Chapter II: Part I: I (2)

Ten minutes later Aimée was listening to the soft, regular breathing which told how the speaker was enjoying one of the comforts of life. It was incomprehensible to the girl who was still tingling with excitement from head to foot, and felt as if sleep would never visit her eyelids; but her thoughts did not long dwell on Fanny. They went back to the lover, for whom her tender heart ached as she pictured him returning alone to the yacht which waited the coming bride in order to spread its wings for the South. What a cruel thing it was to let him come--only to disappoint him! Indignation and pity were mingled in her mind; and as hour after hour of the silent night passed, she still lay wide awake, her great, solemn eyes, as Fanny called them, fixed on darkness, but her fancy seeing plainly the starlit deck of the Ariel, where a figure paced alone.

V.

Toward daylight, weariness overcame even excited imagination, and Aimée fell asleep. When she awoke it was from a dream in which she fancied herself on board the Ariel, and that Fanny had come to take her away. “Aimée, Aimée!” said the familiar voice; and when she woke, it was to find Fanny’s voice indeed sounding in her ears, and Fanny’s eyes anxiously gazing at her.

“What is the matter?” she cried, rousing herself at once. “Have I slept very late? Is breakfast ready?”

“Breakfast is over long ago,” Fanny answered. “I would not disturb you, for I thought you had certainly earned the right to sleep as late as you pleased; and fortunately mamma never comes down to breakfast, you know. But I have come to rouse you now, because something dreadful has happened. O Aimée, what do you think?--Mr. Meredith saw you last night!”

“Mr. Meredith!” cried Aimée. She sat up in bed, a picture of consternation. “It is impossible!” she gasped. “I saw no one. He could not have seen me.”

“There is no doubt about it,” said Fanny. “He certainly saw you--saw you talking to Lennox, and he thought it was me.”

“You?”

“Yes. And I could not make him believe otherwise except by telling him that it was you. Even then he seemed to doubt; so I said I would bring you to tell him yourself. O Aimée, it is mean beyond words to ask such a thing of you; and yet there will be no good in what you did last night, if you refuse to do this!”

“But--I do not understand,” said Aimée. “How will it make any difference? I went for _you_.”

“But he does not know that,” said Fanny. “He thinks--oh, my dear, you must forgive me!--that you went for yourself.”

“You told him so?” said Aimée, in a voice that did not sound like her own.

“How could I help it?” answered Fanny. “He had been nursing his anger and jealousy all night, and when he came this morning I hardly knew him. He was ready to leave me at a word, and I should never have seen him again. So what _could_ I do but tell him that the person he saw was you?”

“You could have told him the truth,” said Aimée. “I am sure he ought to have been satisfied to hear that you sent Mr. Kyrle away.”

Fanny shook her head. “You don’t know men,” she said. “And I did not know Mr. Meredith before this morning. He was so angry, that I saw at once he would never forgive me if he knew the truth; so there was nothing to do but deny the whole thing. I suppose it was cowardly; but I _am_ a coward. There is no doubt of that.”

Aimée agreed that there could be no doubt of it; but the frankly admitted fact did not make her own position better. As far as she could understand, Fanny had boldly transferred the whole matter--intended elopement, broken promise, midnight tryst--to her shoulders, and asked her to acknowledge it. She could hardly realize all that was demanded of her.

“Do you mean to say,” she asked, “that you told Mr. Meredith that _I_ had promised to go away with Mr. Kyrle?”

“What else could I tell him?” replied Fanny, desperately. “O Aimée, don’t you see: what is the good of what was done last night, if I acknowledge it this morning? I should lose Mr. Meredith just as much as if I had gone with Lennox. So I thought I might trust you. I thought you would help me. It is only to say it was you last night; the rest will be understood.”

“The rest--that is, the falsehood!” cried Aimée, indignantly. “O Fanny, how can you ask it--how _can_ you? I did not mind what I did last night, though it was hard enough. I would do that, or anything else of the kind, over again. But this I can not, I will not, do!”

“Then,” said Fanny, sitting down with a gesture of despair, “there is simply no hope, and I wish I had gone with Lennox. It is useless for me to face Mr. Meredith again. If I told him that you refused to come, he would never believe that it was not me last night. Well,” with a long-drawn sigh, “I suppose it serves me right. But I am sorry for poor mamma.”

Sobs followed, while Aimée sat staring at the wall before her. Fanny’s grief did not touch her as much as it should have done, perhaps, for she understood exactly the degree and quality of the regard which that young lady entertained for Mr. Meredith, and she did not yet realize that disappointment over the loss of possible diamonds might be as acute as that over the loss of a lover. But the allusion to Mrs. Berrien had more effect. Aimée knew that her aunt’s heart was set upon Fanny’s marrying Mr. Meredith, and for her aunt Aimée felt that she was bound to do much--for was she not the only person in the world who had ever given a thought to her sad girlhood, or attempted to throw a little sunshine upon it? There was not much in common between Mrs. Berrien and her niece; but on the side of the latter there was a deep sense of gratitude. “Should I hesitate to do _anything_ for Aunt Alice, who has done so much for me?” she asked herself. It was this she was thinking while Fanny sobbed.

