But while the family council was thus laying plans for keeping
Aimée and her old acquaintance apart, Fortune, which sometimes
takes up weapons and fights for those who have neither heart nor
power to fight for themselves, had most unexpectedly brought them
together.
It was quite early in the morning, soon after he had taken that
light collation which on the Continent is called the first
breakfast, that Kyrle, sauntering on the Piazza and asking himself
whether he should fulfill his engagement of calling on Mrs.
Meredith, or whether he should, more sensibly, leave Venice, these
old entanglements, and new perils, behind him, suddenly perceived
a lady, accompanied by her maid, just entering the great portal of
the cathedral. He had not sat behind that figure the day before and
studied it in vain. He recognized at once the elegant outlines, the
graceful carriage, and without a moment’s hesitation he followed
her into the church, as he had long ago followed her into the
Florida orange grove.
Who does not know by sight or by fame that wonderful interior
in whose darkness lies hid the spoils of the Orient, and whose
ancient pavement in its undulations seems to imitate the waves of
the sea that cradles it? Kyrle knew it well; but just now he was
not thinking of gorgeous mosaics, or marvelous carving, of columns
of verd-antique, jasper, or porphyry; his eyes were searching the
gloom of the vast edifice for the figure which had entered a few
minutes before, and some time elapsed before he discovered what
he sought, in a chapel where a priest was saying mass and a small
congregation were assembled.
As he drew near the chapel, struck by the infinitely picturesque
scene--the rich, jewel-incrusted altar, the priest in his golden
vestments, the contrasts of rank and costume in the forms kneeling
on the pavement--he suddenly saw Aimée, her maid on one side, on
the other a Venetian girl with a black lace shawl thrown over such
red-gold hair as Titian painted, while a shaft of sunlight from
some high, remote window brought out the delicate fairness of her
face from the shadowy obscurity around. Satisfied with having
found the object of his search, Kyrle paused, and, leaning against
a pillar, waited until the service was over and those who had
assisted thereat were dispersing. Then he stepped from the shadow
of the pillar and presented himself to Aimée. She looked a little
surprised, but greeted him quietly, and together they walked toward
the entrance.
“I was about to remark that I am fortunate to meet you,” Kyrle said
presently, “but one should pay a sacred edifice the compliment of
being strictly truthful while within its walls, shouldn’t one? And
the truth in this case is that I saw you come in and followed you.
I am thinking of leaving Venice to-day.”
If he had intended to surprise her by the announcement, he must
have been disappointed by the calmness with which she replied: “You
are leaving Venice to-day? Is not that sooner than you anticipated?”
“I had made no plans,” he answered. “When I paused here, I did
not intend to linger more than a few days. And now, though I am
strongly tempted to remain, I--Well, I think I had better go.”
Almost every one has had occasion to learn more than once in life
the extreme difficulty of keeping all trace of strong feeling out
of the voice. Kyrle was conscious of being somewhat exasperated
with himself and Fate, as he uttered the last words, and naturally
the inflection of his tone betrayed the feeling. Aimée glanced at
him quickly--involuntarily, it appeared--and in the light of that
glance there suddenly flashed upon him an understanding of what
interpretation she might give to his words. Her eyes seemed to
say, “Ah, is _that_ it!” But before he could collect his thoughts
sufficiently to know how to explain himself, she had looked away
again and was saying in her clear, low voice: “If you think it
best, of course you are right to go. And one should not attempt to
change your resolution.”
“No one is likely to attempt to change it,” he replied, with a
slight laugh. “But I think you misunderstand me a little,” he
added, after a pause, with a sudden impulse of candor. “We were
once thrown together very singularly; I am sure you do not forget
this any more than I do. Therefore, since we are not strangers,
will you let me speak to you frankly?”
“Surely, if you wish to do so,” she answered; but he saw that she
looked a little startled.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, quietly. “I have no intention of
saying anything that you need hesitate to hear. But may I ask you
to sit down for a moment?”
They were now in the _atrium_, or inner porch of the church. Aimée
hesitated for an instant, then, turning to her maid, said in French:
“Go to the Merceria and make the purchases of which you spoke. I
will wait for you here.”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” replied the girl, without the change of a
feature, and forthwith departed.
Kyrle could hardly believe his good fortune, but as Aimée sat down
on one of the stone benches fixed against the wall, he said,
gratefully:
“You are very kind--as kind as I remember you of old. And I have no
more forgotten how kind you were then, than I have ceased to thank
Heaven for the message you so bravely brought me.”
She looked up at him and he saw in her face that she was astonished.
“But--” she began, and then paused.
“But you thought that I meant something else a minute ago,” he
said. “You thought I meant that I found it best to go because I
felt the old attraction reviving. Is it not so?”
She dropped her eyes. “Was it not natural that I should think so?”
she asked.
