."
"Mary, you make me feel--horridly!"
Camelia could not check that impulse. "Do you _mind_? You see that I
can't get out of it; you see that it wouldn't do--don't you? I hope you
don't really _mind_."
"Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless--very
ungrateful." The conventional humility rasped Camelia's discontent. "And
you will tell Mr. Perior?--you will explain?"
"Yes, yes, dear."
Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left
her with the assurance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly.
But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the
stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had
been decidedly spoiled by the candle's unmanageable smoking and
guttering. Mary's decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for
feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of petty
falsities for which Perior would have scorned her.
Remembering that to account comfortably for Mary's absence she must lie
to him, she came to a sudden standstill outside the door of the
morning-room. How badly she had managed everything! She did not want to
lie to him. Why had not Mary been delighted to go--as she should have
been? Only the thought of Mary's general disagreeableness fortified her
a little.
Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor,
as she entered.
"Oh, Camelia," he said disappointedly.
"Only Camelia." She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing
red.
"Where is Mary?"
"I have come to make Mary's excuses. She can't go--is so sorry." With an
effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that
to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the
matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her
credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching.
"Can't go?" he repeated staring. "Why she sent me word that she would be
ready in twenty minutes."
"She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone--"
(it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), "but couldn't
because of my headache--I have a horrible headache. I would have put her
off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round
of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children, and afterwards
tea and curates galore--" Camelia realized that with a confused
uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. "Mary likes tea
and likes curates," she went on, pushed even further by that sense of
confusion--she had never told her old friend so many lies, "and the
curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a
choice among them." Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny
for suspicion, yet Perior still stared.
"What a vacuous look!" laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been
forced to cross quite so many Rubicons.
"I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself--as usual," he said
slowly.
"Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against
half-a-dozen curates--reinforced by tea and sandwiches?"
"Mary likes our rides immensely--and I never saw any signs of a fondness
for curates."
"No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the
Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined."
Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, "I don't
think she is looking over well--you know her father died of
consumption."
"Don't; he was my uncle!" Camelia exclaimed. "Still, my chest is as
sound as a drum." She gave it a reassuring thump.
"That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary's?"
She looked at him candidly.
"You foolish, fussy old person! Mary is solidly, stolidly well; who
could associate the lilies and languors of illness with Mary? You are
trying to poetize Mary's prose to worry me, but you can't rhyme it, I
assure you."
"I don't know about that!" Perior was again, for a moment, silent. "I
don't think Mary has a very gay time of it," he said, speaking with a
half nervous resolution, as though he had often wished to speak and kept
back the words. "She doesn't go out much with you in London, does she?"
Camelia did not like his tone, but she replied with lightness, "Not
much, Mary is a home-keeping body. She is not exactly fitted for worldly
gaieties, and she understands it perfectly."
"How trying for Mary"--the nervousness was quite gone now--once he had
broached a delicate subject Perior could handle it with little
compunction.
"Mary is very happy, if you please. She adores me, and is devoted to
Mamma. Mamma is certainly nicer to her than I am--that is an affair of
temperament, for Mary does bore me tremendously--I think she knows that
she does, but she adores me, since I don't deserve it--the way of the
world--a horrid place--I don't deny it."
"Happy Mary! allowed to adore your effulgence--but at a distance--since
she bores you, and knows she does!" And over his collar Camelia could
observe that Perior's neck had grown red. She joined him at the window,
and said, looking up at his face--
"Why do you force me to such speeches? I am not responsible for the
inequalities of nature--though I recognize them so cold-bloodedly. The
contrast does not hurt her, for she is a good, contented little soul,
and then--for nature does give compensations--she has no keen
susceptibilities;" she locked her hands on his shoulder, and smiling at
him, "Come, you know that I am fond of Mary. You should have seen how
prettily I arranged her hair to-day--it would have softened your heart
towards me. Come, we are not going to quarrel again."
Perior's eye turned on her, certainly softened in expression, "By no
means, I hope," and he smiled a little, "especially as I must be
off--since I have missed my ride."
Camelia's face at this unlooked-for consummation took on an expression
of sincerest dismay.
"Going! you will leave me all alone! They have all gone!"
Perior laughed, looking at her now with the same touch of irrepressible
pleasure she could usually count on arousing.
"Poor little baby! and it has a headache, too?"
"Yes, it has; please stay with it."
She was quite sure that he wanted to stay; indeed, Camelia's certainty
of Perior's fundamental fondness for her was an article of faith
untouched by doubt.
"Very well, you want to show off your dress, I see." Perior's smile in
its humoring coyness was charming; Camelia felt that she quite adored
him when he so smiled at her. "A very pretty dress it is; I have been
taking it in."
"And we will have tea in the garden," said Camelia, in tones of happy
satisfaction, "and you will see how good I am--when you are good to me.
And I'll tell you all about the people who are coming--for I must have
more of them--droves of them; in batches, artistic batches, 'smart'
batches, intellectual batches, political batches. You and I will look at
them."
"Thanks; you don't limit me to a batch then?"
They were still standing near the window, and she kept a hand on his
shoulder, and looked at him now with the gravity that made her face so
strange.
"No, dear Alceste, you know I don't."
He returned her look, smiling with a little constraint.
"We must be more together," Camelia went on, "we must take up our
studying. No, Mr. Rodrigg, I can't walk with you this morning, I am
reading the Agamemnon with Mr. Perior." Camelia's eyes, mouth, the
delicately long lines of her cheek, quivered with the half malicious,
half tender smile that tilted every curve and every shadow from calm to
roguery.
"How Mr. Rodrigg will hate me, to be sure," said Perior, who at that
moment felt that he would like to kiss his bunch of primroses--an
illusion of dewiness possessed him.
"And now for tea under the copper beech. And I will read to you. What
shall I read? It will be quite like old days!"
"When we were young together," said Perior, smiling at her so fondly
that she felt deliciously reassured as to everything.
The gods always helped a young lady who helped herself. Such had been
Camelia's experience in life, even when she helped herself to other
people's belongings.
At all events, with hardly a qualm of conscience, Camelia enjoyed the
afternoon she had wrested from poor Mary.
The tea-table was duly installed under the wide shade of the
copper-beech. Perior carried out an armful of books and reviews from
which to choose. They drank their tea and ate their bread and butter,
and Camelia read aloud from the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. And it cannot
be denied that Perior, sitting in the cool green shadow, listening to
the perfect French accent, looking at the white figure sprinkled with
the pale shifting gold that filtered through the leaves above them,
enjoyed himself a great deal more than he would have done with Mary.
Truly at times the way of transgressors is very easy.