Presently she said abruptly, “Is Mr. Meredith downstairs yet?”

“I don’t know,” replied Miss Berrien. “I told him to wait for me, but he may have gone. I hope he has. I can never face him again.”

“I am sure,” said Aimée, tremulously, “if you would only make up your mind to tell him the truth--”

Fanny interrupted her by a petulant motion. “Pray talk of something that you understand,” she said. “If you will not help me, of course I can not force you to do so, but allow me to be the best judge of my own conduct.”

Poor Aimée! Her own eyes filled with tears--tears far more genuine than Fanny’s. How, after all, could she refuse this service which was asked of her? It was hard, infinitely harder than the one of the night before, but it seemed to her that she was bound to do it--to immolate herself and the truthfulness which was one of the strongest instincts of her nature--in order that her aunt’s desire might be accomplished. With an effort she said, at length:

“And if I were to do what you ask--if I told Mr. Meredith that it was I last night--should I have to tell him anything else?”

“No, no,” cried Fanny, with eyes sparkling through her tears. “That is all. Leave the rest to me. I don’t ask you to _say_ a thing which is untrue.”

“It is all the same if I let it be understood,” said Aimée, dejectedly. “But I suppose I must do it--if Mr. Meredith has not gone.”

“Oh, I don’t think he has gone,” said Fanny, forgetting her contrary statement of a moment back. “I told him that you had not risen this morning because you were awake nearly all night. So, if you will dress quickly, he will not think we have been long.”

Thus animated, Aimée rose, dressed as quickly as her trembling hands would permit, and followed Fanny--who dried her tears with wonderful celerity--down-stairs. When they reached the parlor door Miss Berrien took her companion’s hand in an encouraging pressure. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “I will not let him annoy you.”

At a more auspicious moment Aimée might have resented this offer of protection from the person who was dragging her into the lion’s jaws; but she had no opportunity to do so, for the next instant they were in Mr. Meredith’s presence.

It had never occurred to Aimée before that this was at all an awe-inspiring presence; but now she felt herself trembling from head to foot before the rotund, genial gentleman, who looked unusually pale and grave, and whom she was going to aid in deceiving. It was this last consideration which made a coward of her, and fastened her eyes to the floor as she entered the room.

“Here is my cousin, Mr. Meredith,” said Fanny, whose conscience did not apparently make a coward of her. “She has kindly come to satisfy you as to who it was that you saw leave this house, go to the sea wall, and return last night.”

Aimée lifted her glance and looked at Mr. Meredith then--who, in turn, looked at her. More than ever her eyes were at this moment the eyes of a startled fawn, and as they gazed at him full of wistful appeal and fright and pain, he said to himself that with such eyes deception was not possible. He had thought only of Fanny before, but now he felt a sudden thrill of pity and compunction for this girl whom his suspicions had placed in such a position.

“I am very sorry,” he stammered. “I had no desire to interfere in anything which did not concern me; but I thought--I believed--It was you, then, whom I saw last night?”

“Yes, it was I,” answered Aimée. She spoke with a clear distinctness for which Fanny blessed her, and met his steady gaze unflinchingly. As long as it was the truth--so she said to herself--she did not mind.

Mr. Meredith, on his part, was staggered by her self-possession. Shrinking as she looked, there was no faltering in her speech, no shame in her manner. From her calm and ready answer, it might have been the most natural thing in the world for a young girl to leave her home at midnight to hold a tryst on the sea wall.

“I beg your pardon,” said the amazed man, who began to think that a girl capable of this coolness was capable of anything else--although up to this time he had looked upon her as an insignificant child, fit rather for dolls than love affairs--“but it was so strange to see a lady go out at such a time that--one could not help drawing certain conclusions. And the thought of _you_ never occurred to me, for I should have said you were much too young for anything of the kind. And--by Jove! you _are_ too young!” he added, with honest warmth. “Your aunt should be informed.--It is not right,” addressing Fanny, “that such an affair should be allowed to go on.”

“I thought I told you that it was at an end,” said that young lady, coolly. “Aimée sent Mr. Kyrle away; and I promised her that if she came down to satisfy your doubt, she should not be annoyed further.”

“I have no desire to annoy her,” said Mr. Meredith, “but she is so young that really--This Mr. Kyrle can not be a man of honor, to try to make such a child elope!”

“Aimée looks more of a child than she is,” said Fanny, hurriedly; “and--and I have told you that it is all over. Mr. Kyrle is gone.--And now, Aimée, that you have satisfied Mr. Meredith, I think you may be allowed to go also.”

Perhaps it was something in her tone which roused renewed suspicion in Mr. Meredith’s breast. He looked from one to the other; his brow lowered, and he said, stiffly:

“If you have no objection, I should like to ask Miss”--he found he did not know her name--“Miss Aimée a question or two.”

“You have no right to question her about her own affairs,” said Fanny, who feared what Aimée might reply to those questions. “I promised that she should not be annoyed.--Come, Aimée!”

But Aimée read rightly the lowering cloud on the suitor’s brow and held her ground, resisting Fanny’s attempt to draw her away, and looking up with her clear glance into the suspicious eyes bent on her.

