VI.

Somewhat to Mrs. Meredith’s and also to Kyrle’s own surprise, he

had no incivility to encounter from any of the Joscelyns when he

joined their party on the Lido that afternoon. The heads of the

family received him courteously, if stiffly, and Miss Joscelyn

greeted him like an old friend. Indeed, by what means he could

not for the life of him tell, she soon managed to monopolize his

attention, calling upon him for the little services which no

gentleman can refuse to render to a woman, and presently drawing

him aside from the rest of the party to walk with her on the

beach, while she discoursed to him of many things in heaven and

earth which did not interest him in the least. His judgment upon

her, meanwhile, was uncompromising.

“A mass of silliness and affectation,” he said to himself, but in

this he did her some injustice. She was not only less silly than

he imagined--possessing, in fact, a good deal of shrewdness--but

at the present time she had an object in view in her discursive

conversation which his irritated and distracted mind was far from

perceiving.

For it is to be feared that, had pearls of wit and wisdom dropped

from her lips, they would have fallen on equally inattentive ears.

Kyrle had said sternly to himself, while on his way to the Lido,

that he would be very careful not to devote himself to Aimée;

that, because she had asked him to remain in Venice, he was the

more bound not to cause her the faintest shadow of annoyance by

attentions that might be misconstrued; and that he would only

allow himself the pleasure of seeing and of talking to her, as

any other chance acquaintance might. But to renounce voluntarily

some happiness for which Nature longs is one thing, and to have it

forcibly placed beyond reach by outside agency is another. Even if

the happiness in question is no more than looking into a pair of

soft, dark eyes, and listening to ordinary sentences uttered in a

sweet voice, one may be supported in voluntary renunciation by a

sense of virtue which is altogether lacking in feeling that the

matter is taken out of one’s own power. So Kyrle chafed inwardly

against the quiet but resolute hold of Miss Joscelyn upon his

attention, even while he said to himself that it was in a degree

what he had intended, and that he was glad of an opportunity to

prove to these people what an absurd fiction it was that he had

ever been Aimée’s lover.

Yet all the time he was conscious of an insistent desire, the

hunger of the heart which comes with love, to renew the charm

of that half hour in the _atrium_ of St. Mark’s, to take up the

thread of conversation where they had dropped it, and feel again

that sense of sympathy and comradeship, of understanding and being

understood, which had quickened all his being into new life. And,

instead of this, he was pacing the beach with Lydia Joscelyn, and

lending half an ear to what he called in his own mind empty twaddle.

Twaddle it might be, but empty--that is, devoid of meaning--it was

not. Lydia, with an art which did her credit, approached slowly but

surely to the point she had distinctly in view; and presently she

touched it.

“Percy tells me that you sing beautifully, Mr. Kyrle,” she said.

“He declares that he never heard anything finer than your singing

in the gondola last night. You must come out with us to-night and

let me hear you. I adore fine singing. I wonder that Aimée never

mentioned that you had such a fine voice.”

Kyrle, roused from partial abstraction by the sound of Aimée’s

name, fell unconsciously into the trap. “I do not think that Miss

Vincent knew anything about my voice,” he replied, “so it would

have been difficult for her to say anything about it.”

“No!” said his companion, opening her eyes. “I thought I had

understood that you were _quite_ old friends.”

This roused him thoroughly, for the tone implied much more than

the words. The indignation which was ever ready to be excited on

this point rose within him, as it had risen before that day. He

determined that nothing should induce him to lend his aid to Fanny

Berrien’s deception, and allow these people to fancy injurious

things of Aimée. Miss Joscelyn was a little startled by the

haughtiness of his glance as he turned it on her.

“I could esteem nothing more of an honor,” he said, stiffly, “than

to have been either an old or a new friend of Miss Vincent. But,

in point of fact, our acquaintance in the past was very slight, as

your knowledge that she was quite a child at the time might inform

you.”

“Oh!” said Miss Joscelyn. Even her self-possession had need to

recover itself after this _douche_ of cold water. But, while she

exclaimed mentally that he was a perfect churl, her resentment was

accompanied by a sense of triumph. “There _is_ a mystery,” she

thought, “and I am sure that Fanny Meredith is at the bottom of

it!” With a laudable desire of probing further, therefore, she went

on:

“We have all misunderstood a little, then,” she said, with some

significance. “There has been an impression created--not so much

by Aimée as by Mrs. Meredith--that you were friends in a very

particular sense. I think,” she added, with an air of carefully

weighing her words, “that it is a pity such an impression should be

allowed to remain, if it does Aimée an injustice.”

“If such an impression exists,” said Kyrle, with emphasis, “it

certainly does Miss Vincent the greatest injustice, and should not

be permitted to remain. I repeat that my acquaintance with her was

very slight, and that I thought of her only as a child, though I

was struck by some qualities very remarkable in a child, which she

displayed.”

“It is singular, since your acquaintance with her was so slight,

that you should have been able to discover these qualities,”

observed Miss Joscelyn, innocently, “for Aimée is _very_ reserved,

very secretive, one may say, in her nature.”

“There were circumstances which called out the qualities,” said

Kyrle, briefly; for he began to understand that he was being

subjected to a process vulgarly known as pumping, and he had no

idea of either gratifying Miss Joscelyn’s curiosity or betraying

Fanny Meredith’s secret, unless defense of Aimée should make the

last absolutely necessary.

“It is rather difficult to imagine what circumstances calculated

to draw out remarkable qualities could have thrown together a

shy child like Aimée and a young man like yourself,” said Miss

Joscelyn, musingly. She glanced at him, and since the expression

of his face said plainly that he declined to be communicative

regarding these circumstances, she proved her talent for

cross-examination by a swift and unexpected diversion:

“What a very attractive girl Fanny Berrien was at that time!

