X.

“And he took it like an angel, my dear,” Mrs. Meredith said to

Aimée a few hours later. “I never have credited Tom with any

angelic qualities before, but I see now that it was because I did

not do him justice. No one could have been kinder. He seemed really

touched that I confided in him at last, only, he said, it was a

mistake not to have told the truth at the time; and he was very

severe about the false position in which you were placed. But I

cried--Heavens, how I cried!--so he could not scold very much; and

then he said he appreciated my telling the truth because it was

entirely a voluntary act, since he was sure I did him the justice

to believe he would never have listened to Percy Joscelyn. I _did_

believe it, and that was the reason I was forced to speak. When he

trusted me so, I was ashamed to feel how I had deceived him!”

“I have often wondered,” said Aimée, “that you did not feel it

before.”

“No doubt I ought to have done so,” replied Fanny, penitently,

“and perhaps I suffered more than you would believe; for I feel

now as light--oh, as light as a feather, to think that there is no

more need for concealment. Lennox will be glad. He was always so

desperately indignant about you. I really believe that he fell in

love with you at that time.”

Aimée smiled a little. Probably Lennox had already told her so.

“And what a pleasant thing it is,” Mrs. Meredith went on, “to

reflect that this is the only result of Percy’s attempt to make

mischief--the viper! Aimée, do you know that there are dreadful

possibilities of malice in that man? I shudder when I remember

the expression of his face as he stood there”--she pointed to the

spot--“looking at me. And what makes me shudder, is the thought of

his having any power over you.”

“He has none at all,” said Aimée, a little haughtily. “What is

Percy Joscelyn to me?”

“To _you_?--nothing. But he directs every act of your mother and

stepfather, and therefore he has a dangerous power over your life.

I tell you frankly that I shall never feel that you are safe until

you are married and out of their clutches.”

“Safe from what?” asked Aimée, quietly.

“Well,” answered Fanny, reluctantly, “I don’t want to be

melodramatic, or I should say safe from danger. I believe Percy

to be capable of any wickedness. I did not think so until to-day.

Hitherto I have thought him more mean than wicked, but it was as if

I looked down into his soul when he stood there gazing at me with

hatred in his eyes, and what I saw there was as black as--as the

bottomless pit!”

“Fanny!” said Aimée, astonished and startled, for this flight of

imagination was singularly unlike Fanny, who generally took things

on the surface, and was not at all addicted to descending in fancy

to the region of which she spoke.

“I mean exactly what I say, my dear,” replied her cousin, with

energy. “I assure you that I wish I could see you married

to-morrow.”

“It would have to be an elopement, then,” said Aimée, with

something between a smile and a sob, “for I have just been informed

that we are to return to Paris to-morrow.”

“Aimée!” It was fairly a scream that Mrs. Meredith gave. “You will

not _dream_ of consenting to go?”

“What reason have I for refusing?” the girl asked, wistfully. “I

can not, without some reason, positively decline to accompany my

mother. I have told them that I shall certainly marry Mr. Kyrle;

but that has nothing to do with returning to Paris.”

“It has everything to do with it!” said Fanny, in great excitement.

“Why else should they think of taking you away in this manner? I

tell you that they will hesitate at nothing when they have you

alone with them. Aimée, _you must not go_.”

“What would you have me do, then?” asked Aimée.

“I would have you come with us.” (It had long been settled that

the Merediths were to go from Venice to Vienna, while the question

whether or not the Joscelyns should accompany them had been left

open.)

“They would never consent,” said Aimée, “and I can not endure the

thought of a struggle. When the time comes to part from them I

should like it to be in outward peace at least.”

“That can never be,” said Fanny, resolutely. “Do not hope for it.

They will never let you and your fortune go without a struggle. The

only thing to do is to get this struggle over at once. Come with

us and marry Lennox Kyrle in Vienna. Don’t tell me that you are

not brave enough for it! I am sure that you are brave enough for

anything.”

“Brave enough to face danger--yes,” said Aimée, simply, “but not

brave enough to face struggle, pain, bitterness--”

“But you must face all those things if you remain with them, unless

you buy peace by giving up Lennox Kyrle. For--do not deceive

yourself--they will never consent to your marrying him; and if

you are resolved to do it, you must at last leave them in a more

unpleasant manner than this which I propose. Now, there is not the

slightest difficulty about it, but if you were alone with them

would it be easy? I fear that it might be impossible, and I should

not be there to help you.”

“It is true,” said Aimée, who was pale and greatly shaken. “It

might be necessary hereafter--under worse circumstances.”

“It _would_ be necessary, and might be impossible,” said Fanny. “Do

you not see? This is the golden opportunity. Ah!”--she rose quickly

and ran to the window--“I see some one who will help me.”

She waved her hand to Kyrle, whose gondola was just drawing to

the steps of the hotel. A moment later he was in the apartment

and ready to second her proposal with all the eloquence that love

could inspire. But even his eloquence might not have moved Aimée

if she had not felt that he was right; that she was merely on the

threshold of a struggle in which she might be worsted, since her

opponents would be absolutely unscrupulous in the use of means. But

Fanny and Lennox appreciated this, and both were earnest in urging

her to take _now_ a step which must be taken sooner or later.

But she was still undecided, when an unexpected ally to the

attacking force appeared on the scene. Mr. Meredith came in, and

when he heard of the plan of the Joscelyns his honest wrath was

stirred. “What! they propose to leave to-morrow, and carry you away

with them?” he said. “Then there is one simple thing to be done:

I shall go at once and engage your passage with us on the Trieste

boat which leaves to-night.”