“You think, perhaps,” she said, meeting his suspicions boldly, “that I am saying this to shield Fanny; that it was not I who met Mr. Kyrle last night. But you are mistaken. It was I. I will swear it, if you like.”

“There is no need of that,” said Mr. Meredith, still somewhat suspicious, but again disarmed by those candid eyes. “I should be satisfied by your word. Only, it is strange--”

He paused--for at that moment the door opened, and a servant appeared, saying:

“If you please, Miss Berrien, Mr. Kyrle asks to see you.”

VI.

Fanny’s courage was of good metal that it did not fail altogether at this juncture. She felt for a moment as if it must, and if Mr. Kyrle had followed the servant into the room it is certain that she would have thrown up her game in despair. Thought is so quick that even in the midst of her consternation there was a flash of keen regret that she had not followed Aimée’s advice and told Mr. Meredith the truth; but it was too late for candor now. What would have been graceful confidence an hour before, would now seem only the desperate resource of exposure. She looked at the door, fully expecting to see Lennox’s face; but when she understood that he would not enter without permission, her courage rose to the difficulty and her ready wit perceived a way of escape.

“It is _you_ whom he wishes to see, Aimée,” she said, addressing that terror-stricken young person. “Go to him at once, and take him into Mrs. Shreve’s sitting-room. You can speak to him there quietly. But pray _make him go away_ as soon as possible. Remember, mamma may be down any moment.”

She fairly pushed Aimée from the room before the girl could utter a word or collect her thoughts, and then turned with great self-possession to Mr. Meredith.

“He is an impetuous young man, who will not take ‘No’ when it has been said to him,” she observed, “so it is best that Aimée should say it over again herself. He thinks, no doubt, that I am influencing her.”

“You should influence her,” said Mr. Meredith. “You should see that there is an end to such folly at once.”

“I _have_ influenced her,” said Fanny, very truthfully. “But for me, she would not have sent him away last night. And so you were positive that it was _me_ whom you saw!” she went on, with absolutely mirthful eyes. “It is true, Aimée is as tall as I am; but then she is so slight, and so unformed--”

“How could I tell that at night?” said Mr. Meredith. “And how could I think of her? She always seemed to me a mere child. I confess that I thought only of you--and a most miserable night I spent in consequence,” he added, feelingly.

“I am not at all sorry,” said Miss Berrien, with uncompromising decision. “You had no right to think such a thing for a moment, after all that I have said to you. It was shameful! It shows that you have no trust in me--no real regard and respect for me. If I did what was right, now that I have proved how you misjudged me, I should never speak to you again!”

“Oh, you would not be so cruel as that, I hope!” said the now humbled and alarmed suitor. “Because, after all, I was hardly to blame--I forgot all about your cousin’s existence; and you know you have never _promised_ anything, so I had no right to feel certain of you.”

“You will never have the right if you can not trust me better than this,” said Fanny, perceiving her advantage and pressing it ruthlessly.

It was not difficult to foresee the state of subjection to which Mr. Meredith would soon be reduced in order to make amends for the mistake into which he had been betrayed. Miss Berrien was determined upon two things: first, to keep him well engaged until she was sure that Lennox Kyrle had left the house, and, secondly, to revenge herself for the fright she had suffered; but despite her self-command, her nerves were in a state of considerable tension, and it is to be feared that it was rather a bad quarter of an hour which he was called upon to endure.

Not so bad, however, as that of poor Aimée, who was sent forth to again encounter and overcome the ill-used Mr. Kyrle. She found him standing at the hall door--a slender, handsome young man, whose refined face and brilliant, eager eyes presented a type as widely different from Mr. Meredith as it is possible to conceive. He turned quickly at the sound of her footstep, and Aimée felt as if the glance which fell on her pierced to her trembling soul. But there was nothing which she desired or had need to conceal, so she came forward, the movement of her slight, shrinking figure reminding him of the night before, and her dark eyes full of an unconscious appeal.

“I am sent,” she said, in a low, hesitating voice, “to tell you--” And then she paused. What had she been sent to tell him?

“To tell me that Miss Berrien is engaged and declines to see me, I presume,” said Mr. Kyrle, quietly, coming to her assistance. “I anticipated some such message. But may I ask why Miss Berrien has developed this sudden fear of meeting me? She certainly can not think that I will proceed to extremities and carry her off by force. It is possible that she might have feared something of the kind last night, but _now_--”

“Oh, pray don’t say such things here!” interrupted Aimée, finding her tongue in sheer dismay, as she glanced in apprehension from the staircase, down which her aunt might descend at any moment, to the parlor door out of which Mr. Meredith might issue. “Fanny told me to take you into this room, where we can speak quietly,” she went on quickly. “Will you come for a moment?”

She opened, as she spoke, a door which led into a small sitting-room. It was Mrs. Shreve’s private domain, but Fanny (who was her prime favorite) had obtained permission to use it in emergencies like the present, and when directing Aimée to go there she knew that Mrs. Shreve was at this time out of the house.

Mr. Kyrle hesitated an instant, then followed Aimée into the room, and when she had closed the door looked at her a little curiously.

“Why do you let your cousin put such a duty as this upon you?” he asked, abruptly. “Why do you not decline to aid her selfishness and duplicity? Then she would be forced to come and face the truth herself.”