“Perhaps it was natural,” he answered, “but you were mistaken. My
only sentiment with regard to that past folly is one of sincerest
thankfulness for my escape. The last time we sat like this
together--have you forgotten the evening in the orange grove?--I
told you that my fancy for Fanny Berrien was dead, killed by her
duplicity to me and her selfishness toward you. I may have been
a little melodramatic, but I meant exactly what I said. From
that day to this her memory has not cost me a pang. As for Mrs.
Meredith, she is a very pretty and amusing person, who acted
altogether according to her kind, and to whom for her conduct
toward myself I bear no malice whatever. On the contrary, my
sentiment toward her is one of lively gratitude--although I have
never forgiven her for her conduct toward you.”
Aimée had lifted her eyes now, and was looking at him again very
steadily. It was as if she were deciding in her own mind the
question of his sincerity. Then she said, with her old simplicity
and directness:
“But why do you wish to tell this to me?”
“Because,” he answered, “whether I go or whether I stay, I do not
wish you to regard me as the victim of a hopeless passion for the
wife of Mr. Meredith.”
“I should scarcely have thought that,” she answered; “but it was
surely natural to fancy that you might remember--with pain--”
“Oh, no; it is no matter for pain,” he said, as she
hesitated--“only for a light-comedy smile and sigh. Fancies of
that sort come and go like dreams. One must know many of them
before one learns what love really is.”
She turned her dark, meditative eyes away from him. On one side was
the interior of the marvelous old church, gleaming with marbles
and precious stones; on the other the sunshiny Piazza, with its
graceful arcades and flocks of sheeny pigeons. She looked toward
the last as she said:
“I do not think I like such an idea.”
“You?” he said, quickly. “No; how could _you_ like it? It is not
meant to apply to natures like yours.”
“Is it not?” she asked, with a smile. “But how can you tell that,
when you know nothing of my nature?”
“Do you think I know nothing of your nature?” he asked, smiling
also. “If I had time, and you did not consider me too presumptuous,
I might prove the contrary, for you forget all that you showed me
once--all the courage, the unselfishness, the humility. But I do
not forget. And has no one ever told you that you carry your soul
on your lips and your heart in your eyes?”
“No,” she replied, “I do not remember that any one ever told me
so before--at least not exactly. But perhaps Fanny means the same
thing when she tells me that my face is ‘ridiculously transparent.’”
“It is only a different way of stating the same thing,” said Kyrle,
and then they both laughed.
“But seriously,” said he, after a moment, conscious of a very
pleasant sense of _camaraderie_ with this beautiful companion,
“have you no idea how you revealed yourself to me at that last
meeting of ours under the orange trees? How I can see you this
moment, as you were then--such a delicate, childlike creature, but
with a strength of resolution against which I arrayed all _my_
strength in vain! And then, when you opened your heart and told me
the sad story of your life, and how it was gratitude which made you
so resolute--do you think I could ever forget anything so touching?
Many a time, in the years which have passed since then, I have
thought of that scene, and said to myself, ‘God bless that child
wherever she may be, for she has a heart as tender as it is brave!’”
Something in his voice told her that he was speaking genuinely,
without the least insincerity or thought of effect, and she could
not but give him a grateful glance from the same dark eyes which
had impressed him with their wonderful power of expression on the
occasion of which he spoke. “You are very kind,” she said, trying
to speak lightly, “to have remembered an obstinate child so long!”
“You were certainly very obstinate,” he said; “but how brave you
were! To think of your having had the courage to go alone to the
sea wall that night, and to think of the selfishness and cowardice
that sent you! Pardon me for asking the question, but has no
opportunity ever occurred for you to set yourself right in that
matter?”
She shook her head. “How could it?” she asked. “Fanny has never had
the courage to tell her husband the truth. But nothing disagreeable
has arisen from it--to me, I mean,” she added, a little hurriedly.
“You know you were afraid of that.”
“Yes,” he said. “I am very glad that you have never been annoyed;
still, it is a shame that such a belief should be in the mind of
any one with regard to you.”
He spoke out, quickly and hotly, the indignation that on this
subject was always within him and ready to find expression; but
he was sorry the next moment for the words when he saw a swift
blush rise into her face, as with the sudden realization of what
the belief was to which he alluded. Angry with himself, he went on
hastily:
“This being so--I mean, the burden of Mrs. Meredith’s conduct
being still borne by you--I feel that I am bound to abstain on
my part from anything which might cause you the least annoyance;
and so I have determined to go away. There shall not be the least
misapprehension about you, arising from any act of mine.”
So much was truth; but, like many other people, Kyrle did not find
it advisable to tell all the truth. He could not say, “Also, I am
going, because if I stay I shall fall in love with you, and that
will never do, for I am a poor man, and you are a rich woman.” But
this was in his mind, even while the temptation was growing greater
every instant to forget both of these stubborn facts. Aimée was
silent for a moment, and then--for the old courage, as well as the
old simplicity, was still strong in her--she looked at him with her
brave, direct glance, and said:
“If this is your reason for leaving Venice, I hope that you will
not think of going. Your presence does not cause me the least
annoyance; and I should be more sorry than I can tell you if mine
were such an annoyance to you that we could not even remain in the
same city. For, do you think I forget that if you are in a false
position, it was my obstinacy that placed, or at least kept you
there? How earnestly you appealed to me, and I could not yield!
