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.”