“I do not think it would do her any good,” replied Aimée, simply, “and I am sure it would not do you any at all. I have come because she asked me--that is all. I do not approve of the way she is acting”--with a grave shake of the head--“but I could not refuse to help her, for she is in a difficulty.”

“I can very well imagine what it is,” said Mr. Kyrle, grimly, “and I assure you that I have no desire to add to the embarrassment of her position. I am simply here to end in a definite manner what I have been foolish enough to regard as a tie between us. I believe I told you last night that I would make no effort to see her, and had I followed my inclination I should have adhered to that resolve. But a little reflection showed me that to leave our relations as she desired them to be left was impossible on my part. It is necessary”--he spoke with emphasis, drawing together his straight, black brows in an unconscious frown--“that she shall clearly understand that by her own act she has ended all between us. I have a right to demand that she will see me in order to hear this.”

“Of course you have a right,” agreed Aimée, thinking the while how different this was to the pleadings Fanny had anticipated; “but just now it is _impossible_ for her to see you, so the best thing you can do is to go away. I promise you that I will tell Fanny whatever you wish.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he said. “Any one who would undertake for another what you have already undertaken in this matter can be trusted, I am sure, to make a truthful report. But there are some things which should be said face to face; so I must beg you again to request Miss Berrien to see me. I will not detain her more than a few minutes.”

“But--” said Aimée, and then she paused, asking herself what she could possibly urge that would be likely to influence this very determined young man, and save Fanny from the Nemesis that seemed about to overtake her. The absolute self-forgetfulness of her wistful gaze, as she stood with her hands clasped tightly together, struck Kyrle in the midst of his own preoccupation; but before he could speak she went on hurriedly: “If it were possible, Fanny would see you, I am sure. But she is placed in a very trying position just now, and she can not help herself--she _can not_ see you. If you would only believe this and go away, perhaps some other time--”

“I believe it because you say it,” answered Kyrle, moved by a sudden impulse of compassion for the distress on her face, “and for your sake I will go. But there will be no other time, so far as any attempt of mine to see Miss Berrien is concerned. Her refusal to receive me, coming after her conduct of last night, makes it impossible that I shall ever again approach her. May I ask you to be my embassador, as you have been hers, and tell her that I disregarded her wishes and attempted to see her, not because I desired in the least to change her resolution, but because I wished to bring matters between us to a positive and definite conclusion. I did not want to leave any loophole for misunderstanding. Be kind enough to make this clear.”

“I will,” said Aimée, in feverish haste to be rid of him. “I promise you that I will make it perfectly clear. And shall I tell her that you are going away at once?”

“At once,” he replied, with decision. “She need fear no further annoyance of any kind from me; and you need not fear being sent again on such an errand as that of last night. At least there is no possibility of your being sent to _me_, and I strongly advise you to decline to serve Miss Berrien in that manner again.”

“She is not likely to ask me to serve her in that manner again,” said Aimée. “But though it was not pleasant, I would rather do that than--some other things,” she added, with a keen recollection of the service she had lately been called upon to render.

“It was simply unpardonable to have sent you on such an errand,” said the young man, his indignation growing with his interest in the childlike creature. “What if you had been seen and recognized! She should have known, if you did not, the grave risk you ran.”

Aimée was too loyal to acknowledge that she had been seen, so she only repeated her former statement: “It would not have mattered. I am of no importance at all; nobody thinks of me.”

“Apparently not,” said Lennox Kyrle dryly. To his credit it may be said that nothing had so completely disillusioned him with regard to Fanny Berrien, not even her perfidy toward himself, as her selfishness toward her young cousin. To take advantage of a child’s ignorance and generosity, to put her into a position that might have seriously compromised her, seemed to him an act so unworthy, that he could not entertain a shade of respect for the woman who was capable of it. “But it does not follow that, because nobody thinks of you, nobody _should_ think of you,” he went on with energy. “You should think of yourself, and not allow your cousin to make use of you in this manner.”

“I am quite willing to be made use of, if I am not asked to do anything wrong,” said Aimée, simply; “and it seemed to me that it would have been worse in Fanny to go away with you, than to send me to tell you that she could not go.”

“Perhaps so,” said he, unable to resist smiling, “and I am quite willing to acknowledge that it was better she did not keep her appointment--better to break faith than keep it with an unwilling heart; but she might have had courage enough to own the truth herself.”

“She was afraid of you,” said Aimée, candidly. “And then there was the danger of her being seen. If Mr. Meredith had seen _her_--”

She stopped short--confusion and alarm painted on her face--conscious how far her tongue had betrayed her. There was an instant’s hope that Lennox Kyrle would not observe the name which had slipped out, but the next moment proved that hope vain.

“It would have been awkward, certainly, if Mr.--Meredith, did you say?--had seen her,” he replied quietly. “But how if he had seen _you_? Perhaps he did!” (with a sudden flash of comprehension). “I remember now that after you left, as I stood watching to see you safely home, I noticed a man on the sea wall who seemed watching you also. If that is the case, he shall understand the truth. I will go to him myself.”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Aimée, in an agony of apprehension. “You must not think of such a thing! You would only do harm to Fanny, and no good to me--for how does it matter what Mr. Meredith thinks of me? I am of no importance.”

