The sun had set, but there was a radiant sunset sky, as well as a
view of great extent to be seen from the Campanile as two ladies
stood there, and, leaning over the parapet of the great tower,
looked down on Venice, with the Grand Canal winding through its
midst like a silver serpent; at the coast of Istria and the blue
summits of the Alps afar; and at the Adriatic spreading to meet the
sky. One fastened her dark eyes on that distant line of blending
sea and sky, but the other bestowed her regard chiefly on the
Piazza at her feet, where people seemed to be crawling about like
ants. Presently one of these ants crossed the square more quickly
than the rest and entered the loggia at the foot of the Campanile.
Mrs. Meredith looked round at her companion.
“I think I see Mr. Kyrle coming up,” she remarked.
Aimée turned with a slight start from the contemplation of the
Adriatic. “How do you know that it is Mr. Kyrle?” she asked. “It
may be any one.”
“I know because I told him that we were to be here,” returned the
other, carelessly. “I thought the poor fellow needed a little
relief from the society of Lydia. He really begins to look worn and
pale under the ordeal.”
“I can not see why you should draw such a conclusion,” said Aimée.
“If he did not like Lydia’s society, he need not endure it. A man
can do what he likes in such matters.”
“Simpleton! is that all you know about it?” said Fanny. “Why,
unless he absolutely runs away, a man is helpless in the hands of
a woman who knows how to play such a game as Lydia is playing. And
this man does not want to run away, because he adores _you_.”
“Fanny!”
“It is quite true. He adores you, and yet he is so afraid of your
fortune that he dare not approach you. He does not believe that a
poor man has any right to try to marry a rich woman.”
A flush that seemed borrowed from the sunset was now on Aimée’s
face. She cast a glance of reproach at her cousin.
“If it is true,” she said, hurriedly, “why have you chosen such a
time to speak of it?”
“Because I thought it only a matter of justice to let you know
that he does not endure Lydia’s attentions because he likes them,”
replied Fanny, coolly.
They were silent then, for steps were now heard inside the tower,
ascending that inclined plane up which tradition tells that
Napoleon rode his horse; and a little later Kyrle stepped on the
platform.
The moment he appeared, Fanny Meredith saw that there was a change
in him--a glow in his sunburned cheek, a light in his eye, and
the air of a man who had burst some bond. She looked at him with
surprise, and as he walked up to her--not seeing Aimée, who had
retreated to the other side of the tower--she said, involuntarily:
“What is the matter? You look--unlike yourself.”
“Do I?” he said, with a thrill of excitement in his voice. “Well,
that is not strange. I am _not_ myself--that is, I am not the
man you parted with this morning, but quite another. Allow me to
introduce myself to you as a millionaire.”
She gave a cry, and clasped her hands. “Your uncle is dead, and
has left you his money, after all!” she exclaimed. “O Lennox, I am
so glad!” Then she turned swiftly and ran across the platform. “O
Aimée!” she cried, “you must congratulate Mr. Kyrle. He has just
come into a large fortune.”
When Aimée turned, she and Lennox were both pale--he, because he
had not entertained the least expectation of finding her there; and
she, on account of this unexpected sequel to those last words of
Fanny’s, which were still ringing in her ears.
“I hope Mr. Kyrle will accept my congratulations,” she said,
“although”--and she smiled a faint, tremulous smile--“I am not
sure that to inherit a great deal of money is always such good
fortune as the world believes.”
“Ah,” said Fanny, “such skepticism may do for people who have
inherited it. But I do not think Mr. Kyrle will quarrel with his
good fortune.”
“No,” said Lennox, quietly, “I would be very far from quarreling
with it--if it were really mine.”
“If it were really yours!” repeated Mrs. Meredith, recoiling a step
in her amazement and disappointment. “What do you mean?”
Lennox looked at Aimée. “I will tell you,” he replied, “what I
mean. When I said, a moment ago, that I am a millionaire, I said
what is exactly true; and ever since I read the letter announcing
the news to me I have been playing with the sensation, with the
idea, of being rich and free, and altogether living in a fool’s
paradise. For”--his voice changed--“it is true that the fortune is
mine, but it is also true that I can not retain it.”
“Good Heaven! why not?” cried Mrs. Meredith; while Aimée said
nothing, but looked at him with all her soul in her eyes; and he,
gazing into those eyes, answered:
“Because it is by an accident, not by the intention of my uncle,
that I inherit this fortune. It has long been his intention, of
which I was well aware, to found with his wealth some great charity
to perpetuate his name, and his will to that effect was drawn up
many years ago. Lately he wished to alter it in some particulars,
and directed his lawyer to draw up a new will according to his
directions. Before this will could be signed he died suddenly of
apoplexy, and the older will having been destroyed, I inherit the
property as nearest of kin.”
“Now, I call that providential!” said Fanny, in a tone of devout
thanksgiving. “I do not know when I have heard anything that gives
me so much pleasure! To think of that old--ahem--gentleman being so
outwitted at last, and so thwarted in his desire to cheat you! For
I call it absolute cheating, when a man leaves his property away
from his nearest relative and natural heir.”
“Opinions differ on that point,” said Lennox. “I hold that a man’s
property is his own, to do with what he will; provided, of course,
that he does not neglect his duty to his children. But that duty
does not extend to a nephew, especially one who declined all that
he offered, and chose another path in life. No, it seems to me
that my plain duty is to regard that unsigned will as a valid
instrument, and to execute it.”
