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?”