“You have said that several times,” answered Kyrle, “but I beg to differ with you. Because you are a child now, it does not follow that you will always be a child, and the time must come when you will understand that it is of great importance that you should not be suspected of making midnight appointments like that of last night. It was in a measure my fault that you were sent on such an errand, so I am bound in honor to let the truth be known.”

“And ruin Fanny’s prospects?” said Aimée, who felt that the situation was critical, and that something must be done at once to restrain the impetuosity of this young man. It was characteristic of her that the first idea which occurred to her was of an appeal to his generosity. “You can do that,” she went on, fixing him with her dark, earnest eyes, “but it will seem like a revenge--and a very mean one. You will injure Fanny, you will make a scandal that will almost kill my aunt, and you will do me no good--for nobody knows anything now except Mr. Meredith, and he cares nothing about me. But if you go to him, everybody will soon know something, though not the truth.”

Lennox did not answer immediately. He simply stared at her, so much was he struck by her decision and good sense. It was true what she said. By interfering he could do no good, and it would certainly look like a revenge--“and a very mean one.” Aimée had instinctively struck the right key. While a man of different nature might have stretched out eager hands for any form of revenge, this man drew back from the chance put into his hand as if from a viper.

“You are right,” he said, after a moment. “I should place myself in a false position by interfering, and perhaps do more harm than good. But, all the same, it is a shame that the truth should not be known, and a greater shame that your cousin should trade upon your generosity. However, you will say that is no affair of mine. It is true. And since I can do no good to any one except by going away, I will go without loss of time. Only one thing more: besides my message, will you deliver this into your cousin’s hand? I have no longer the right to retain it--nor the inclination.”

He drew from his pocket as he spoke, and gave to her, a small golden locket which contained, Aimée afterward discovered, a picture of Fanny and a curl of her sunny hair. As she received it, a voice suddenly sounded in the hall which brought dismay to her soul, for it was the voice of Mrs. Shreve, and this is what Mrs. Shreve was saying:

“Come in, if you please, sir. I will send and let Mrs. Berrien and Miss Vincent know that you are here.”

“Miss Vincent!” said Aimée, in a frightened whisper. “That is _me_--and nobody ever comes to see me! Who can it be?”

Meanwhile Mrs. Shreve’s voice went on amiably: “You wish to see them in private? Then step into my sitting-room, where you will be altogether private, and--Oh! _Miss Aimée!_”

It was a tableau for a moment--the open door in which stood Mrs. Shreve, bonneted and shawled; Aimée a picture of confusion, with the locket in her hand; and Lennox Kyrle, tall, straight, and handsome, standing before her. The scene, to all appearances, told a story evident to the dullest comprehension; and it was not alone to Mrs. Shreve’s eyes that it was revealed. Behind her was a young man whose glance over her shoulder took it all in.

The tableau lasted only a moment; for Aimée, seeing the face over Mrs. Shreve’s shoulder, uttered an exclamation of surprise, in which pleasure evidently bore no part. “Percy,” she cried, “is it you?”

“Yes, it is I,” answered the young man, coming forward as Mrs. Shreve moved aside. He cast a look of angry suspicion at Kyrle, then, taking Aimée’s hand--which she made no movement to offer--bent and kissed her cheek: “You did not expect to see me,” he said.

“No; why should I?” she answered, blushing so furiously that it was evident his salute was not a customary matter. “Why have you come?”

“To see you--and to take you home,” he answered, with another suspicious glance at Kyrle.

This the latter returned with one of coldly careless scrutiny, and then held out his hand to Aimée.

“I will not intrude longer,” he said. “You will wish me _bon voyage_? I am leaving St. Augustine immediately.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Aimée, eagerly. “I wish you _bon voyage_ with all my heart, and I shall not forget--”

She paused abruptly--remembering that she must not say, “I shall not forget to give your message to Fanny”--and of course the sudden pause and blush which accompanied it could bear but one interpretation to the looker-on.

“I shall not forget your kindness,” said Kyrle, conscious of the false position in which she was placed, and angry at his inability to right it. But, fearing to do harm and complicate matters further by any attempt in that direction, he felt that the best thing he could do was to go. So with a parting bow he left the room, hearing, as he went, an angry voice saying:

“Who is that man, Aimée?--and what is the meaning of this?”

VII.

Aimée looked straightly and bravely into the questioner’s face.

“That,” she said, quietly, “is Mr. Kyrle. You do not know him, so we need not discuss his visit. Tell me why you have come for me. Is mamma ill?”

“No,” answered the young man, whose sufficiently good-looking countenance was very much disfigured by the frown with which he was regarding her; “she is very well, but it is necessary that you should go home at once. And I did not come a day too soon, if _this_ is how you are engaged.”

“What do you mean by _this_?” asked Aimée, indignantly--Mrs. Shreve having withdrawn in search of Mrs. Berrien. “I do not know why you should speak to me in such a manner because you find a visitor--”

“A visitor!” interrupted the other, angrily. “Do your visitors usually leave such cards as that?”

He pointed, as he spoke, to the locket which Aimée had forgotten that she still held in her hand. She now thrust it hastily into her pocket; but, though her face crimsoned, she still regarded him with dauntless eyes.