There was a minute’s silence after he finished, for both of his
hearers were completely taken by surprise. Fanny Meredith fairly
gasped with amazement before she cried:
“Why, it is worse than quixotism--it is absolute madness! I have
never heard of such a thing in my life! What you threw away before,
when you went against your uncle’s wishes, was bad enough; but
this--!” Words failed her: tears absolutely came into her eyes. “O
Lennox,” she said, imploringly, “you surely will not do it!--Aimée,
for Heaven’s sake, speak to him! He will listen to you!”
Aimée flushed, but Lennox turned to her quickly. His face was set
in resolute lines, but there was something in his eyes--a wistful,
pathetic expression, as of one asking help--which touched her
deeply.
“Tell me,” he said, simply, “am I not right?”
It was a subject on which few people would have cared to offer
advice, unless, like Fanny Meredith, they offered it on the side of
worldly common-sense; but Aimée did not hesitate. She answered as
simply and directly as he had asked:
“Yes--as far as I can judge, I think that you are right.”
Fanny Meredith threw up her hands, as if appealing to earth and
heaven against such folly.
“I think you are both mad,” she said, “and I really feel
constrained to seek some saner society.”
With this, before either could utter a word or make the least
effort to detain her, she had turned and fled. For an instant they
stood confounded, listening to the sound of her flying feet down
that incline which is a veritable “_facilis descensus_.” Then
murmuring something quickly, Aimée made a motion to follow; but the
consciousness of being a millionaire, were it only for an hour,
gave Lennox courage and resolution.
“Pray do not go,” he said, earnestly; “she will be back presently,
or--we can follow her. But first I must speak to you; I wish to ask
your advice.”
“I scarcely think that I am fitted to advise you,” she said,
pausing at his request, but looking away from him.
“You are eminently fitted,” he replied, “because your opinion is
of infinite value to me, and your approval worth more to me than
that of any one else in the world. Indeed, if _you_ approve, I care
not who else disapproves.” He stopped for an instant, then quickly
went on: “I thank God that the temptation to keep this money has
not overpowered me, for it has been great. Do you know why? Because
it seemed to put within my reach a prize which before had seemed
as far from me as heaven; at least, it made effort possible, it
gave me leave _to try_. Before, how could I, how dared I, think
of saying to one dowered like a princess, ‘I love you’? But if,
with this fortune in my hand, I said it, no one could doubt my
sincerity, no one could think that I sought her for anything save
herself--herself, so far above all that a man could offer or give,
that if he brought the wealth of the world he would still be
unworthy of her!”
He paused, overpowered by his own emotion, and hardly expecting an
answer from Aimée. He could not see her face, for she had turned
away from him, but he saw that she was trembling, and he was amazed
by the clear steadiness of the voice in which she spoke after a
moment.
“What a man could say with a fortune in his hand, he might
surely--unless he thought more of money than of his own
manhood--say without it.”
“May I?” he cried, almost incredulously. “You will let me
say it--I, who had nothing yesterday, and will have nothing
to-morrow!--you will let me tell you that I love you with all my
heart?”
Another pause, and then--“If that be true,” said the sweet voice,
“why should it matter that you had nothing yesterday or that you
will have nothing to-morrow?”
“It matters,” he answered, “in the opinion of the world, which is
quick to say of such a man--”
“But, a moment ago, I thought that it was my opinion alone which
mattered,” she interposed.
“It _is_ yours--yours alone,” he replied. “And if you tell me that
I may hope, the scorn of the whole world can not hold me back from
striving to win you.”
She turned a beautiful, smiling face toward him. “It seems to me,”
she said, “that a man who possesses or who has refused a fortune of
a million or two can hardly fear that his disinterestedness could
be questioned. But I”--her voice sank a little--“I do not think I
should have needed the test.”
* * * * *
Mrs. Meredith, sitting quietly below in the loggia of Sansovino,
grew rather tired of waiting before the two from above came down
to seek her. She rose, and looked at them with a smile.
“Well,” she said, innocently, “have you settled the matter? Is the
fortune to be given up, or retained?”
“The fortune!” said Kyrle. “I had forgotten it; but, of course, it
is to be given up.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Meredith. She looked at him curiously, this man
who was capable of such wild quixotism, and said to herself that
certainly things were better as they were. There was no danger that
Mr. Meredith would ever be troubled by any scruples which would
cause him to resign _his_ fortune. Then she shrugged her shoulders
gently. “I suppose it is quite useless to argue with you,” she
said, “but, at least, the fortune has done you a good turn, and
I advise you to say nothing to any one else of your intention of
resigning it. _Do_ the thing, if you like, when you return to
America, but don’t talk of it now. It is yours until you choose to
give it away, so pray take the great advantage it will give you.”
She did not say in what way, but Kyrle knew to what she alluded; he
knew that this wealth would render it difficult for the Joscelyns
to object to him. He looked doubtfully at Aimée.
“That,” he said, “would seem like sailing under false colors;
or, at least, like winning what I most desire by a false
representation.”
“Now, Heaven grant me patience!” said Mrs. Meredith, impatiently.
“But is not the fortune yours?”
“For the present, yes,” he answered.
“Then, why on earth should you take people who are not your friends
into your confidence with regard to what you mean to do with it?”
“Simply,” he replied, “because those people have a right to know
what is my true position in life, and an accident like my uncle’s
unsigned will does not affect that position. Am I not right?” said
he, turning to Aimée.
“I think that you are,” she answered, quietly.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Meredith, “go your own way. I wash my hands
of you both; but I am very sure that before you are done with this
affair you will wish that you had followed my advice.”