Aimée rose and went up to him. The opinions of the others had not

moved her as much as might have been expected. Fanny, she knew,

was always inimical to the Joscelyns, and for Fanny’s judgment she

had not great respect, while Lennox labored under the disadvantage

of being a lover who appealed to her heart. In yielding to him she

felt that she would be yielding to those dangerous guides, the

feelings. But if this practical, unsentimental man thought she

ought to go, that was a different matter. She laid her hand on his

arm, and looked at him with her dark, appealing eyes.

“Tell me,” she said, “do you think I ought to go?”

The appeal of her tone was as great as the appeal of her glance;

and the simplicity of her words touched the man whom she addressed

more than anything impassioned could have done.

“My dear,” he said, kindly, “I think that, if you are determined

to marry this gentleman, the wisest thing you can do is to leave

your family at once, for it will come to that at last; and there

is not only no good in deferring an evil day, but at another time

you might not be able to command the protection which I am happy to

offer you now.”

“Just what I have told her,” cried Fanny.--“Now, Aimée, will you

consent to go?”

Aimée’s glance passed wistfully from one to the other, and rested

on Lennox. “Yes,” she said at length, “I will go.”

* * * * *

Out into the night and the sea the steamer was moving, leaving the

wonderful lights of Venice--a vision of an enchanted city--behind,

while among the passengers on her decks one group of four persons

watched rather silently the lessening radiance. They were all

somewhat subdued in feeling by the fierce storm of opposition

through which they had passed--a storm that had shaken Aimée to

the very center, yet had showed her the absolute necessity of this

step. She stood now leaning on Kyrle’s arm, her gentle soul filled

with sadness at the thought of the bitterness and anger she had

left behind, although beneath the sadness was a consciousness of

freedom of release from bondage such as she had never felt before.

Presently her spirit would spread its wings like a bird in the

sunshine, exulting in this new atmosphere; but now she was silent,

and Kyrle, divining what she was thinking, as well as her physical

exhaustion after such stress of emotion, uttered himself no word,

only pressed close against his heart the little hand resting on his

arm. It was Fanny Meredith who said at last, with a sigh of relief:

“Well, thank Heaven, it is over, and we are safe; but I feel as if

we had _all_ eloped.--Don’t you, Tom?”

“I can’t say that I do,” her husband answered, with a laugh. “But,

by Jove, they were desperate! The major swore he would lock her

up, and I swore that if he did I would break down the door. I

should have done it, too, without a moment’s hesitation,” the

speaker ended.

“Wouldn’t it have been simpler and less sensational to call in the

police?” Fanny asked.

“The police!” Mr. Meredith scornfully blew out a cloud of

cigar-smoke. “What the deuce could Italian police do in such a

case? They would probably have arrested everybody, and kept us

in Venice until proof could have been given of Aimée’s age, and

a lot of other nonsense. Do you suppose the Joscelyns would have

hesitated to declare that she was still an infant? No; the simple

and direct thing to do was what we did--carry her off by armed

force.”

“What was it you said to Percy Joscelyn when he followed us to the

gondola?” Fanny inquired of Kyrle.

“I told him that if he came a step farther I should pitch him into

the canal,” that gentleman answered. “Probably he was aware that

it would give me sincere pleasure to do it, for he drew back.”

“And yet people think that a fortune is a blessing!” said Aimée,

with a long, quivering breath. “How gladly they would have let me

go--as they did once--if it were not for my money! I felt like

casting it to them, and bidding them take the only thing they cared

for!”

“I am very glad you did not,” said Fanny, practically. “They would

have certainly taken it, and you have already cast them far too

much. Don’t abuse your fortune, my dear, because the Joscelyns are

despicable. Money is a good, a very good thing to have. I only wish

you could make Lennox believe it!”

Kyrle laughed. The strain of emotion was sufficiently relaxed now

for laughter to become easy. “I promise,” he said, “to do exactly

what she wishes with regard to my fortune.”

“Ah,” replied Fanny, pettishly, “you only say that because you know

she is as absurdly quixotic as yourself. It may be a very fine

thing to be able to throw fortunes away,” the speaker pursued, “but

I am glad Tom has no temptations of the kind.--Come,” she said,

taking that gentleman’s arm, “I begin to feel the swell a little.

Let us walk.”

They passed down the deck, and the two left alone together stood

silent for a moment, still watching the lessening lights of the

fairy-like city. Then Kyrle turned his face seaward, to meet the

fresh breeze that came from the wide sweep of the Adriatic, and his

heart leaped within him, as if in answer to that boundless freedom

of the sea.

“This is not exactly the sea-gull yacht in which I longed to carry

you away,” he said to his companion, “but, although less poetical,

it is still bearing us toward the region of our dreams--that

mysterious distance out of which it seemed possible that all things

might come.”

“_You_ came out of it,” said Aimée, with a sound as of a smile in

her voice. “How well I remember the night on the sea wall of St.

Augustine, when I waited for the sound of your oars, and presently

you came from the sea, as now--”

“Now I am going back to it--with you,” he said, as she paused.

“There has been a long interval between the beginning and the end

of the romance; but it is fitting that the sea, which had a part

in its beginning, should also have a part in the end. And I may be

presumptuous,” he added after a moment, “but I have no fear that we

shall not find all our dreams awaiting us beyond that dim horizon

of the future at which we gazed the other day.”