“It is no affair of yours,” she said. “I am not called upon to give you any explanation. I am here under Aunt Alice’s care.”

“An admirable care it seems to be,” said he, sarcastically. “It is fortunate that I have come to take you out of her hands.”

“I can not understand why any one should have thought it necessary to send you,” said Aimée. “It is a new thing that what I do should be considered of importance by any one.”

Then there was a moment’s silence. It was impossible for Mr. Percy Joscelyn--which was this young gentleman’s name--to deny that it was indeed a very new thing for Aimée’s actions to be of importance in the opinion of her family. Her repeated assertion that it did not matter to any one what she did was founded on most undeniable fact, or had been a short time before. And if all was changed now, if her actions had suddenly become of very great importance, it was for a reason difficult to state when thus confronted with what yesterday had been the truth.

Fortunately, a diversion occurred at this point which relieved him from the inconvenience of answering her remark. The door opened and Mrs. Berrien entered.

“Why, Percy, how do you do?” she said. “This is a great surprise.”

“Yes,” said young Joscelyn, as they shook hands, “I suppose so. But I have come for Aimée.”

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Berrien, looking as much surprised as Aimée herself. “What is the matter? Is her mother ill?”

“No, my stepmother is in very good health,” was the reply. “But it is necessary that Aimée should go home. There has been--ahem!--a great change in her circumstances.”

“In her circumstances!” repeated Mrs. Berrien, while Aimée’s eyes grew wide and startled. “What has happened?”

“She has inherited a fortune,” said the young man in tones of such solemnity as the announcement warranted.

“_Aimée_--inherited a fortune!” cried Mrs. Berrien. If he had announced that Aimée had suddenly been transformed into a royal princess it could hardly have seemed to her more incredible. “You are surely mistaken.”

Percy Joscelyn smiled with an air of superior knowledge. “In such matters there is not much room for mistake,” he said. “You have heard, I presume, of Henry Dunstan?”

“My brother’s half-brother--my stepmother’s son by another marriage? Of course. But he went to South America and died years ago.”

“On the contrary, he died only last month; and, having lost his wife and only child, he made a will just before he died leaving his fortune to the children of his half-brother, Edward Vincent, of whom, as you know, Aimée is the only child.”

“My dear Aimée, this is indeed a change for you!” exclaimed Mrs. Berrien, turning and embracing the startled girl with honest warmth. “I am as pleased as if a fortune had been left to myself. Now I need feel no more anxiety about your future.”

“I shall never forget who was the only person who ever did feel any,” said Aimée, clinging to her as though some danger threatened.

Mrs. Berrien smiled. She knew that it was true; that she had indeed been the only person who had ever given a thought to the future of the fatherless girl, and she was not sorry that Aimée should recognize the fact. It was the reward for a good action, which she deserved, because no such reward had seemed even remotely possible when the action was performed.

Naturally, however, this was not very pleasant for the representative of the Joscelyns to hear; and, being a young man with a considerable drop of venom in his nature, Mr. Percy Joscelyn felt impelled to reply to the implied charge by bringing a countercharge.

“I am sorry that Aimée imagines you to be the only person who felt any anxiety for her future,” he said, stiffly. “But if I may judge by the position in which I found her when I arrived, it was at least not a troublesome anxiety in the present.”

Mrs. Berrien looked at him with haughty surprise. “May I inquire what you mean?” she asked. “You have found her in exactly the position she would have occupied as my daughter.”

“Indeed!” said he, with what Aimée inwardly called “Percy’s disagreeable smile.” “You are, of course, the best judge of that. But I found her with a young man, evidently exchanging love-tokens. If that is a liberty you would allow your daughter, I can only say I am sure my stepmother would prefer an anxiety that would take another form.”

Regarding him for a moment as if she thought he had taken leave of his senses, Mrs. Berrien then turned to Aimée:

“What is the meaning of this?” she asked, “What is he talking about? There is nothing that I can imagine more improbable than that you were ‘with a young man exchanging love-tokens.’”

“I was not--O Aunt Alice, I was not!” cried poor Aimée, divided between indignant wrath and the desire to burst into tears. “Percy did find a--young man here; but he was only a--visitor.”

“But when have you taken to receiving such visitors?” said Mrs. Berrien with amazement. “And I was not even aware that you knew any young men--O Aimée, this is indeed a shock. I could not have believed it. I should have said that you were one of the last girls in the world to be guilty of such conduct.”

“I have not been guilty of any conduct to which you need object, Aunt Alice,” said Aimée earnestly. “I would not deceive you--indeed, I would not.”

“Then who was the visitor Percy found with you?” asked Mrs. Berrien.

Aimée looked at her piteously without speaking--for did not loyalty to Fanny seal her lips? Had not Fanny been as anxious to keep the knowledge of Lennox Kyrle’s visit from her mother as from Mr. Meredith? The girl was so absorbed in this thought that she forgot how useless it was to attempt to conceal a name which had been revealed to Percy Joscelyn, and which he now hastened to supply.

“Aimée seems to have forgotten the name of her visitor,” he said, “but she informed me that it was Kyrle.”