Speaking of your acquaintance with Aimée reminds me that it was

during that winter in Florida she became engaged to Mr. Meredith.

It was said that she jilted another man shamefully--some one to

whom she had been engaged a long time--in order to marry him.”

“Very likely,” responded Kyrle, feeling bound to make some

comment. “I should imagine that Mrs. Meredith was never inclined to

limit herself in strings to her bow.”

“She was always a dreadful flirt!” said Lydia, shaking her head

with an air of virtuous reprobation. “I fancy Mr. Meredith does not

know a quarter of her escapades.”

“Are we not always informed that, where ignorance is bliss, only

folly would desire to be wise?” replied Kyrle, impatiently. “But

shall we not return to your party? I think I see some one waving to

us.”

Some one was indeed waving energetically and when they reached the

group they found them in readiness to embark on the return voyage.

In fact, the Merediths, Aimée, and Percy Joscelyn already filled

one gondola. Fanny met Kyrle’s crestfallen look with a mocking

gleam in her eye.

“All things do _not_ come to him who waits too long,” she said,

oracularly. “Had you been a little earlier, I might have offered

you a place with us; but now you will have to return as you came,

alone, unless Lydia allows you to recline at her feet.”

“We shall be very happy if Mr. Kyrle will come with us,” said the

major, blandly.

But Mr. Kyrle declined, more emphatically than was necessary. His

own gondola was waiting, he said, and (this the merest and vaguest

politeness), since he was alone, could he not offer a seat to any

one?

Miss Joscelyn and her brother exchanged glances, and then the young

lady sweetly spoke: “Since you are so kind, Mr. Kyrle--it really

_is_ too bad for you to have to return alone--and as there are only

two comfortable seats in a gondola, I will give mine to papa and

come with you.”

She held out her hand to be assisted into the boat, and Kyrle,

mentally anathematizing his own politeness, muttered that he was

“delighted,” Fanny Meredith laughed rather irrelevantly, and they

all pushed off.

What a picture it was when they were floating on the wide lagoon,

with Venice rising before them out of the shining waters, its

domes and towers enveloped in the golden haze of sunset, like some

dream of fancy, too magically fair for reality! In such an hour

and scene, who does not long for sympathetic companionship? Poor

Kyrle at least did, as instinctively he glanced toward the gondola

that held Aimée, and thought how different all this glory of earth

and sky, all the enchanted loveliness of the most poetical spot

on earth, would have appeared to him had he been able to see it

reflected in her eyes.

* * * * *

“Upon my word, Lydia, you astonished me this afternoon!” Mr. Percy

Joscelyn condescended to say to his sister that evening. “I really

had no idea of your ability before. You managed the situation

perfectly. I never saw anything better done than the way you took

possession of Kyrle.” He laughed softly. “The fellow’s face, when

he stepped into his gondola, was a study!”

Lydia flushed at the laugh. She was pleased to be commended--to

have proved conclusively that she had power to do what she had

undertaken; but her vanity suffered under the imputation that she

had forced herself upon an unwilling man. No woman likes to feel

this. Even if it be a fact, she conceals it as far as possible

from herself, and never forgives the person who thrusts it brutally

before her.

“I did not find it at all difficult to monopolize Mr. Kyrle, as you

call it,” she said, with a tone of offense in her voice. “He did

not seem to object to being monopolized. And about Aimée--I have

found out just what I expected--he never was her lover at all.”

“How do you know?” asked her brother, eagerly.

“Because he told me so. Oh, you need not laugh! I was not foolish

enough to ask the question as a question; I made him tell me what I

wanted to know without his hardly being aware that he was telling

it. I think I remember all the conversation. It was like this--”

She proceeded to give a fairly accurate report of it, to which

Percy listened with the keenest attention, and, when she finished,

admitted that her conclusions were probably right.

“I agree with you that it was most likely some tricky game of

Fanny Berrien’s, in which she used Aimée as a blind,” he said.

“And, late in the day as it is, there is nothing I should like so

much as to get on the track of it and expose her. But we have no

proof--none whatever--for you say this fellow will not speak, and

we know that Aimée will not.”

“He may speak--that is, he may give me information without

intending to do so, as he did this afternoon,” Lydia calmly

replied. “I don’t despair of finding out the whole thing; but,

after all, it has no great bearing on the present state of affairs.”

“More than you imagine,” her brother said. “A hold on Mrs. Meredith

would be the most useful thing possible to me just now. If, as I

don’t doubt, this man was an old lover of hers, she has not only

deceived her husband with regard to him, but she is now bringing

him forward as a suitor for Aimée. Give me one iota of proof of

the story we both believe, and I will go to her and say: ‘You have

probably still sufficient influence over Mr. Kyrle to send him

away.’ If not, I shall have the pleasure of telling Mr. Meredith

the story of your love affair with him in the past. Get me the

proof, Lydia--give me the power to say this--and there is nothing

you can ask me that I will not do for you.”

“I will do my best,” said Lydia, “but absolute proof is difficult

to get, you know. One may be perfectly certain, and yet not have

that.”

“I know,” Percy answered. “But anything that would give me a hold

over that woman--” He broke off in his speech, but the intensity

of his tone boded little good to Fanny Meredith should that hold

over her be obtained. “One thing, at least, is certain,” he resumed

after a moment--“the man explicitly denied to you that he had ever

been Aimée’s lover.”

“Explicitly and emphatically.”

“Then that point is number one secured. This is a good beginning.

Continue the work, Lydia, and let us see how long Mr. Kyrle will

allow himself to be monopolized.”