And are you now to be the sufferer by being driven away from this
heavenly place? No, Mr. Kyrle, there is no justice in that. I will
not allow it!”
He could have smiled at the energy with which she spoke, partly
because he read in it the old generous spirit, taking no heed or
thought of herself, and partly because, in urging him to remain,
she proved that she so little suspected the chief reason why
departure seemed to him necessary. What he would have answered it
is hard to say, for at that moment the maid, bearing some packages,
made her appearance, and Aimée, rousing to the consciousness
that there was something very unconventional in this prolonged
conversation, rose rather hastily, bade him good-morning, and
walked away.
* * * * *
“Going to leave Venice?” said Fanny Meredith. “What an absurd idea!
What do you mean by it?”
The time was two hours later than when, standing in the shadow
of the cathedral porch, Kyrle had watched Aimée cross the
sunshine-flooded Piazza; and the place was the privacy of Mrs.
Meredith’s sitting-room in the Grand Hotel. The two people who
occupied it were alone together for the first time since they had
parted as lovers; but it is safe to say that this thought was not
in the mind of either of them. Kyrle, leaning back in a deep chair,
was gazing absently out of the window at the beautiful proportions
of Santa Maria della Salute just across the Grand Canal, while Mrs.
Meredith, with her pretty brows knitted, was gazing at _him_.
“I mean,” he said slowly, in reply to her last words, “that I think
it is the only wise course open to me.”
She threw herself back with an impatient gesture. “You are as
incomprehensible as ever!” she exclaimed. “Now, what on earth do
you mean by the only wise course open to you?”
“Briefly, then,” said Kyrle, “you were shrewd enough to observe
last night that I am in danger of falling in love with Miss
Vincent--”
“Oh, no,” said Fanny, shaking her head, “I observed that the thing
was already accomplished.”
“There you are mistaken,” said he; “it is not already accomplished.
Or if it were,” he added, lamely, “there is the more reason for
my going away, since I only expose myself to useless pain by
remaining.”
“But why useless pain?” asked she. “Have you so faint a heart that
you are afraid of Percy Joscelyn as a rival?”
“Not at all,” answered he, calmly. “But it is quite impossible for
me to become his rival. Have you not told me that Miss Vincent is a
great heiress?”
“Yes; she has a large fortune in her own right, and without any
restrictions--happy girl!”
“I hope it may prove for her happiness,” said Kyrle, rather
gloomily, “but it is an effectual bar to any hope on my part. A
newspaper correspondent would hardly be a fit _parti_ for such an
heiress.”
“And whose fault is it that you are a newspaper correspondent?”
asked Mrs. Meredith, with a malice born of past recollections.
“But, in my opinion, that is all nonsense,” she went on, briskly.
“Birth and social position are the things to be considered, rather
than a mere accident of money.”
“The accident of money is what the world considers,” said he, “and
I must consider it also. For myself, I have perhaps thought of it
too little. If so, I am punished by finding it now an insuperable
barrier between myself and the woman I might love.”
Fanny opened her lips to speak, but apparently thought better of it
before any words escaped. She closed them again and sat silent for
a moment, evidently reflecting. Then she looked at Kyrle with an
expression of resigned regret.
“I remember how ob--that is, determined you are,” she said; “so I
suppose there is nothing to be gained by arguing the matter. But
since your mind is so fully made up, why should you run away? I
thought that was the resource of weakness and indecision.”
“No doubt it is,” said he, falling into the artful trap, “and I
felt very weak last night, I assure you. But, after all, there is
no reason why I should go at once--” looking out at the enchanting
sea and sky, and remembering Aimée’s last words. “A day or two can
not matter, and it is nobody’s affair but my own if I choose to
pay for present pleasure by future pain.”
“Oh, dear, no--not anybody’s affair at all,” said Fanny. “And then,
you can so easily take another trip to Egypt and forget all about
it. I really wish you would stay,” she added, persuasively. “We
might have such a pleasant time wandering about Venice! And a man
need not abjure the society of a woman because he thinks her too
rich to marry.”
“No, certainly not,” said Lennox, though he knew in his heart
that this was sophistry. “Well, at least I will not go to-day. I
will stay as long as I first intended--that is, two or three days
longer.”
“How nice of you!” said Fanny, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes.
“And you will also stay to breakfast?”
“You are very kind, but not to-day. If you are going anywhere this
afternoon, however, and will allow me to join you--”
“We are going out to the Lido. Meet us there, and we can all
return together. And one word--don’t mind the incivility of the
Joscelyns. They are uncivil because they are afraid of you.”
“I am very well aware of that,” said he, with a smile. Then his
heart sank, and his voice also, as he added, “But if they only knew
it, they have no cause for fear.”
“They are wiser than to believe that. And so am I,” thought Fanny;
but she took very good care not to utter her thought aloud.