“Kyrle!” repeated Mrs. Berrien. The truth flashed on her. She gave a searching glance at Aimée, and read the whole story in the girl’s beseeching eyes. She remembered then that Mrs. Shreve had told her that Mr. Meredith was in the parlor with Fanny. What could be plainer than that Fanny had sent Aimée to ward off anything so undesirable as the appearance of her old lover? But with this knowledge came also the consciousness of an unpleasant dilemma. To tell the truth for Aimée’s justification would be to put Fanny in the power of Percy Joscelyn, who would take pleasure, Mrs. Berrien felt sure, in injuring her by letting the truth be known. Could she do this? Was such a sacrifice demanded of her? The woman whose heart was set upon her daughter’s brilliant marriage, yet who was of an upright nature and had honestly done her best for this orphan girl, knew an instant of sharp struggle--and then Aimée spoke:

“Yes, it was Mr. Kyrle, Aunt Alice,” she said. “I hesitated to tell you, because I know you do not like him. He was here only a few minutes, and he is going away immediately.” She paused for an instant, then added, “I do not expect Percy to trust me, but _you_ will, I am sure.”

“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs. Berrien, with a sense of mingled shame and relief. “I should have to forget all that I have ever known of you if I could not trust you. I am glad to hear that Mr. Kyrle is going away. But Percy”--looking at that young man--“may be sure that the visit to you had no such significance as he was quick to imagine.”

“I have not much imagination,” said Mr. Joscelyn, “but I am quick to trust the evidence of my eyes; and if Aimée will kindly produce a locket which she put in her pocket a minute ago, you may change your opinion with regard to the significance of Mr. Kyrle’s visit.”

“I can trust Aimée,” repeated Mrs. Berrien, trembling lest Aimée should produce the demanded locket, “and I will not attempt to force her confidence. It is not to-day for the first time that her actions have become of importance to me,” she added with much stateliness of manner, “and therefore I do not need to be schooled in my duty toward her. Now we will dismiss the subject. When do you wish to take her away?”

“The sooner the better, I think,” replied the young man with considerable spitefulness of emphasis. “There is, of course, much to be done.”

“But Aimée is too young to do anything with regard to business,” said Mrs. Berrien.

“Her mother is anxious to see her,” said Mr. Joscelyn--a statement which made Mrs. Berrien smile, and produced in Aimée a sense of deepening amazement--“and it is necessary that she should begin at once to prepare for the position she will occupy.”

“What will that be?” asked Mrs. Berrien, a little dryly. “Have you learned the amount of her fortune?”

“Not precisely; but the letters received from Rio speak of it as very large.”

“And so you are transformed into a South American heiress, my dear little Aimée?” said Mrs. Berrien, with a smile, putting her arm caressingly around the girl, who answered, between a laugh and a sob:

“I do not know what to think of myself under such a transformation.”

VIII.

If Aimée did not know what to think of herself under the transformation of her changed fortunes, those around her knew very well what to think. Never again would any act of hers be reckoned of no importance by the world, which, whatever shrines it may desert, is always faithful to that of the golden calf; and when Fanny Berrien learned that it was a great heiress whom she had sent to keep her rendezvous on the sea wall, and whose name she had, in the minds of two people at least, linked with that of Lennox Kyrle, she stood aghast at the realization.

“For, of course, since Aimée is to be such an important person, I have done her a great injustice,” she confessed to her mother. “I should never have sent her if I had not thought her too insignificant for it to matter; and the same consideration made me say what I did to Mr. Meredith. How could it harm Aimée, I thought! and now--”

A dramatic gesture concluded the sentence, but did not lighten the cloud on Mrs. Berrien’s brow. Indeed, Fanny said afterward that she had never seen her mother so angry as on this occasion.

“If the change of fortune had not occurred, and Aimée had remained as insignificant as you thought her, I should say that you were guilty of shameful and inexcusable conduct,” said Mrs. Berrien. “To send her--a child under my care--on an errand that might have compromised her even more than it has done; and then to shield yourself by placing her in a false position--I could not have believed you capable of it! And the question now is, what am I to do? I can not leave Aimée under the imputation of having been ready to elope with Lennox Kyrle.”

“I see no particular harm in the imputation,” said Fanny, “especially since Mr. Meredith is the only person who knows of it, and I will see that _he_ holds his tongue.”

“You forget that Percy Joscelyn found Mr. Kyrle with Aimée.”

“And what then? He has only his suspicions of some love affair between them--and why should not Aimée be supposed to have a love affair? _I_ had half a dozen at her age.”

“Fanny, I am ashamed of you!” said her mother, severely. “Is this a proper spirit in which to look at a matter in which you have been gravely and deeply at fault? Have you no generosity, that you are willing to let your young cousin bear the consequences of your frivolity?”

“It is _her_ generosity that makes her willing to bear them,” said Fanny. “But if you insist, mamma, I can set the matter straight, so far as she is concerned, by telling Mr. Meredith the truth. Of course, he will never speak to me again, and I don’t clearly see how that will do any good to Aimée. But still, if you insist--”

“I suppose I ought to insist,” said Mrs. Berrien, in a low tone. “It is a shame if I do not. And yet--you have put me as well as Aimée in a position for which I shall never forgive you!” turning sharply to her daughter--“you have made it almost impossible for me to say what must be done. I should like to see you married to Mr. Meredith, but I shall always feel that such a marriage is bought too dearly if it can only be bought by putting your young cousin in a position which may throw a cloud over the brilliant prospects of her life.”

“Mamma, if you will excuse me, that is all nonsense!” said Fanny. “How can it possibly throw a cloud over Aimée’s prospects--which I heartily wish were mine!--that one or two or three people believe her to have had a youthful love affair with Lennox Kyrle? Lennox is a very nice person--though you would never believe it--and he may be a famous man some day.”

“It is you who are talking nonsense,” said Mrs. Berrien, curtly. “It is not necessary to discuss Mr. Kyrle. Fortunately, he is a gentleman--there is that much to be said for him; otherwise we will put him aside. You say that it can not injure Aimée’s prospects to be supposed by two or three people to have had a youthful love affair with him. In the first place, what is known to two or three people will certainly be known to many more; and, in the second place, it _is_ a great injury to any girl, in the opinion of people whose opinions are worth consideration, to have had any such affair, much less to be supposed to have been on the verge of an elopement. As I have said, it would be bad enough if Aimée had remained insignificant; but _now_, with her prospects, I can not endure it!”

“Then _my_ prospects are at an end, and I might as well bury myself at once!” cried Fanny, who began to fear that her mother was seriously in earnest. “It is not only that I shall lose Mr. Meredith--for of course there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it--but I shall be hopelessly compromised, and I can not even fall back upon Lennox Kyrle, for he has gone off in a rage, swearing that he is done with me forever. So you might as well make up your mind, mamma, that I shall be left on your hands.”

“Fanny, you distract me!” said her mother. “Do you propose that I shall let this thing go on, and suffer Aimée, who does not know what she is doing, to start in life with this story fastened upon her?”

“Aimée knows perfectly well what she is doing,” said Fanny, “and if she does not mind why should you? As for her changed position, when people have money they can do exactly what they please, and the world never dares to find fault. That is my experience. But here she comes herself. Ask her what she wishes. I promise to abide by her decision.”

It was indeed Aimée, who entered like an angel of peace. She never looked more childlike or gentle, yet her simplicity now as ever was the simplicity of good sense, and as she came forward she glanced appealingly from the anxious daughter to the distracted mother.

“I was in the next room; I could not help hearing, Aunt Alice,” she said. “I have come to thank you for thinking so much of me, and to beg you to let things be as they are.”

“My dear child, it is generous of you to desire it,” said Mrs. Berrien, “but I do not feel that I have a right to accept such a sacrifice. I must think of your future.”

“Have you not always thought of me?” said the girl, coming forward and in her earnestness kneeling down by her aunt’s chair. “_You_ know, and _I_ know, that nobody else has thought of me at all. And will you not let me repay you in the least for your kindness and your thought? It is such a little thing that I want you to let me do. Fanny is right. What difference does it make whether two or three people believe that I was going to elope with Mr. Kyrle? It can not hurt _me_; but if it were known of _her_ it would hurt her very much. I saw Mr. Meredith this morning, and I am certain that he would never forgive her if he learned the truth now. It is too late. You can make things worse, Aunt Alice, but you can not make them any better now.”

Mrs. Berrien gave a little gasp. It was true, all that the simple, quiet voice said. Things might easily be made worse, but it was too late to make them better. She perceived this, and was not sorry to perceive it, even while despising herself for being convinced. But what could she do, with Fanny’s imploring eyes on one side, and on the other Aimée’s resolution?

“I ought not to yield,” she said. “Whether things were made better or worse, the truth should be told.”

“Oh, no; if the truth would do harm, instead of good, why should you tell it _now_?” said Aimée, with guileless casuistry. “I wanted Fanny to tell Mr. Meredith at first, but she would not, and now it is too late. You must let things be, dear Aunt Alice. Promise me that you will let them be.”

The insistent voice and eyes carried their point. Mrs. Berrien hesitated a moment longer, then meekly yielded.

“I am wrong, I know I am wrong,” she said, “but I can not withstand you both. Aimée, I shall never forgive myself if this throws any shadow of trouble on your life. Remember, if it ever does, and you wish the truth known, call upon me and I will tell it.”

Aimée shook her head, smiling.

“I am not afraid that the occasion will ever come,” she said. “I am too glad to be able to do something for you, who have done so much for me.”

IX.

But Mrs. Berrien was not the only person who felt concern about the very unjust suspicion that might be cast upon Aimée. Lennox Kyrle, as he went out, with Percy Joscelyn’s angry question ringing in his ears, said to himself, indignantly, that it was shameful that such a misconception should be allowed for a moment to exist, and that, if Fanny had neither the courage nor sense of justice sufficient to induce her to speak, it was his plain duty to do so. Only one consideration deterred him, and this was the consideration Aimée had so artfully brought to bear, that to reveal the truth would on his part appear to be the revenge of a jilted man.

“My lips are sealed,” he thought, wrathfully, “and Fanny Berrien knows it, so she allows this child, who is too young and ignorant to understand what she is doing, to bear the consequences and the odium of her conduct. It is infamous, and I will not submit to it! Something must be done.”